Chapter 1

“What, no way this place was built on execution grounds! You’re kidding, right?” Marco asked in a cynical tone, his eyes thinned. Then he hung his head back down to his plate, picked awkwardly with his chopsticks through a heap of oily sliced cabbages slathered in red chilis and chopped garlic.

“Nope, it’s true, I heard it from Jim, the Chinese teacher who lives in our building. It makes sense, though. I mean, how do you think they got the land? Have you seen property prices in China?” I answered before I sipped on a metal bowl of egg drop soup.

I licked my lower lip, continued, “Property in China is like gold. The acres they got out here, this school, this near the city. We’re talking 10 figures, probably, US Dollars.”

“Dog, we’re like an hour from downtown,” Marco lamented and snorted loudly, his nostrils flaring. The spicy cabbages were loosening up his sinuses.

Man-bun Matty, the rosy-faced Londoner, chuckled at his naivete. Muttered something about “fresh off the plane.”

“An hour is close for me. My last school was two and a half hours, to only the outskirts of the city center. This isn’t too bad,” the Man-bun posited, peering up from his phone.

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, sniffled, and continued, “That school was shuttered because it was built over a toxic waste site. The worst of it was at the football pitch and running grounds. Students and teachers exercising there were having bloody noses, fainting spells, and one came down with leukemia before the word got out. Bloody hell, I’m lucky I don’t take exercise. So, anyhow, after that, I’m okay with execution grounds.”

Man-bun was dressed, as usual, in Hanfu, traditional Chinese clothing, today wearing a shiny gold emperor robe, images of dragons stitched along its sides.

Marco was having issues processing what he’d heard, blinked his bleary eyes, and said, nervously, “Not me. I’m not okay with it. Like, an execution ground? There has to be ghosts here. Evil, wicked ghosts ... This might explain the nightmares I’ve been having since I got here.”

I’d also been having terrible, menacing nightmares since I’d arrived in China, and visions too, things I couldn’t explain, things I’d never seen before...

“I might have to call my mom back in Florida. She’s into Santeria,” said Marco, setting his chopsticks down on his tray.

“Is Santeria the same as Voodoo?” Man-bun Matty asked and snarled.

“Oh no, it’s way better...” Marco said, his breathing turning stertorous, “I’m not a practitioner, but this place could turn me into a Babaloricha, alright.”

“Santeria’s more about syncretism than Voodoo, I think,” I averred, checking my phone for no real reason, other than to lessen the weirdness of the moment.

“Do you think there’s any poltergeists here? Evil dead that can suck you into your TV?” asked a snickering Man-bun.

“Nah,” I said, sarcastically, “no one watches TV anymore. If there are poltergeists, they’d suck you into your phone.

“Hell, I think that’s already happening to my students. Probably happening to us all. Must be poltergeists on Twitter, YouTube for sure, some of the comments I’ve seen there, almost makes me want to cancel my VPN...” I said, myself actually scrolling through Twitter.

While I was trying to lighten the mood some, Marco grew more uncomfortable, was genuinely unnerved.

Marco, the 40ish bodybuilder, Cuban American, was dressed today in his normal attire- an all-black Miami Heat tracksuit, and he rose to his feet, cried out, “The ghosts won’t get me. NOT ME, DOG!” and he flung out his phone, started blasting Cypress Hill’s “I Ain’t Going Out Like That,” sang along to the words, then slipped in his white earbuds and stalked off, still mouthing to the music, bobbing his head.

Man-bun shrugged his shoulders and we ate in silence, staring at our phones before heading off to our afternoon classes.