The few people gathered together talked about the land and the farmers in the vicinity. Enough of these topics were discussed, and then he began to talk about the age of a certain old man who was buried last Sunday.

The young men present thought he was very old, but several of the old men claimed that he was still young—an old man with a full head of white hair said that the deceased was no older than himself—and that if he had taken good care, he would have lived at least ten to fifteen years—if he had taken good care.

There's nothing fascinating or alarm-provoking about this topic. The robber paid the bill, sat silently in the corner, unnoticed, and almost fell asleep. At that moment, the noise of an uninvited guest entering the door drove his drowsiness away somewhat.

The visitor was a gagging peddler and charlatan, with a box on his back, and traveled around the countryside, selling whetstones, sharpening belts, razors, facial cleansers, medicines for dog and horse diseases, cheap rouge gouache, and so on.

As soon as he entered the store, he talked and laughed with a few countrymen, and laughed with each other harmlessly, and when he was full of food and drink, he came to push the boat down the river, opened the treasure chest, and started business while joking.

"What's that? Is it delicious or not? A country man asked with a grin, pointing to a few pieces shaped like pastries in the corner of the box.

"Well," said the fellow, picking up a piece, "this is the kind of synthetic soap that is good value for money, and removes spots, rust, stains, and mildew spots on all kinds of silk, satin, and blankets."

Any trace, whether it's a wine stain, a fruit stain, a water stain, a stain, or an asphalt stain, wipe it all off with this well-measured, value-for-money synthetic soap.

If a lady has a stain on her reputation, just swallow a piece and the medicine will be cured of the disease - this is poison.

If any gentleman had the heart to prove his innocence, he only had to swallow a small piece, and his reputation would not be a problem, for it was as pleasant as a pistol bullet, and tasted much worse, and the result was, of course, fame. One copper plate by one. There are so many benefits that it only sells for a penny piece. ”

There were two buyers on the spot, and the larger audience was obviously tempted. When the peddler saw this, he cried out even more vigorously: "As soon as this thing is made,* it will be sold out," said the fellow, "and it has been producing at full capacity at the moment, but it is still not available." Those people worked hard, and when they were tired, they immediately paid the widow a pension, twenty copper coins a year for a child, and twice as many as twins. Specially remove all kinds of alcohol stains, fruit stains, wine stains, water stains, paint, mud, and blood stains. There was a mark on the hat of one of the gentlemen, and I had already erased it before he could ask me for a drink. ”

"Hey!" Fat Zhang yelled and jumped up, "Give me back your hat." ”

"Sir, you haven't had time to get your hat to this side of the room," replied the peddler, squeezing his eyes at the crowd, "and I will wipe it clean." Ladies and gentlemen, there is a dark mark on this gentleman's hat, no bigger than a copper, whether it be a stain of wine, fruit, water, mud, or blood—"

The man could not say any more, because the fat man let out a piercing curse, overturned the table, snatched his hat with his hand, and rushed out of the hotel.

The abnormal mental state, the indecisiveness in his heart, is not due to this murderer, and he has been tormented for a whole day. At this time, he found that no one was chasing after him, and people at most regarded him as a drunk who was holding back his anger.

He turned and left the town. There was a mail truck parked in the street, and he walked over from the headlights, recognizing that it was a mail truck from Conch City, parked in front of the small post office. He could almost guess what was going to happen next, but he walked across the street and listened.

The clerk of the escort was standing at the doorway, waiting for the pouch, when a man dressed like a hunting ground keeper stepped forward, and the escort handed him a basket that had been placed on the sidewalk.

"This is for your family," the escort said, "Hey, can you be quicker inside?" This damn pouch wasn't even ready the night before yesterday, so it's not going to work, you don't know. ”

"What's the news in town?" The hunting ground warden asked as he stepped back to the window panels to make it easier to admire the horses.

"No, as far as I know, there is no news," replied the escort, putting on his gloves, "and the price of food has gone up a little." I heard about a homicide at Clear Water Bridge, but I don't believe it. ”

"Oh, not at all," said a gentleman looking out of the window, "what a terrible murder." ”

"Really, sir?" The escort touched his hat and asked, "Sir, is it a man or a woman?" ”

"A woman," replied the gentleman, "it is estimated that—"

"Come on." The driver shouted impatiently.

