The rain intensified as we drove. We parked by the sanatorium, where my mother had died years ago after her long struggle with tuberculosis. The memory of that time, when we’d come to the sanatorium daily to visit her, returned to me as I stepped out of the car and into the cool, steady rain. I shuddered, whether from sudden chill or Mother’s ghostly presence I’m not sure. The ground was slick with mud and we had to climb down a wet embankment to get into the village. We skirted through a maze of puddles to get to the house that Amah thought was the right one. A little yellow dog with a black nose met us partway through. She wagged her tail and panted cheerfully, her lively doggy presence breaking through the mist in such a way that made me all too aware of the disorganized army of spirits that began to trail us the minute we stepped down into the mud. All the ghosts of the Qing dynasty clearances, in which people were required to burn their homes and flee inland on pain of death, were layered beneath the traces of the thousands murdered by neighbours during the Punti–Hakka Wars and the Red Turban and Taiping Rebellions. When the people abandoned this village, they had left their memories of starvation and murder in the ruined houses, and it all rushed at us now through the mist. The rain came down even harder, and the wind that followed it rendered our umbrellas useless.

“I’m sure it’s this way,” said Amah. We followed her, but the path ended at the village wall, and we had to backtrack.

“Must be this one,” she said. But the next lane took an unfamiliar curve. Wrong again.

“Sorry,” she said. “This is my ancestral village, but I never lived here. I used to visit with my mama before the flood of ’23. It’s been more than twenty years since I was here. After Mama died, I tried to forget and become a modern person. So I don’t remember my way very well.”

When she took a left-hand turn, I realized she was grasping at straws. “Amah, do you have any idea at all?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Violet. Familiar feelings return to me, and so I follow. But if I ever had a map in my old brain, it’s gone. So spooky, lah, this ancient place. How Cheung’s mother can live here, I don’t know.”

The wind blew harder.

“This was a terrible idea,” Father said, “and Cheung is a madman. Let’s go back.”

The little yellow dog whimpered and licked my hand. “Maybe Ah Wong knows the way.” I nodded down at her bright eyes.

The dog trotted forward. “Sometimes the village dogs are smart,” said Amah.

“Christ,” Father cursed.