(Time: One week before departure to the night before departure)

  Ever since making that decision late that night, the following days of my life seemed to be on fast-forward, yet simultaneously caught in a strange, intensely focused slow motion. During the day, I still had to deal with the trivial and mundane work at the newspaper office, writing articles about community mediation or policy promotion. Staring at the dry words on the computer screen, my mind had already flown thousands of miles away to the deep mountains of western Henan. Those interviews about neighborhood disputes and clogged sewers now seemed so insignificant, like tedious background noise. But once I got off work and returned to the small apartment I called my "nest," Fengmen Village became like a huge, invisible magnetic field, relentlessly absorbing all my energy, thoughts, and time. My world was clearly divided into two halves: one was the routine, suffocating reality; the other was the unknown, dangerous, yet fatally attractive other shore.

  The first step was purchasing equipment, a completely new and even somewhat exciting field for me. Previous reporting trips at most involved packing a laptop, voice recorder, camera, and a few changes of clothes into a suitcase. But this time was different. I was going to an abandoned village, vaguely marked on maps, almost completely isolated, without water or electricity, and potentially full of unknown roads and environmental risks. It wasn't a place with hotels and press conferences, but true wilderness. I pored over the dazzling equipment lists on professional outdoor forums online like a devout student, researching specs, comparing performance, checking reviews, and then carefully placing orders.

  High-top waterproof hiking boots were paramount. I gritted my teeth and chose an Italian brand that looked bulky but was said to offer excellent protection and grip. Imagining myself trekking through muddy, slippery mountain paths littered with loose stones gave me a bit more confidence. A shell jacket and pants were also essential, specifically Gore-Tex fabric for windproofing, waterproofing, and breathability. I deliberately avoided dull, dark colors and chose a relatively bright blue set, thinking that if I got lost or had an accident in the mountains, the conspicuous color might increase my chances of being found – a thought I immediately suppressed. Too unlucky. Li Xue, don't scare yourself.

  Next was a large backpack, at least 60 liters, capable of holding all my "belongings". I hesitated between bright orange and military green for a long time, finally choosing bright orange. The reason was the same: for that sliver of illusory security. I selected a double-layer, four-season tent, supposedly resistant to low nighttime temperatures and potential wind and rain in the mountains. When buying the down sleeping bag rated for minus fifteen degrees Celsius, the shop assistant curiously asked if I was going to a snow mountain. I just smiled vaguely. A moisture-proof mat, a high-lumen headlamp and flashlight (both with spare batteries), several high-capacity power banks sufficient to power electronic devices for a week, a hefty Swiss Army knife (though I'd probably only use it to open cans), waterproof matches and a fire starter, a professional-looking compass (despite rumors it would spin erratically like a drunkard there, map reading basics shouldn't be abandoned), and a small but reputedly highly accurate handheld GPS device… I armed myself meticulously, like a soldier preparing for an unknown battlefield.

  For food, I gave up anything requiring cooking, opting entirely for high-calorie, easily portable ready-to-eat items: compressed biscuits (reportedly tasting like bricks but high in energy), energy bars (a pile of various flavors), beef jerky, chocolate, and a few small bags of salt and sugar. There was also a small but powerful portable water filter, supposedly capable of directly filtering river or stream water, solving the biggest problem of drinking water.

  Of course, the most important was my "weapon" – the mirrorless camera that had accompanied me everywhere. I added spare telephoto and wide-angle lenses, and several 64GB high-speed memory cards to ensure I wouldn't miss any "decisive moment". Also, my slightly worn Sony voice recorder, for which I bought a windproof foam cover and a small directional microphone, hoping to capture the subtlest, most authentic sounds of Fengmen Village – whether wind, water, birdsong, or… other indescribable sounds. I even bought a heavy-duty triple-proof (waterproof, dustproof, shockproof) phone case to arm my smartphone, although I had little hope of getting a signal in those deep mountains. At least it could serve as a backup camera, flashlight, or, in the worst-case scenario, store some last words.

