Old Cooper sat beside us and lowered his voice, saying, “I also heard this from the elders. They say—just heard, mind you—that every year when the Yellow River runs dry, at night, many people hear the sound of iron chains coming from the section of the river near the Yellow Sand Plant. The sound is like many people walking with shackles on their feet. The next day, when everyone goes to look, they find the sand covered with three-inch-long tiny footprints. The elders say these are the footprints of water ghosts. When the Yellow River dries up, the river god lets the water ghosts out for some fresh air.”

“No way! Did you see it with your own eyes?” Young Master was curious too.

Old Cooper nodded. “Of course, I’ve seen it several times. Those little footprints look just like monkey tracks. It gives you chills just looking at them.”

The medicine merchant was also quite interested and whispered, “With something this spooky, hasn’t anyone brave enough gone to check it out at night?”

Old Cooper lit a cigarette, nodded mysteriously, glanced around to make sure no one else was nearby, and then said, “We don’t dare to look, but there are always some brave souls who do. I heard that someone went to see it before. They said it was pitch black at night, but they saw lots of glowing dots, like wolf eyes, floating around in the riverbed. I don’t know if it’s true, but a few months ago, four outsiders went to check it out. They went several times, but the last time, only three came back. No one knows what happened to the other one. When people asked, they wouldn’t say. They looked absolutely terrified. Now everyone’s saying that the one who didn’t come back was probably dragged into the sand by a water ghost. Those four outsiders were staying at my place, so this story is absolutely true.”

The two college students asked Old Professor, “Should we go take a look too?”

Old Professor lectured them, “This is superstition. Superstition and folk customs are two different things, but they’re easily confused, so you have to be careful. But it’s fine to go and have a look.”

Old Cooper saw that his story had given us goosebumps and looked a bit smug. He continued, “At that time, they were staying upstairs. The day the three of them came back, I asked what happened, but they wouldn’t say. Later, I heard them arguing, really loudly. Unfortunately, I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but when things got heated, I heard one of them say something in Shanxi dialect. Can you guess what it was?”

Old Cooper really had a knack for storytelling, I thought. We leaned in closer, and Young Master said, “Come on, just tell us the whole thing, don’t keep us in suspense.”

Old Cooper chuckled and said, “One of them said: ‘There must be something under that pond. If you don’t believe me, forget it!’”

I asked in surprise, “What does that mean?”

Old Cooper shook his head, indicating he didn’t know. But over at the Yellow Sand Plant construction site, there really is a pond. It’s a cutoff lake in the riverbed, and it’s quite large—usually the last to dry up. People at the plant often swim in it, but I’ve never heard anyone say they saw anything at the bottom.

“So that’s what puzzles me,” Old Cooper said with great seriousness. “Could it be that they saw a water ghost coming up from below?”

I was really intrigued by his story and wanted to go take a look by the Yellow River myself. Old Cooper said that if we really wanted to go, we should do it during the day. He could take us tomorrow for just ten yuan per person and would arrange everything.

I secretly laughed—maybe this guy was running a tourism business. The two medicine merchants said they wouldn’t go; they had to visit other villages to buy herbs. Since I had no leads at the moment, I decided to go along with the group and check out the Yellow Sand Plant. If I could run into someone, that would be a clue. If not, there were always records from that era—I could check their office for any leads.

So, we agreed with Old Professor and the college students to set out early the next morning.

After dinner, we each went back to our rooms. The lighting in the dormitory building was terrible. There were lights in the cafeteria, but none in the rooms. Each of us carried a kerosene lamp, climbing the wooden stairs to the second floor. The second floor looked just like a haunted house from a horror movie, with cobwebs all over the wooden pillars. Although the place had a strange Ming and Qing dynasty vibe, whether we could actually get used to living there was another question.

It was still early. Young Master, who liked cleanliness, went down to the well to fetch water and clean up. I didn’t mind; back at the construction site, I could sleep anywhere as long as there was some grass. I tossed my things onto the bed and lay down, using the kerosene lamp’s light to examine the piece of bronze. They said it was stripped from the riverbed, and the patterns on it were very unusual. I’d never really looked at it closely before, but now that I had some free time, I decided to study it.

After just a few glances, I sat up, feeling a bit incredulous.

My research on bronzeware actually surpassed my knowledge of porcelain, so I was quite bold when collecting bronzes. Looking at this bronze piece now, I noticed something strange.

The patterns on it were extremely ancient—definitely from the Western Zhou period. But the other small bronze items were undoubtedly from the Western Han, over a thousand years apart.

That can’t be right. If there’s an ancient tomb under the Yellow River, how could the burial objects inside span such a long period? Could it be that burial goods from two different dynasties just happened to get washed together there?