"Damn the pouch," the escort shouted, "are you people asleep?" ”

"Here we go!" The post office clerk ran out and shouted.

"Here," the escort muttered, "Ah, like that young lady, she said she was going to marry me soon, but I just didn't know when I would cash it out." Okay, drive. Well—mile! ”

The mail car horn made a few cheerful notes, and the car drove away.

Zhang Fatzi was still standing on the street, obviously indifferent to what he had just heard. He just didn't know where to go, and nothing annoyed him more. At last, he walked back again.

He walked forward, sullen. But when he left the town behind him and came to the empty, dark road, a feeling of terror crept up in his heart, and he shuddered inside and out.

Every object in front of me, whether real or shadowy, static or moving, was like something terrible. However, these fears were nothing compared to the strange shadow that had been with him since early morning.

In the haze, he could discern its shadow, speak the most subtle features, remember how it walked with a stiff body and a grim face.

He could hear its clothes rustle against the leaves, and each breeze sent its last muffled scream.

If he stops, the shadow stops. If he ran quickly, the shadow followed—it did not run—it would have been better to run down, but like a body endowed with mere life mechanisms, slowly propelled behind by a yin wind that neither strengthened nor ceased.

He turned his heart sideways several times, determined to drive the phantom away, even if it looked at him with all its might, but he couldn't help but feel creepy, and even his blood congealed: for the phantom also turned with him, and ran behind him again.

He'd been facing it all morning, and now it was behind him—not an inch.

If he leaned his back against the dirt slope, he would feel it hanging over his head, and the cold night sky would clearly reflect its outline. He fell on the road with his back to the sky—with his back to the road, and it stood straight on his head, without saying a word, without moving—a living tombstone, engraved with an epitaph written in blood.

No one should say that the murderer can get away with it, God doesn't have eyes. Surviving a long minute of fear like this is not much different from dying hundreds of times.

There was a hut in the field he passed, which provided shelter for the night. Three tall poplar trees grew in front of the hut, and it was pitch black inside, and the evening breeze whined through the treetops with a mournful cry.

Before dawn, he couldn't go any further. He lay straight against the wall—waiting for a new torment.

At this moment, an apparition appeared in front of him, as stubborn as the one he had avoided but even more terrifying.

In the darkness, a pair of eyes appeared wide open, so dim, so dull, that he would rather look at them than let them enter his imagination.

The eyes themselves are shining, but they don't illuminate anything. There are only two eyes, but they are everywhere.

If he closed his eyes, the room would appear in his mind, and everything would be familiar—indeed, if he were to go through the contents of the room from memory, a few things might not be remembered yet, and one by one would be in their old place.

The corpse was still where it was, eyes the same as the ones he had seen when he snuck away.

He jumped to his feet and rushed into the field outside the house. The shadow followed him again. He walked into the hut again and burrowed into the corner. Before he could lie down, those eyes reappeared.

He stayed in this place, and only he knew how frightened he was, and he shivered with his hands and feet, and cold sweat poured out of every pore.

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the evening breeze, and shouts and shouts rang out in the distance, mixed with panic and consternation. Hearing the voices of people in this bleak and desolate place was a great comfort, even if it was a truly ominous omen.

When danger came, he regained his strength and spirit, and he jumped up and rushed into the wilderness outside the door.

The vast sky seemed to be on fire. A flaming flame with a shower of sparks swirled and soared into the sky, lighting up the sky for miles and driving clouds of smoke in the direction where he stood. A new voice joined the shout, and the cry was louder.

He could hear the shouts: "It's on fire!" The shouts were mixed with the sound of alarm bells, heavy objects collapsing, and pillars of fire bursting. The flames surrounded a new obstacle, tongues of fire leaping up like arrows, as if they had replenished food.

As he watched from afar, the noise grew louder and louder, and there were people—men and women—blazing with fire, and people coming and going.

It seemed to him like a new life. He galloped over—straight and headlong—over the thorny bushes, over the fences and hedges, and went as mad as his dog that barked loudly and ran before him.