  Every evening, the delivery guy would punctuate my after-work hours with a knock, bringing packages large and small. Unpacking became my only post-work pleasure, a ritual filled with anticipation. Watching the new outdoor gear, smelling of nylon and plastic, pile up on the small living room floor, further cramping the already limited space, brought a peculiar sense of satisfaction and illusory control, as if possessing these "artifacts" made me fearless, capable of conquering the unknown. Sometimes, late at night, I would secretly pitch the tent in the living room, crawl into the sleeping bag, and imagine myself lying in some abandoned corner of Fengmen Village, under a dilapidated roof and an unknown starry sky.

  Besides material preparations, researching the route consumed a lot of my energy. Fengmen Village, the name flickered uncertainly on the maps. I gathered different years and versions of Henan province maps, topographic maps of the western Henan mountains, and even managed to get a scanned copy of a supposedly more accurate military map through a friend, comparing them repeatedly with Google satellite images. The results, however, grew increasingly unsettling: different maps showed slight or even significant discrepancies regarding the exact location of Fengmen Village and the paths leading to it. Some maps placed the village in a valley; others situated it on a hillside. Some indicated a rugged path, while satellite images showed the area completely covered by dense vegetation, revealing no trace of any road. It was as if the village itself was a ghost, drifting uncertainly through different spatial dimensions. This geographical ambiguity cast another disturbing shadow over my impending journey. I could only determine a general area based on the majority of maps and plan several alternative hiking routes.

  Amidst this fervent and busy preparation process, small, strange, unsettling incidents began to surface like undercurrents beneath calm water, occasionally disturbing my tense nerves.

  One time, past two in the morning, I was still at the computer, researching various curse legends and so-called "taboos" surrounding Fengmen Village. The online posts were wildly sensational: "men don't marry, women don't wed," "offerings disappear mysteriously," "strange diseases prevail..." I was engrossed in a post describing how the "Grand Tutor Chair" in the village brought misfortune, trying to analyze some folkloric metaphors or psychological suggestions within it. Just then, the incandescent light bulb overhead, which had been in use for several years, suddenly flickered violently twice without warning, emitting a "zzzz" sound. Then, with a soft "pop," the bulb went out completely.

  The room was instantly swallowed by thick darkness, only the eerie, cold white light from the laptop screen illuminated the text about the "death chair" and my slightly widened eyes from the shock. I jumped, my heart contracting sharply as if gripped by an invisible hand. Dead silence surrounded me, save for the faint sound of distant traffic outside, which only emphasized the emptiness within. Was it aging wiring, a bad connection? Or just the bulb burning out? I tried to calm myself, but in that instant, the moment darkness fell, I felt an indescribable chill, as if something had quietly slipped into my room with the extinguishing light. I fumbled in the dark for a spare LED bulb and replaced it. Warm yellow light flooded the room again, dispelling the darkness, but the momentary palpitation and unease lingered like a tiny thorn pricked into my heart.

  Then there was my sleep. Ever since deciding to go to Fengmen Village, my dreams became unusually active, vividly colored, and often bizarre, yet hauntingly memorable upon waking. Several times, I dreamt I was in an extremely gloomy, dilapidated ancient village, surrounded by dark, seemingly breathing windows and crumbling, moss-covered adobe walls. A thick grey fog permeated the village, visibility extremely low. I desperately tried to run out, but my legs felt heavy as lead, only allowing me to turn in circles, repeatedly returning to the same gatehouse adorned with tattered talismans. I could clearly feel countless cold, emotionless, unseen eyes silently watching my every move from the dark corners, from behind the closed doors and windows. The feeling of being watched was so real it made my skin crawl.

  Sometimes I would dream of a colossal python, its scales glinting eerily white under the moonlight, silently coiled on the rotten beam of some ancestral hall, staring at me coldly with pupil-less eyes like black abysses, as if scrutinizing a sacrifice trespassing on forbidden ground. Another time, the most vivid dream, I dreamt I was pressed onto a cold, hard, intricately carved ancient Grand Tutor Chair by an invisible force. My body felt leaden, my throat seemed blocked, unable to make a sound or move an inch. I could only watch helplessly as darkness surged in from all directions like a tide, gradually submerging my vision, swallowing me whole…

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Each time I startled awake from such dreams, I was drenched in cold sweat, my heart pounding as if it would leap out of my chest. I needed to curl up in my blankets, gasping for several minutes, to gradually distinguish the boundary between dream and reality. After waking, the small apartment was silent, only the ceaseless background noise of the city outside persisted, ironically highlighting the reality and suffocating terror of the dream I'd just escaped.

