The bus from the county town to Westbrook Village felt like an ark sailing through a wrinkle in time, the scenery outside growing increasingly antiquated. Faded slogans painted on crumbling walls seemed frozen in the last century. When I finally stepped onto this land—both familiar and strange—dragging my suitcase behind me, the complex scent of clay, aged timber, and damp moss greeted me like an old memory.

Westbrook Village—my ancestral home and the inspiration for my graduation thesis—nestled in a depression surrounded by mountains like a giant forgotten pottery bowl. The village lay quiet, oppressively so. Afternoon sunlight slanted across bluestone paths but couldn't dispel the stagnant heaviness in the air. Villagers I passed would pause, regarding me with complicated expressions: curiosity about the "university student from the city," but more prominently, a wariness and scrutiny I couldn't quite decipher.

"Charlie!" A familiar shout sliced through the silence.

I turned toward the voice to see a lean, sun-bronzed young man running toward me—Peter Carter, my childhood friend. His face wore an enthusiastic smile, but between his brows lurked a trace of unshakable tension.

"You're finally back! Damn, I thought you were going to wait until dark!" He grabbed the suitcase from my hand and gave my shoulder a familiar punch.

"Got delayed on the way," I responded with a smile, then lowered my voice. "What's with the village vibe? Everyone's looking at me like I'm some kind of outsider."

Peter's smile froze. He glanced around to make sure no one was nearby, then leaned close. "You've come back at a bad time. In a few days, it's the 'Kiln Opening Ceremony'—the village's most sacred event. Rules get strict during this period. Everyone's on edge. Don't take it personally."

"Kiln opening ceremony?" My heart quickened—this was precisely the core objective of my field research. "How important is it?"

"More than just important," Peter's expression darkened. "It determines whether our village's kiln fires burn smoothly for the entire coming year—whether we prosper or suffer. Just... follow me. Speak little and keep your eyes to yourself."

His words carried an undeniable weight that cast a shadow over my previously light-hearted academic curiosity.

I settled into Elder Quincy Carter's old house—a traditional dwelling with high swallow-tail ridges typical of the region. Though weathered, the wooden carvings under the eaves still revealed their former exquisiteness. Elder Carter was the village patriarch—a spirited old man with a lean face and eyes that carried a dignity tempered by decades of authority.

At dinner, the atmosphere remained surprisingly pleasant. I explained my purpose to the Elder, hoping to use Westbrook Village's ceremonial rituals as the subject for my graduation thesis.

"Writing articles is a good thing," Quincy Carter said slowly, taking a sip of local tea. "Heartening for us old folks to see young educated people willing to look back at what our ancestors left behind."

My heart leaped with joy. I quickly pulled out my treasures from my backpack—a DSLR camera and a brand-new notebook, ready to document everything. "Elder Carter, could you tell me about the specific procedures and history of the 'Kiln Opening Ceremony'? I'd like to create a systematic record."

The moment I finished speaking, the air at the dining table froze. Quincy Carter's gentle gaze turned razor-sharp as he stared at the camera and notebook in my hands as if they were cursed objects. He set down his teacup with a soft click that somehow made my heart skip a beat.

"Charlie," his voice deepened, each word squeezed through clenched teeth, "Our ancestors' traditions demand respect, not scrutiny—and certainly not to be captured by these modern contraptions. You may stay in the village, but understand this about our rituals: observe with your eyes, remember with your heart. No photographs. Not a single written word. Break these rules, and no one—not even I—can protect you."

The warning in his tone was unmistakable—like ice water dousing my academic enthusiasm. I never imagined a simple field study would hit such a rigid taboo. Peter, sitting beside us, shot me a look that screamed "put that away." I reluctantly stuffed my camera and notebook back into my bag, mumbling an apology while inwardly bristling. This was just typical rural resistance to outsiders, I told myself—a cultural barrier born from isolation and conservatism. Nothing more.

The next day, curiosity got the better of me. Camera slung over my shoulder like any tourist, I began what I mentally labeled my "preliminary investigation." I avoided the ritual spaces, focusing instead on tangible cultural symbols.

The massive dragon kiln built along the mountainside resembled its namesake—a sleeping beast coiled at the village edge, its scale-like bricks reflecting a dark red hue in the sunlight. I photographed its weathered form, then the imposing Carter family ancestral hall with its weather-beaten stone guardians. In a pottery workshop, I captured artisans creating clay vessels—watching rough hands coax moist earth into life as it rotated, stretched, and took shape with primitive, unadorned beauty.

While hunting for the perfect angle, I felt eyes on me. Looking up, I spotted a woman standing in the shadow of an ancient banyan tree. She wore ill-fitting clothes, her hair disheveled, staring not at me but at my camera. Her expression was neither curious nor hostile—rather, a peculiar blend of sadness, fear, and something that felt like a warning.

