Mysterious Awakening - Chapter 111: Returning to the Coffin

This novel is translated and hosted on bcatranslation

In the mysterious Yellow Hill Village, long-standing supernatural mysteries had recently been laid bare – the settlement was founded by ghosts instead of humans.

As for the company that sent Miles here, it was not to save Frank or delve into its esoteric secrets. Their true agenda was to retrieve a coveted and unique artifact referred to as the “ghost coffin.” Rumors claimed that this artifact had the astonishing ability to transform mortals into powerful spirits. If harnessed correctly, it promised a means to either control or neutralize supernatural disturbances worldwide.

But Frank, driven by his personal ambitions, had inadvertently sabotaged the mission. His deeds resulted in the entrapment of a spirit within the confines of the coffin. This entrapped soul, burdened by its confinement, perpetually haunted the village and was the authentic origin of its frightful events. Intriguingly, to neutralize the ghostly threat, it wasn’t the ghostly being that needed to be dealt with but the human actions that had catalyzed the chaos.

In a scene that sent chills down the spine, Miles’s new ghost, the shadowy figure devoid of a head, held aloft Frank’s decapitated head. Shockingly, although Frank’s pallor was that of a corpse and devoid of blood, life eerily persisted in his eyes. The scenario grew even more perplexing when the shadow, driven by an inscrutable urge, made a frantic attempt to fuse Frank’s head back onto its body. This was a turn of events that even Miles had not seen coming.

A troubled thought raced through Miles’s mind: “Is the situation spiraling out of control again?”

But before he could contemplate further, a sinister transformation overtook the shadow. It became illuminated by countless crimson eyes that radiated malevolence. Under the overpowering gaze of these eyes, the shadow yielded, and Frank’s head plummeted.

With his head now lying on the ground, Frank’s voice eerily addressed Miles, “Having witnessed the formidable capabilities of the ghost coffin, you must grasp that we have the power to master our inner spirits using it. Entrusting such an artifact to a spirit is a grievous mistake.”

Miles shot back, “While you may envision yourself as some ghostly overlord with grand ambitions, I’m anchored in my human fragility, battling for survival. Your utopian visions cloud your judgment and endanger us all. Why would I ever condone that? Your aspirations make you oblivious to the fragile equilibrium of existence.” Pausing to gather himself, his voice tinged with desperation, he added, “Enough, the ghost is drawing near.”

Without wasting another second, Miles hurriedly positioned the unconscious Stretch alongside Frank’s severed remains, crafting a defensive arrangement against the imminent ghostly onslaught.

With the creak of the door, an elderly, emaciated farmer stepped in. His attire was simple, worn out from years of toil, and it stood in stark contrast to the lifelessness that hung about him like a shroud.

This elderly figure was recognized by Miles as Genrong, a well-known village elder of Yellow Hill Village. They had first met when Miles had sought local knowledge upon his arrival. However, the Genrong he had met then was a far cry from the almost phantasmal entity before him now. Where there once was warmth and familiarity now lay a chilling void.

The eyes that now stared back at Miles were an unsettling shade of gray, devoid of any hint of life. These eyes seemed to look through Miles and the others, who were trying their best to remain unnoticed in a shadowy alcove of the room. Genrong’s sole focus appeared to be the chillingly open coffin, positioned ominously in the room’s center as if silently calling out to claim its next inhabitant.

A heavy, uncomfortable silence spread through the room, punctuated only by the faint, ghostly sound of Genrong’s steps. Each step he took towards the coffin caused Miles’s anxiety to surge, an unease gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Despite preparing himself for unforeseen circumstances, the palpable presence of a restless spirit was an experience Miles found difficult to stomach.

“Please, let him just go into the coffin without any complications. We’ve made sure there’s ample space,” Miles silently prayed.

Lurking at the back of his mind was a more sinister possibility: that the spirit could turn on them before seeking solace in the coffin. A confrontation of that nature would spell doom for them all.

Genrong’s wraith-like figure was now uncomfortably close to where Miles and his companions hid. They were at a critical juncture, and if Genrong chose to, he could easily turn his ghostly wrath upon them. Yet, to their immense relief, no such violence was directed their way.

It might have been that Genrong sensed the combined spiritual forces of Miles, Stretch, and Frank and opted not to confront them. Or maybe his primary goal was indeed the coffin’s embrace.

As Miles anxiously watched, Genrong performed an unexpected move. Balancing himself on one arm, he leaned into the coffin with the elegance and agility of a gymnast executing a Thomas flare, albeit completing only half of the customary rotation. Had he gone on to display more acrobatic feats, the scene would have been oddly theatrical, almost dreamlike.