  I tried to console myself with psychology, attributing these nightmares to "thinking by day, dreaming by night," a result of the immense psychological pressure I was putting on myself, the subconscious reacting anxiously to unknown dangers. But the details in those dreams – the dilapidated village, the pervasive fog, the eerie white snake, the desperate Grand Tutor Chair – coincided so startlingly with the legends about Fengmen Village I had gathered during the day, preventing me from being completely at ease. It felt as if something was trying to send me a warning, or perhaps… a prophecy, through my dreams.

  Beyond these internal troubles, external attempts were equally frustrating. I tried various channels to contact several "backpackers" or "streamers" online who claimed to have recently visited Fengmen Village and returned safely. I left comments on their blogs, sent private messages, even used paid channels to find their contact information. But the results were either silence, like stones dropped into the sea; or their accounts had long been deactivated, pages showing "User does not exist"; a few automatic replies indicated I had been blocked. It seemed everyone who had touched that place and escaped unscathed was tight-lipped about it, unwilling to mention it again, even unwilling to interact with anyone attempting to explore it.

  The only one who replied was an anonymous user I found on that obscure folklore forum. Gathering my courage, I sent him a private message asking if he knew more about the "sacrifices" and "white snake" of Fengmen Village. After waiting two days, just as I was about to give up, I received his reply. It was extremely brief, just three words, typed in scarlet font, carrying a warning bordering on a curse:

  "Don't go die."

  Below it was a black and white, low-pixel skull emoji.

  I stared at those three blood-red words and the crude yet malicious skull emoji on the screen for a long time. An icy chill crawled up my spine to the top of my head. Was this a well-intentioned reminder from someone in the know, a malicious joke from someone aware of my intentions, or… something else warning me? Whatever the possibility, it sent shivers down my spine.

  These scattered "omens" and ominous warnings were like buckets of ice water, repeatedly trying to extinguish the fervent flame in my heart. There were moments, especially in the early morning hours after waking from nightmares, or upon seeing that blood-red warning, when I truly wavered. I sat in the dark, hugging my knees, repeatedly asking myself: Li Xue, are you really crazy? Is an elusive story, a possibly non-existent "truth," maybe even just an elaborate hoax, really worth risking your safety, even your life? Aren't the missing people, the vague warnings, enough to make you vigilant? What if… what if those seemingly absurd legends aren't entirely false? What if that village really is haunted by some incomprehensible, malevolent force?

  My rationality screamed danger, telling me to pull back from the brink, turn back. But simultaneously, the voice deep inside, craving adventure, breakthrough, self-validation, grew louder, more stubborn. It told me, almost seductively: the more mysterious, the more dangerous, the greater the secret hidden behind it, the closer to the core of that earth-shattering truth. It told me fear is the greatest enemy, the breeding ground of mediocrity. If I retreated now because of these flimsy "omens," I might live my whole life in regret, never forgiving my own cowardice.

  "The more mysterious, the more valuable." I repeated this phrase to the pale face in the mirror, whose eyes held an unusually stubborn glint, like a mantra for self-hypnosis. I tried hard to dismiss the unsettling incidents, terrifying dreams, and the blood-red warning as mere coincidences and illusions born from excessive stress, just scaring myself. I even began to feel that these obstacles further proved Fengmen Village's extraordinariness, strengthening my resolve to investigate it myself.

  But at the same time, a chill I couldn't completely dispel crept into my heart like silently spreading vines. I realized the risks of this operation might be greater than I initially anticipated. Therefore, I made a decision: travel light, and reveal my true destination to no one – not the newspaper, not friends, not even anyone besides my parents (and even then, only vaguely).

