Sitthikorn
It started with a loss of appetite.
It wasn't that I couldn't eat at all. For two weeks straight, around 3:00 PM every afternoon, a nameless nausea would well up from the pit of my stomach. It wasn't exactly painful, but it felt like the illusion of something living wriggling inside—a dull, suffocating sensation that made me panic.
I went to the pharmacy downstairs at work and, following the clerk's instructions, bought some stomach medicine. I chewed two tablets, but the discomfort didn't ease at all; it still latched onto me right on schedule in the afternoon.
I worked overtime until 9:00 PM that day. When the elevator doors opened, the motion-sensor lights in the hallway didn't turn on. In the darkness, a sliver of warm, yellow light leaked from under the door of A-Tai's room next door. As I passed that door, a low buzzing sound came from inside—not the frequency of electrical appliances, but more like a muffled human voice, fragmented and dull, impossible to make out clearly.
I inserted my key into the lock, the red string on my wrist brushing against the doorframe. Zhou Peining had brought it back from Chiang Mai last year, claiming it was a prosperity charm blessed at a temple; I hadn't taken it off since I put it on.
Once inside, I took half a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and drank a little. The wriggling sensation in my stomach returned, clearer than it had been in the afternoon, as if something were gently squirming between my organs. My heart couldn't help but go numb—I couldn't tell if it was fear or just discomfort.
My phone vibrated. It was a selfie from Zhou Peining with the caption: 'Lost another 500 followers today, I'm dying, come out and drink to comfort me.' My mood sank to the bottom; I had no desire to reply. I plugged the phone into the charger and turned to head to the bathroom for a shower.
As the hot water poured over my back, goosebumps unaccountably broke out on the skin along my spine. It wasn't because of the water temperature, but a distinct feeling of being watched, firmly enveloping me. I was the only one in the bathroom, and beyond the frosted glass was an empty living room with the curtains drawn tight—not a soul in sight.
I slept very fitfully that night, waking up at 2:00 AM, then again at 3:30 AM. When I woke the second time, my pillow was wet—not with sweat, but with involuntary drool. A faint, metallic taste lingered in my mouth, refusing to fade.
When I woke up in the morning, the only message on my phone was a work email from Jiang Yubai, timestamped at 1:47 AM: 'The meeting tomorrow morning is pushed to 2:00 PM; polish the data section of your proposal. Get some rest.'
I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow; the wriggling in my stomach turned into a faint churning, so uncomfortable it made me curl into a ball.
On Tuesday of the third week, the discomfort finally exploded, and I vomited in the company pantry.
I had just poured a cup of hot water and hadn't even brought it to my lips when my stomach suddenly spasmed violently. I bent over uncontrollably, the cup slipping from my hand and shattering on the floor, porcelain shards flying everywhere. Hot water splashed onto my lower legs, causing a burning pain. But at that moment, I couldn't care less about the pain; the thing in my stomach was surging upward, tightening my throat.
I stumbled into the restroom and vomited uncontrollably over the sink. First came yellow-green stomach acid, burning my throat with its acidity, followed by undigested breakfast scraps. By the time I finished, my stomach was empty, yet it continued to cramp painfully. I could only feel an strange, slick sensation in my throat—something bizarre that I couldn't quite name.
the restroom door pushed open. Jiang Yubai stood at the entrance, his brow furrowing instantly at the sight of my pale, weak figure. He stepped forward quickly, grabbing my arm with one hand to pull me up from the floor, while using the other to pull a tissue from his pocket and hand it to me. His tone was slow and heavy: 'Go to the hospital and get it checked out. Don't put it off.'
I declined Jiang Yubai's offer to accompany me and went to the hospital alone. I visited the gastroenterology department, had a gastroscopy, a blood count, and a full parasite screening. The results showed nothing but superficial gastritis; the parasite test was negative, and my blood count was perfectly normal.
The attending physician took off his mask and frowned at the report: 'You said there was something strange in your body—are you sure it's a digestive issue?'
