Inside the Orchid Pavilion – Midnight
The lantern flame flickered—once, twice—before settling into a dim, restless glow. A gust of wind slipped through the slightly open lattice window, carrying with it the chill of night and a peculiar scent—faintly sweet, almost cloying. Like wilted blossoms left too long in stagnant water.
The Orchid Pavilion was silent.
Shen Yulan lay curled under layers of embroidered silk, her brow slick with sweat despite the chill. Her sleep was not peaceful. Her body twitched at intervals, as if fighting off invisible threads pulling at her limbs. Outside, the branches of the magnolia tree scratched lightly against the tiled roof. Inside, a board near the foot of her bed let out a slow, aching creak.
She jolted awake.
For a moment, she didn't move. Her breathing shallow, she stared at the gauzy canopy overhead. The lantern on the table still burned, but its glow was wrong—thinner, yellower than before. Like a candle flickering inside a paper-thin shell.
"Xiao Tong?" she called, voice hoarse.
No response.
Frowning, Shen Yulan sat up slowly. The embroidered blankets slid off her shoulders. Her room felt different. The familiar scent of orchid incense was missing, replaced by something she couldn't place. Her gaze swept the chamber. Nothing seemed out of place—yet her heart thudded heavily in her chest.
Then she saw it.
Peeking out from beneath her pillow was a folded piece of parchment, its edges yellowed and curled like dried leaves. Her fingers, chilled despite the warmth of the room, reached for it. She unfolded the page carefully.
The ink was faded, but still legible in the lantern light:
"And when the spirit returned, it chose the fairest face to wear as its own.
She smiled as they wept, and her laughter sounded no different from the living."
Shen Yulan stared at the passage, the words pressing cold against her chest. Her breath hitched.
The Ghost Bride.
A story meant to frighten children into obedience. She remembered how Nanny Jing used to whisper it at night, always finishing with a mock shiver. But why was it under her pillow?
She pushed the parchment aside with a sudden shudder and stood up, making her way to the window. The breeze was colder now, threading its way around her ankles, lifting the fine hairs at the back of her neck. She reached for the wooden latch—but paused.
There, inscribed faintly along the wooden frame in red ink, were the words:
"She never left. She only changed her skin."
Shen Yulan stumbled back, her eyes wide.
Her knees hit the edge of a table. A ceramic vase clattered, but didn't fall. She pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from screaming.
Behind her, the lantern flame flared—then extinguished completely.
Darkness swallowed the chamber.
A howling gust slammed the window shut behind her, the crack like a whip. She gasped, clutching her chest, stumbling backward as her senses unraveled. Every shadow in the room grew teeth. The painted peonies on her screen twisted into monstrous shapes.
Then—laughter.
Not loud, not close. Soft, almost thoughtful. As though someone were amused by a joke only they understood.
She spun toward the sound.
No one.
Just the cold.
Her knees gave out. She sank to the floor, unable to take her eyes off the window. Her voice trembled as she whispered, "Who's there?"
No answer.
Only the faint creak of floorboards—too slow, too deliberate.
The door burst open.
"Miss!" Xiao Tong rushed in, followed by Nanny Jing and two sleepy maids.
"What's going on—?" Nanny Jing stopped short at the sight of Shen Yulan crouched on the floor, face pale and drenched with sweat, lips trembling.
"She was here," Shen Yulan rasped. "The ghost bride—she stood at the window—she said I took what was hers—"
Nanny Jing paled.
"The spirit, the bride…" Shen Yulan's voice broke. "She was wearing red. Veiled. Her smile—it was my smile."
The younger maids gasped. One dropped the water basin she was carrying, the ceramic shattering like a gunshot. Nanny Jing flinched but forced herself forward, gripping Shen Yulan's arms.
"There's nothing there, Miss. Look—no one's here!"
But Shen Yulan was already shaking her head. "You don't understand. She said she knows. That I took her place. That I wore her things."
At that, Nanny Jing hesitated.
Her gaze slid toward the low table near the window. Sitting on it, gleaming faintly in the moonlight, was a single jade hairpin.
Not Shen Yulan's.
It belonged to Shen Yuhan's late mother.
The one Madam Su had taken from her dowry chest years ago, repurposed, and passed down to Shen Yulan like a trinket.
Nanny Jing's lips thinned. She picked up the hairpin slowly.
"Where did this come from?" she asked.
"I—I wore it earlier today," Shen Yulan whispered. "It was in my case…"
The room fell into an uneasy silence.
From outside, the wind howled again—like a chorus of whispers. The maids drew closer to one another.
Then, one of them said shakily, "I heard it… before she screamed. A lullaby. A song my old nurse used to sing. The one from The Ghost Bride. No one's sung it in years…"
Nanny Jing's face darkened. "Enough! No more talk of ghosts. This household will not fall into hysteria."
But even she couldn't stop her fingers from trembling as she set the jade pin back down, as though it burned her skin.
---
That night, under the muted glow of lanterns, the Osmanthus Courtyard remained quiet, save for the occasional rustle of wind brushing the lattice windows. The book Granny Zhang had sent rested open on the table before Shen Yuhan—its aged parchment tinged yellow with time, brush strokes delicate yet foreboding.
Ming'er and Ah Zhu leaned in, their brows furrowed as Shen Yuhan silently traced a line of text with her finger.
"Here," she murmured, her tone as faint as breath. "'The haunted spirit will not linger near her own vessel, lest the mortal body reject her twice. Instead, it clings to those closest—to beloved kin, to enemies bound by fate. And once tethered, the symptoms are clear: whispering shadows, sudden chills, erratic mood, and dreams of drowning in bridal red.'"
She paused, letting the words settle.
Ah Zhu's eyes widened slightly. "That's… exactly what you were pretending to show."
Shen Yuhan tilted her head, lips curling slightly. "Exactly. But now, we shift the symptoms. Just enough."
Ming'er frowned, puzzled. "But how will you make others believe it's Second Miss who's possessed now?"
Shen Yuhan closed the book slowly. "We plant the signs. She has her own courtyard, her own maids. They've grown lazy, confident. It won't take much to make them believe something is wrong. A red sash tied to her door one night. A mirror that cracks without cause. Cold water poured near her bed before dawn."
"Cold water?" Ah Zhu asked.
"A bridal ghost is said to bring with it the scent of lilies and the touch of a drowned maiden—wet, cold, and bitter." Shen Yuhan rose to her feet, her voice barely a whisper. "And if she dreams of a red veil or wakes screaming in the night, all the better."
Ming'er's eyes widened in realization. "Because the symptoms are in the book. And once they match…"
"People will remember what Shen Yulan said earlier," Ah Zhu added, face darkening. "'How do we prove sister isn't possessed?'"
Shen Yuhan's expression remained composed, but her gaze sharpened. "She voiced the idea before anyone else. I only need to be quiet now. Let her own words turn against her."
The silence that followed was heavy with anticipation.
Then, Shen Yuhan reached for the folded silk tucked into the cabinet—the same red silk her mother once wore as part of her wedding attire. Her fingers curled around it with reverence and purpose.
"She wanted to paint me as cursed," she whispered. "Now let's see how she fares wearing the veil."