  I canceled my original plan to apply for a work trip and advance funds from the newspaper, deciding to use all my savings to self-fund this investigation. This way, even if I found nothing, or the report couldn't be published, no one would know I had pursued a "ghost story" so "unprofessionally". More importantly, if Fengmen Village was truly as cursed as legends claimed, perhaps the fewer people who knew I was going there, the safer I would be. It was an almost superstitious form of self-protection. I knew it was ridiculous, but in that delicate psychological state, it seemed the only way to feel a modicum of control.

  I would slip in like a ghost, record silently, and then, with the truth (or whatever else), leave just as silently.

  The departure date was set for a week later. I specifically consulted the old almanac and chose a day marked "Suitable for travel, engagement, opening business" on the lunar calendar – although I'm an atheist, at times like these, it seemed I could only rely on such empty rituals for a final, pitiful bit of psychological comfort.

  On the last night before departure, I didn't spend hours checking equipment or staring at maps and materials like the previous days. I meticulously, almost devoutly, cleaned my small apartment, organizing everything neatly, mopping the floor spotless, as if preparing for a long trip and looking forward to returning to a tidy "nest". Then, I made myself a decent dinner – scrambled eggs with tomatoes, garlic stir-fried greens, and a bowl of rice slow-cooked in the rice cooker. I even indulged in a small bottle of expensive red wine, though I rarely drink.

  Sitting on the creaky old chair by the window, sipping the dry red wine, I gazed at the brightly lit cityscape outside, like flowing molten gold. Skyscrapers stood tall, traffic flowed endlessly, neon lights flickered, outlining the eternal frenzy and fatigue of this modern metropolis. This was the place I had lived for years, familiar as the lines on my palm, yet often feeling incredibly strange and detached. It was prosperous, convenient, full of countless possibilities and opportunities, but also noisy, indifferent, like a giant, precise machine grinding everyone within into standardized parts, making one feel suffocated.

  I suddenly realized intensely that I was deeply weary of this city, of this routine, day-after-day life lacking passion and surprise. Perhaps the decision to go to Fengmen Village wasn't just about chasing a potentially career-making news story, but also an expression of my deep-seated desire to escape, to break free, to seek something more primitive, more stimulating, closer to the essence of life. Even if that vitality carried an aura of darkness, barbarity, and destruction.

  I took out the Sony voice recorder, fully charged, memory card inserted. Its metal casing gleamed coldly under the light. I hesitated for a moment, then pressed the red record button.

  "Ahem... This is Li Xue. It's now... 10:37 PM Beijing time, the last night before departure." My voice sounded somewhat hollow in the overly quiet room, even carrying a faint, imperceptible tremble. "Tomorrow morning, I set off for Henan... for that place. There are many legends about it, good, bad, terrifying... hard to tell truth from fiction. I don't know what awaits me. Honestly, I'm a little nervous, even... a little scared. But mostly, I'm expectant."

  I paused, took a sip of wine, trying to steady my voice, and continued: "But I have to go. This is my choice. No one forced me. I hope... I hope to find something valuable, find the truth, whatever that truth may be. And hope... I can return safely."

  "This recording, consider it a record before my departure. Just for the record. If... if everything goes smoothly, it will be the beginning of my entire investigative report, an exciting prelude. If..." I didn't voice the unlucky hypothesis, just remained silent for a few seconds, hearing my somewhat rapid breathing clearly recorded. Then, I firmly pressed the stop button.

  Carefully placing the recorder into the waterproof pocket deep inside the already packed, bulging bright orange backpack, I zipped it up. I stood up and walked to the slightly warped full-length mirror in the bedroom. The woman in the mirror looked pale from lack of sleep and alcohol, her eyes holding a complex mix of fatigue and excitement she couldn't fully conceal. But her gaze was exceptionally bright, almost fanatical, with an undeniable determination. Like a hungry wolf that had already spotted its prey.

  Yes, Li Xue, you are going. To that place shrouded in mist and legend, behind that heavily forbidden "sealed door," use your eyes, your lens, your recorder, to see, to hear, what kind of scenery lies hidden, what kind of thrilling story awaits.

  Outside the window, the city's neon lights still flickered tirelessly, like a grand, never-ending, yet false dream of prosperity. But my heart had already broken free from the constraints of this concrete jungle, flying towards those dark, unknown, deeply primal, fear-inducing, and fatally alluring mountains of western Henan.