'When I vomited, I felt something strange. These are photos I took at the time.' I handed him my phone. The photos didn't show any clear foreign objects, just blurry, anomalous traces.
the doctor looked at them for a few seconds, his expression subtle. He zoomed in and out a few times before finally shaking his head: 'Based on the test results and the photos, nothing abnormal was found. If you have a sample, you can bring it in for testing.'
I shook my head. At the time, I had been so terrified that I hadn't dared to keep any of it; I had just flushed it down the drain after vomiting.
Over the next week, I vomited twice more—once at home in the middle of the night, and once in a taxi. Each time was accompanied by severe gastrointestinal cramps, leaving me increasingly weak and my complexion growing paler by the day.
I went to three more hospitals in succession, undergoing full-body CT and MRI scans, but all results showed no physical abnormalities. The doctor at the last hospital finally, helplessly, referred me to the psychology department, suspecting somatoform disorder triggered by excessive stress. The psychologist communicated patiently for forty minutes and prescribed anti-anxiety medication.
But after taking the medicine for three days, there was no improvement at all. In the early hours of the fourth day, the urge to vomit struck again. This time, the discomfort was more intense than ever before. My body felt as if it had been hollowed out; I was so weak I didn't even have the strength to lift my arm.
I sat on the bathroom floor, my back against the cold tiles, my hands trembling uncontrollably. With stains from the vomiting on the corners of my mouth, my heart was filled with despair. All my tests were normal, yet the physical pain was real—as if something were slowly devouring my life force from within.
Just then, my phone screen lit up. A voice message from Su Mingzhao appeared in our group chat, timestamped 2:15 AM: 'Can't sleep, stumbled upon a post saying there's a master in Guangzhou who is incredible at treating evil afflictions. Do you want me to ask for you?'
With nowhere else to turn, I went to Guangzhou. That Master Liu was very young, looking to be only twenty-four or twenty-five. His name was Liu Yan, and he had opened a studio on the third floor of a 'handshake building' in an urban village. The room was filled with smoke, enshrining statues of Guan Yu and Guanyin, and the walls were plastered with various silk banners, exuding an air of mystery.
He asked me to extend my left hand. He placed three fingers on my pulse, closed his eyes, and his lips moved. Half a minute later, he opened his eyes, his expression turning suddenly grave. He let go of my wrist and took a step back.
'This isn't an illness.' He picked up the teacup on the table, his fingertips pinching the rim until they turned white. 'It's a curse—black magic from Southeast Asia. What's inside you is a Life-Devouring Gu. It grows by feeding on your life force, and once it's raised to a certain level, the caster will take it back to refine it into a tool. The fact that you're vomiting and feeling unwell so frequently means the Gu worm is almost mature. Routine check-ups won't find it.'
'Can it be cured?' I asked, my voice trembling as I clung to a final shred of hope.
He was silent for a long time before finally shaking his head: 'I can't cure it. There are few people in this country who understand this line of work, and masters are even rarer. For this kind of Southeast Asian black magic, the one who tied the bell must untie it—you have to go to Thailand and find a sorcerer.'
He pulled open a drawer and fished out a business card with curled edges. It was printed in both Thai and Chinese. In Chinese, it read: 'Ajarn Kong, Nan Phrae Province,' and below that was a mobile number. 'This person is a friend of mine. He's about my age, but his abilities are formidable. In your current situation, no one in this country would dare take the case, but there might still be hope with him.'
He pushed the card toward me, his tone urgent: 'Go quickly. Your body has been drained to this point; you have at most two months left.'
That same day, I flew from Guangzhou to Bangkok and transferred to a bus bound for Nan Phrae. The bus jolted along mountain roads for four hours. The tropical vegetation grew denser along the way, and the air became humid and stifling, the windows fogging up with condensation. After entering the mountains, my phone signal dropped to one bar. The last WeChat message I received was from Lin Jianshen: 'Heard you went to Thailand? Stay safe.' He didn't ask why, nor did he ask when I'd be back.
