I was surprised, and so were Jin Shanshan and Wu Qiren.
Sister Hei showed no intention of explaining. After opening the urn, she held it in one hand and hovered the other over it, murmuring something. She closed her eyes, but I thought I saw red light flicker in them.
The old man stood frozen like a wooden statue, not moving at all. The flashlight in his hand shone only on the portrait on the tombstone, illuminating the black-and-white photo and Bao Jiaxiu's name in stark white.
Bao Jiaxiu and the other portraits from before wore the expressions of evil spirits.
Then something floated out of the urn beneath Sister Hei's hand. The ash formed a column of wispy smoke. It swayed unsteadily without dispersing, gathering just beneath her hand.
The light was dim, so it was hard to make out exactly what Sister Hei was doing.
In the portrait illuminated by the flashlight, Bao Jiaxiu's face twisted with anger. She glared resentfully ahead, blood tears trickling from the corners of both eyes.
Jin Shanshan was focused on Sister Hei and didn't notice the portrait. After Wu Qiren glanced at it, his eyes suddenly widened. He looked horrified, and seemed ready to back away.
Bao Jiaxiu looked like a vicious ghost ready to eat someone. There was nothing reassuring about her.
The air in the cemetery seemed to grow colder. Clouds covered the moon overhead.
Bao Jiaxiu's head began to move. She wasn't merely changing her expression anymore; she was trying to break free of the photo and burst out to take revenge.
A whooshing sound came from beneath Sister Hei's hand, like a female ghost's wail—shrill and terrifying.
Sister Hei rolled her eyes back, exposing the whites. A red vertical slit opened in each one, like a snake's pupil.