Chinatown's Mott Street smelled like smoldering joss paper and sandalwood as the Hungry Ghost Festival—Zhongyuan—wrapped the neighborhood in a haze of ritual. At 7:30 p.m., Mr. Li, 78, knelt beside his laundromat, feeding an iron basin full of "hell money" into the fire. His gnarled hands trembled as he muttered prayers for his late wife, Mei, who'd passed three years prior.
"Mei-mei, take this money—buy something nice in the underworld," he whispered.
A cold wind sliced through the alley, sharp enough to make Mr. Li's eyes water. He looked up, squinting into the mist, and froze. A woman stood ten feet away, draped in a tattered white burial shroud, her face hidden by a curtain of matted black hair. Before he could shout, she glided forward, her fingers—pale, almost translucent—snatching a stack of unburned joss paper from the basin.
"Hey! That's for my wife!" Mr. Li scrambled to his feet, but the figure was gone, vanishing into the fog like smoke.
By dawn, three more elders—Mrs. Wong from the dim sum shop, Mr. Chen the grocer, and Grandpa Zhang who fixed watches—were bedridden. Their symptoms were identical: high fevers, blue-tinged lips, and delirious mutters about "cold hands around their necks."
Agent Rui Lengyu's phone blared at 6:15 a.m., the screen flashing "SPU Emergency." The Special Paranormal Unit—her team—handled cases science couldn't explain, and this reeked of the supernatural.
"Rui, it's Mike. Chinatown, four cases of unexplained fever. All witnesses say the same thing: a woman in white stole their joss paper last night," her partner's voice crackled through the line. "The old folks are calling her 'Yin Debt Collector'—says she's here to collect what's owed."
Rui swung her legs over the edge of her Brooklyn apartment bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. At 24, she was the SPU's youngest consultant, a descendant of Irish mediums who could hear ghosts' whispers and trace the cold, sickly energy of Yin. But she'd always dismissed "Chinese ghost tales" as folklore—until today.
She pulled on a tailored black blazer (with a hidden holster for her Glock 19) and jeans, then grabbed her leather notebook filled with sketches of runes—Irish symbols her grandmother had taught her to ward off spirits. By 7:30 a.m., she was parked outside "Xuanqing Antiques," a narrow storefront with a faded sign depicting a peachwood sword and a Tai Chi Symbol.
Inside, the air smelled like aged paper and jade. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with porcelain vases, old scrolls, and small statues of Guan Yin. Leaning against the counter, twirling a peachwood sword between his fingers, was a young man in a gray Hanfu. He couldn't have been older than 22, with sharp cheekbones, dark eyes that crinkled when he smiled, and a faint scar across his left eyebrow.
"FBI?" He set the sword down, crossing his arms. His English was accented but fluid, like he'd learned it from movies and Chinatown elders. "Name's Ye Shaoyang. This shop's my cover—real job's handling… problems no one else wants. Like your 'white shroud lady.'"
Rui raised an eyebrow, tapping her badge. "'Handling problems'? You mean you tell tourists their futures for $20? I need evidence, not superstition. Four people are in the hospital. What do you know about this woman?"
Ye didn't take offense. He reached into a ceramic jar behind the counter, grabbing a handful of glutinous rice, and held it out to her. "Go to Mr. Li's laundromat. Sprinkle this where the shrouded woman stood. If it turns black… you'll stop calling me a fortune-teller."
Rui hesitated. She was a scientist at heart, trained to trust lab results, not rice. But the fevered mutters of the elders echoed in her head. She took the rice, nodded, and headed out.
Mr. Li's alley was empty, the iron basin still sitting by the door. Rui knelt, sprinkling the rice in the spot where the woman had stood. The grains darkened instantly, as if soaked in ink, and a cold tingle ran up her spine—Yin energy, thick and hungry, clinging to her skin.
She marched back to Xuanqing Antiques, the blackened rice clutched in her fist. "Explain this."
Ye grinned, leaning forward on the counter. "That's Yin energy—from a vengeful spirit. She's not stealing joss paper for fun. She's collecting a debt. Someone wronged her, and she's lashing out at anyone who honors the dead. Tonight, she'll come back. The elders burn paper at the ancestral hall on Pell Street. She'll be there."