I got off the bus and flagged down a songthaew. The driver was a local who didn't know Chinese or English; he just glanced at the address on the card and nodded. The vehicle turned onto an unpaved dirt road. Twenty minutes later, the car stopped—the road ahead had ended.
the driver pointed to a path half-swallowed by weeds to the left, gestured 'keep going forward,' and then turned around. The sound of the songthaew's engine gradually faded away, leaving only the chirping of insects and birds in the mountain forest—a silence that felt somewhat eerie.
At the end of the path stood a stilt house. The wood had been soaked by rain into a dark brown, the corrugated iron roof was rusted, and the third step of the staircase was broken in half. Dried chili peppers and unknown herbs hung under the eaves, emitting a faint, fragmented sound whenever the wind blew. On the wooden floor at the entrance sat a pair of adult flip-flops covered in red soil.
A faint scent of incense filled the air. The wooden door was left ajar. The interior was dim, and I could only vaguely see straw mats on the floor and a small shrine in the corner. Three incense sticks were stuck in a copper bowl; two had burned out, and one was only half-gone, its ash curving over the rim of the bowl, refusing to break.
Light footsteps sounded on the stairs—the sound of bare feet treading on wet wood, light yet steady. A figure turned from the side of the house. He had bronze-colored skin, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat from the noon sun, and wore no shirt. His back was covered in dense, blue-black scriptures and snake-like tattoos, stretching from the nape of his neck down past his waistline. His black, curly hair was tied back with a red string, a few stray locks clinging to his neck. He wore three silver rings in his left ear and a tooth-shaped pendant in his right. He carried a machete stained with green juice, having just returned from the forest.
He looked at me, his expression knowing, as if he had already guessed the reason for my arrival.
'Who gave you the business card?' His Chinese, spoken with a Thai accent, was very low-pitched. 'Come in. Take off your shoes.'
The outdoors in Thailand were stifling and unbearable, but inside the house, it was cool and comfortable. There was no air conditioning, yet it exuded a natural freshness that made me trust this sorcerer a little more.
He kicked a straw mat toward me, gesturing for me to sit, while he sat cross-legged opposite me behind his workbench. The bottles and jars on the table rattled as he bumped them with his elbow. He reached out, concise and to the point: 'Left hand.'
Dry, warm fingers pressed onto my pulse. His fingertips were calloused and rough, and he pressed with more force than Master Liu, making my wrist bone ache slightly. He closed his eyes. The room fell silent, save for the incense smoke rising slowly. The last half of the incense stick in front of the shrine burned out, the ash falling into the copper bowl with an almost imperceptible sound.
He opened his eyes, wiped his fingertips, and stood up to walk to a low cabinet. He flipped through a yellowed, fragile notebook, closed it after a few pages, and put it back. He sat back down on the mat, picked up a pencil and paper, and drew a simple human silhouette. He drew circles over the liver and spleen, wavy lines over the stomach, and an 'X' over the uterus.
He pushed the paper toward me, the pencil tip pointing at the markings: 'Gu worms—here, here, and most of all, here.'
He tossed the pencil aside, chewed on a green leaf for a moment, and spat it into an iron can nearby, the green juice stretching into fine threads: 'The number of Gu worms in your body is immense; they have already taken root in your organs. Conventional methods won't be able to remove them. If we force them out, your body will collapse first.'
He raised his hand, holding up two fingers, and spoke in a deep voice: 'Two plans. First, I chant for seven days. You abstain from food and water, and I use my own qi to forcefully draw the worms out. There's a sixty percent success rate, but I will have to be bedridden for three months. I believe in equivalent exchange—you probably can't afford that price.'
After saying this, he withdrew his index finger, leaving only his middle finger raised, his gaze fixed heavily on me: 'As for the second... I won't tell you that yet.'Please log in to continue the conversation.