“He’s finally inside. My intuition was right; the coffin drew him back,” Miles mused with a sigh of relief.

Out of nowhere, the room’s silence was broken by a sequence of clicks. From within the coffin, a pair of ancient hands, marked by age and caked with soil, reached out. These hands, which had likely experienced countless farming seasons, began the process of sealing the coffin. With a resonating finality, the lid settled, and a profound sense of calm permeated the room.

The immediate peril was over, and the spirit had chosen to return to its eternal slumber, possibly putting an end to the eerie disturbances that had haunted the village.

Gazing intently at the now shut coffin, a lingering question hovered in Miles’s mind: “Is this really the finale? Will the spirit remain at peace?”

Miles stood with heightened caution, intensely fixated on the ominous ghost coffin. Each minute that passed felt like an eternity, yet the coffin remained still, exuding a deceptive calmness. Not a single hint suggested that the spirit within was making any effort to break free.

“If this ghost ever attempts to emerge again, I’ll summon every ounce of my energy to ensure it remains imprisoned,” he thought to himself. “But the task may prove more challenging than one might assume. It’s akin to trying to physically hold down the theoretical graves of geniuses like Newton or Einstein.”

An hour of vigilant watchfulness later, Miles grew somewhat confident in his assessment. It seemed that once the ghost decided to retreat into its coffin, it wouldn’t easily come out unless some reckless person accidentally unlatched it, allowing the spirit to wreak havoc once more.

He theorized aloud, “The entire supernatural incident in Yellow Hill Village might have been instigated by someone inadvertently obtaining this haunted coffin and then, without realizing it, releasing the spirit inside. Such negligence has plunged us into this eerie predicament.”

He glanced over at Frank, whose head had been cruelly removed from his body. The eyes, though dim, were alive with fury.

With a hint of arrogance, Miles said, “You ought to be thankful. At least you’re still somewhat alive.”

Frank’s response was heavy with resentment. “You wasted an opportunity to liberate the world from this menace.”

Miles countered nonchalantly, “The world doesn’t need us playing heroes. Our first duty is to ensure our own safety.”

There was a brief, tense silence before Frank reluctantly admitted, “Perhaps you’re right.”

Smiling triumphantly, Miles said, “Of course I am. I’ve spent countless hours diving into philosophical insights online—those motivational sayings everyone loves. Maybe you should occupy your time surfing the web instead of pretending to be a lifeless body in a coffin.”

Despite his situation, Frank managed to retort, “If you’d just reattach my head, I might give it a shot.”

Miles stated firmly, “That’s not happening. You’re the main prize from my misadventure in this cursed village. This trip nearly emptied my bank account. I can’t just toss you aside, especially considering the two spirits you house. However, finding a buyer for you? That’s worth exploring.”

With that, Miles brought out a body bag, causing dread to shine brightly in Frank’s eyes. “Hold on! Are you truly planning to sell me?”

Without heeding Frank’s desperate appeal, Miles carefully placed Frank’s body into the bag. As a morbid joke, he situated Frank’s detached head in a compromising position between his legs.

With a glint of greed in his eyes, Miles thought out loud, “This unique package could potentially bring in over two hundred million. Someone out there will be interested.”

He considered pitching Frank to a major corporation. In a world where interactions with the paranormal weren’t uncommon, he was confident about finding a willing buyer.

“Wait a second.” Miles’s focus was suddenly drawn to Stretch, who was situated a short distance from him, looking vulnerable.

Quickly springing to his feet, Miles made a beeline for his suitcase. His actions suggested he was preparing to empty it, likely to make space for what he deemed another potential ‘collectible’.

Aghast at the sudden turn of events, Stretch exclaimed, “Miles, you can’t seriously be considering selling me too, can you?” His voice quivered with panic. “I’ve always stood by you, never posed a threat.”

Miles scrutinized Stretch, taking in every detail. He noted the paleness of Stretch’s skin and said in a mocking tone, “You seem rather pale, almost ghost-like. Are you nearing your end, about to become the victim of some malevolent force here? Just consider this – if you were to perish in this godforsaken place, it’d be such a mournful end. However, wouldn’t it be somewhat redeeming if I could turn a profit from it? And, as a gesture of goodwill, I’d commit to sharing the proceeds with your wife. Fifty percent of the earnings could be life-changing for her. Trust me, I’d ensure your family benefits and is treated fairly in the deal.”

Stretch swallowed hard, his face awash with conflicting emotions of fear and anger. Summoning his courage, he retorted, “I’m not ready to give up just yet. I fully intend to live for many more years,” determination burning brightly in his gaze.