This year, Mr. Bolton's two sons—the older about eleven or twelve, the younger around eight or nine—stayed at home with their mother as usual, while Mr. Bolton was called out by the villagers to treat illnesses. Now, in the village there was a petty man with a wicked nature, who couldn't stand to see others living better than himself—a person who delighted in envy and jealousy. Seeing that Mr. Bolton's family lived as well as the landlord's, he grew malicious and ran up to Mr. Bolton's two sons, saying, “Does your father really know how to exorcise ghosts and cure illnesses? I don't think so. Maybe it's all just a trick to fool people.”

Mr. Bolton's two sons would never let an outsider speak ill of their father, so they immediately retorted, “Our father is a genuine Taoist priest! All the strange illnesses in the village have been cured by him. Even your own father fell ill, and wasn't it our dad who cured him? Not to mention exorcising ghosts and curing illnesses—if he wanted to catch a ghost, it would be as easy as lifting a hand.”

The man laughed, shook his head, and said, “I don't believe it. If your father really has such skills, then he shouldn't be afraid of ghosts. But I bet you, your father is definitely afraid of ghosts too.”

Seeing that he still refused to believe in their father's abilities, the two sons nodded and said, “Fine, a bet it is! Our father is a real Taoist priest—he's not afraid of ghosts. You tell us how you want to bet!”

The man said, “Your father went to treat old Zhao's illness at the edge of the village today, and he won't be back until night. When the time comes, you two go climb the big tree by the road your father takes home, dress up as ghosts, and scare him. If your father really isn't afraid, then you win.”

The two boys, though feeling a bit guilty about pretending to be ghosts to scare their own father, thought that this was also a way to prove their father's abilities to others, so they nodded and agreed.

That evening, after dinner, Mr. Bolton's two sons found an excuse to go out and headed to the road that Mr. Carter must take to return home. There were several centuries-old trees by the roadside, with thick branches and lush leaves, their trunks entwined with green vines—each tree so large it would take several adults to encircle it. Some said these ancient trees had long become spirits; others said that in the past, someone tried to chop them down, but when the axe struck, the tree bled. Of course, none of that really mattered—what mattered was that Mr. Bolton's two sons were about to climb up these ancient trees.

Anyone who grew up in the countryside knows that for rural children, skills like catching fish in the river or climbing trees for bird eggs are second nature. Though Mr. Bolton's two sons were only about ten years old, they could still climb these giant trees that would take several adults to encircle.

So the two boys crouched on the ancient tree, waiting for their father. Meanwhile, Mr. Bolton, after having a few drinks at old Zhao's house, felt a bit dizzy, so he sat for a while, chatted after dinner, drank some strong tea, and only around ten o'clock at night did he get up to head home.

It was still early in the lunar month, and the moon was a thin sliver—not bright, but just enough to faintly make out the road. Mr. Bolton made his way home in the dark. As he reached the spot where his two sons were hiding, the boys in the tree immediately began making ghostly wailing sounds, crying out “Woooo” at Mr. Bolton...

Suddenly hearing ghostly cries from above, Mr. Bolton sobered up almost instantly, a chill running through him! He looked up and saw two dark shapes crouched high up in the tree...

Mr. Bolton frowned, thinking, “There are actually little ghosts daring to call out to me? They really don't know their place!” So he immediately drew a “Scissors Command” talisman from the Maoshan arts on his palm and hurled it at the two dark figures atop the tree...

The “Scissors Command” flashed like lightning and struck the shadows. Instantly, two sharp screams of “Ah~” rang out from the tree. The moment Mr. Bolton heard those screams, he cried out in alarm, for those were the voices of his own sons!

Mr. Bolton was so terrified his soul nearly left his body. He didn't even bother to check on the figures falling from the tree—he just turned and ran straight home. He knew all too well that anyone struck by his “Scissors Command” would not survive.

Mr. Bolton dashed home, kicked open the door, and grabbed his wife, asking, “Where are our sons?”

His wife, already frightened by Mr. Bolton's panicked appearance, immediately replied, “The boys went out after dinner. They said they were going to old Zhao's house to find you. Why... why did you come back alone?”

Hearing this, Mr. Bolton's heart dropped as if into an icy abyss, coldness welling up from deep inside. He realized that the ones he had just struck from the tree were his own sons.

At this point, Mr. Bolton had no time to answer his wife or explain the situation. He urgently called out, “Quick, get me a basket rope—I need to thread a needle with it!”

His wife, baffled by Mr. Bolton's strange request, was confused. Basket rope is used in the countryside to carry grain, and even the thinnest is as thick as a pinky finger—how could such a thick rope go through the eye of a sewing needle? She felt Mr. Bolton's forehead and replied, “Old Zhang, what's wrong with you? Why are you talking nonsense as soon as you get home? How could a basket rope go through a needle?”

Hearing this, Mr. Bolton's heart sank—he knew it was all over. Then he called to his wife again, “Quick, find me some cotton thread—I need to use it to hang a millstone!”