I raised my camera, wanting to capture her image, but she darted away like a startled deer, vanishing around the corner of the alley.

"Don't photograph her," Peter appeared behind me without warning, his voice tight with tension. "That's Emily. She's not right in the head. Everyone keeps their distance."

I lowered my camera, questions multiplying in my mind. Why would a supposedly insane woman look at me with such lucid warning?

That afternoon, the village suddenly buzzed with activity. Peter explained that Simon Carter's elderly uncle had been sick for days, and his family wanted to cast divination cups to consult "Mr. Westbrook" about his fate—a minor blessing ceremony. Peter mentioned the elder had granted me special permission to observe, but warned again that photography or recording was strictly forbidden.

I wouldn't miss this for the world. The ceremony took place in the clearing before the ancestral hall, with an ornate table bearing incense burners and offerings. Quincy Carter presided personally. Villagers formed a tight circle, their expressions solemn, the atmosphere so reverent you could hear a pin drop. The sick man's son, Simon Carter—a weathered man in his forties—knelt on a prayer mat, sweat beading his forehead. In his trembling hands he held a pair of palm-sized, crescent-shaped red wooden blocks—the divination cups.

"Mr. Westbrook above," Simon's voice quavered, "I, your faithful Simon Carter, humbly ask: will my father's illness bring fortune or misfortune? Please guide me." He raised the divination blocks high, then let them fall.

The wooden pieces tumbled through the air before landing with a sharp crack on the bluestone slab. Every eye fixed on those two small harbingers of fate.

The result was "yin cup"—both pieces landed flat-side up. A ripple of unease passed through the crowd. By local custom, this signaled divine displeasure or outright denial.

Quincy Carter's face darkened, but he remained silent, merely gesturing for Simon to continue.

Simon's face drained of color. With trembling hands, he retrieved the blocks, whispered another prayer, and cast them again.

"Clack!"

Another yin cup!

Audible gasps erupted from the crowd as fear spread like wildfire. Simon Carter, nearly collapsing, fought back tears as he prepared for the third toss.

When the result appeared, a chill raced down my spine.

Another negative cup. Three in a row.

A deathly silence blanketed the clearing. Quincy Carter's expression transformed beyond mere displeasure—his face turned ashen, a mixture of rage and profound dread. He slashed his hand through the air and announced in a hoarse voice: "Mr. Westbrook is furious! The ceremony ends now!"

Before he finished speaking, villagers backed away and scattered like startled birds. Their looks toward Simon, still kneeling on the ground, held no sympathy—only bone-chilling fear and alienation. He was no longer one of them but a harbinger of disaster. Simon collapsed, his face ashen, mumbling over and over: "It's over... it's over..."

The ceremony meant to bring comfort had ended in terror.

That night, the weather turned vicious—a torrential thunderstorm hammered the roof tiles with deafening force. Lightning periodically bathed my window in ghastly white flashes. I tossed and turned, haunted by the afternoon's bizarre scene. Though I tried explaining those three consecutive yin cups with probability theory, the raw terror I'd witnessed in the villagers defied rational analysis.

Just as sleep began to claim me, urgent shouts pierced the rain's roar, jolting me fully awake. I rushed to the window and saw flashlight beams cutting through the darkness, accompanied by the sounds of running feet and panicked calls.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

I threw on a coat and rushed outside, nearly colliding with Peter, who'd also been awakened by the commotion.

"What's happening?" I demanded.

"I don't know," Peter's face was tight with alarm. "Looks like they're searching for someone."

We plunged into the downpour to find the village in chaos. Men swung flashlights wildly, shouting one name over and over: "Simon Carter!"

My heart plummeted.

The search continued for half an hour until a piercing scream cut through the storm from the direction of the village entrance. Peter and I sprinted toward it.

At the edge of a long-dried creek bed near the village entrance, a crowd had gathered. Flashlight beams converged on the bottom of the ditch, illuminating a scene that would haunt me forever.

Simon Carter—who hours earlier had cast divination cups at the ancestral hall—lay face down in the mud and scattered rocks, his limbs twisted at impossible angles. He was dead.

A villager turned the body over with trembling hands. Everyone gasped. Simon's eyes were wide open, his face frozen in extreme terror, his nose and mouth packed with wet sand and mud. He looked exactly like a drowning victim.

But everyone knew this creek bed had been bone-dry for at least a decade—not a drop of standing water anywhere. An elderly villager spoke with a trembling voice, as if addressing unseen spirits: "It's as if... as if this ditch had suddenly filled with water..."

The Kiln's Secret — Chapter 8

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