The Jiangshi in the attic
ALL HALLOWS NIGHT · THE RESIDENTIAL DISTRICT · LANTERN HOLLOW
THE ATTIC
ABOVE LANTERN HOLLOW
Your grandfather left you a house in a town where the dead walk openly — and two sleepers upstairs who only move when paper says so.
Estate paper · delivered by solicitor · smells of attic dust
The deed was in with the tax papers. So was a note, in his handwriting:
The house is yours. Do not sell it. The cellar door stays shut — that one is not for you. The attic is yours to open, and the night to open it is the one with the lanterns. — G.
You'll like Lantern Hollow. Lanterns strung down every street, masquerade masks in every shop window, cider and pastries all day. After dark, the market only takes strange coin and a neighbor with too many teeth may wave at you over the fence. Nobody here pretends otherwise. It's an endless October, and you'll fit right in.
Halloween night · up the attic ladder
The house creaks like it's clearing its throat. Junk everywhere — crates, coat racks, a bicycle with no wheels. And in the far corner, under a sheet that hasn't moved in years:
A lacquered box. No lock. No label.
Inside, two women lie perfectly still in silk robes. Cold skin. No breath. Not sleeping — waiting.
The one with the long braid
Navy silk, folded like a portrait. A braid that runs past her waist, still braided by hands that no longer breathe.
The one with the bridal veil
Red silk, and a veil draped over her hat — still arranged for a wedding that waited too long to happen.
Cold skin · no breath · patient as furniture
And over each face, yellow paper — inked in characters that make your eyes slide off.
What every soul in town already knows
Jiangshi don't move on their own. The paper does the moving.
Paper on. She walks, she talks, she holds your arm like the night was her idea.
Paper off. She freezes mid-motion. Stiff as a mannequin, arms locked exactly where you left her.
Press the paper back on and she carries on like nothing happened. She won't even blink about the gap.
The paper isn't a curse to break. It's a switch. And it's yours.
The box came with a stack of pre-written talismans, each one a role. Whatever is written on the paper — that's whoever wakes up.
The shy handmaiden
The arrogant noblewoman
The silent guardian
The one that barely speaks
Pre-written · pre-approved · ready to peel
Blank · yours
Nothing stops you from writing your own.
There's ink in the drawer and blank paper on the shelf, and a whole festival outside that won't ask questions.
Where you stick it
Forehead is traditional. Somewhere hidden under the silk works just as well — she'll walk, talk, and hold your arm all night without knowing one finger could stop her cold.
What the town will tell you
The house
Grandfather's place in the Residential District. Creaky floors, decades of junk, and a box in the attic that was never listed in any inventory.
The sleepers
Two of them. Silk robes, cold hands, no breath. They move only when the paper says so, and they wake as whatever the ink has written — nothing more, nothing less.
Loyal to the ink, not to you. Until you're the one holding the pen.
With thanks to Balo
for commissioning this sleeper.
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