Rui's jaw tightened. "You expect me to 'wait for a ghost' with a guy who waves a wooden sword?"
Ye stood, grabbing the peachwood sword off the counter. "Either you trust me, or more people get sick. Hall's at 9 p.m. Bring your gun if it makes you feel better—but it won't stop her. Spirits don't bleed."
He walked to the door, then paused, tossing her a bottle of mineral water. She noticed the cap was twisted open halfway, a small, thoughtless gesture that made her chest feel warm.
"Don't be late, Agent… Fei-Bi?" He mispronounced "FBI" on purpose, his eyes dancing with amusement.
Rui glared, but she didn't correct him. "I'll be there. And it's Agent Rui."
As she left, an older man in a blue apron—Lao Guo, the funeral parlor owner next door—leaned in to Ye. "That spirit… it's tied to Dao Feng's old case, isn't it? The army hospital one from ten years ago?"
Ye's smile faded. "We'll find out tonight."
At 8:45 p.m., Rui stood outside the ancestral hall, adjusting her blazer. The building was small, its wooden doors carved with dragons, red lanterns swaying from the eaves. Ye arrived a minute later, carrying a canvas bag filled with cinnabar, incense, and a small bronze mirror.
"Ready to see a real Taoist trick?" he said.
Rui rolled her eyes, but she followed him inside. The hall was dim, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood. A stone altar sat at the front, holding a statue of the Jade Emperor. Ye knelt, pouring cinnabar onto the floor and drawing a circle around the altar, placing the peachwood sword at its center.
"Soul-Inviting Array," he explained. "Cinnabar traps Yin energy; the incense lures the spirit. She wants to be seen—we're giving her a stage."
Rui stood by the door, her hand resting on her gun. At 9:07 p.m., the lanterns flickered. The temperature dropped so fast her breath fogged. Her ears buzzed—ghost whispers, faint but sharp, like someone sighing directly in her ear. He owes me…
Ye stood, sword in hand. "She's here."
The door creaked open. The woman in white glided in, her movements smooth as water. She reached for the altar, where a stack of joss paper lay. Ye lunged, swinging the sword—but it passed through her, like cutting smoke.
"Distraction!" Ye yelled.
The spirit appeared behind Rui, her cold hands reaching for her neck. Rui gasped, but Ye was there first, slamming his palm against the spirit's forehead. A burst of golden light—from a talisman he'd hidden in his sleeve—sent the woman reeling.
Her hair fell back, revealing a pale face with hollow eyes. She screamed, a sound like breaking glass, and a blood-red cross burned into the wall behind her before she vanished.
Rui stumbled, her neck tingling. Ye grabbed her arm, his fingers warm through her blazer. "You okay?" He pulled up her collar—no marks, but her skin was ice-cold.
Lao Guo rushed in, pointing at the cross. "That's the symbol of the old WWII army hospital! Dao Feng followed it ten years ago… and never came back."
Ye's jaw tightened. He turned to Rui, who noticed his palm had a faint cut, oozing black blood from the spirit's energy. Without thinking, Rui pulled a first-aid kit from her bag, dabbing iodine on the wound.
Their fingers brushed. Ye froze; Rui's cheeks heated. She pulled away, shoving the kit back into her bag. "Don't get hurt on my watch. You're my consultant, remember?"
Ye smiled, tucking a folded talisman into her pocket. It was shaped like a star. "For protection. Better than your badge."
Rui opened her mouth to argue, but her phone rang. Mike's voice was urgent: "NYU old campus, 404 dorm. A student says the person in his painting moves. And there's a cross—same as Chinatown."
Ye grabbed his bag. "Let's go. That painting's no ordinary art."
As they left, Lao Guo handed Ye a photo—Dao Feng, young and smiling, standing in front of a crumbling brick building. He held a silver whisk in his hand. "Dao Feng's last photo. That whisk? It's a Xuanqing treasure. He took it to the hospital."
Rui glanced at the photo, then at Ye. For the first time, she didn't see a "fortune-teller"—she saw someone who needed to find his brother. And she intended to help.