Horror Nights
But next to it lay something else.
It was a pile of ancient, weathered jewelry—gold coins from a dynasty long dead, and a single, human finger bone, wrapped in a scrap of crimson silk.
Grandfather picked up the bone and sighed. "She’ll be back next year," he murmured. "They always come back when the white death arrives."
I am an old man now, and I run that same shop. The mountain is still there, and the snow still falls with a vengeance. Every December, I prepare a bowl of raw rice and half a catty of raw pork. I keep a sharp cleaver and a heavy heart.
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