The Corvid-Human Acoustic Archive

#ARCHIVE 05: THE HANGING GHOSTS

Beijing, Summer, 1970 / Summer, 1982

I had to escape that woman. I preferred the company of “Hanging Ghosts” — the inchworms. When my father was away, Grandma Yang would wander in and out of her room completely naked. Her breasts hung like two heavy sacks of rice, swaying ungracefully. Yet, when she turned, her silhouette told a different story.

At the sound of a dry cough, that naked form would appear, wobbling. I would scramble out of the yard, crouching in a dirt pit beneath the old locust tree, burying myself under half-dried leaves to hide.

As twilight approached, the world turned a sterile, blinding white. I slid on my sunglasses and continued my game.

Sibilant hiss —

That was the sound of the “Hanging Ghosts” descending. These pale green larvae spat transparent silk, dropping one by one from the dense canopy. To others, they were disgusting; to my ears, each was a distinct frequency.

Puff. Puff. Puff.

They pitter-pattered into the dirt pit, onto my body, onto my shades. I closed my eyes, assigning each a serial number. No. 17 was gnawing on a leaf vein to my left; No. 42 was attempting to crest my toe. I arranged these microscopic writhing sounds, constructing complex arithmetic equations in my mind. The tiny rhythms of the insects lulled me toward sleep, while the constantly updating numbers jolted me awake.

The grotesque sound of an Erhu drifted over — a villain’s aria from a “Revolutionary Model Opera.” The friction between the horsehair bow and the steel strings was sinister, hiding the sound of a withered throat swallowing thick phlegm. Revolting. But the “Hanging Ghosts” remained indifferent, continuing their steady descent.

Years later, by the volleyball court, Gao Yong looked like a “Hanging Ghost” with his head stuck in a steel horn. He stared at Rowan while blathering loudly. Whenever she leaped to spike the ball, his throat would leak the viscous resonance of hormones: “Beautiful! So beautiful!” He clapped, urging others to join him.

I sat in the stands. The campus loudspeakers played Dvořák’s Symphony No. 8. The Bohemian melody suited Rowan perfectly.

After the spike, Rowan landed. Large beads of sweat rolled down her translucent neck, vanishing into the mystery of her jersey. She looked at me, breathing hard, her eyes filled with the arrogance of a victor: “Hey, White Eagle. What did you see?”

I blurted out: “Your pelvis produced almost no transverse waves upon impact.”

She froze. Her heart rate was momentarily emptied by sheer bewilderment, creating a rhythmic void lasting half a second.

“Oh… sorry. I meant, the distribution of force throughout your body at the moment of the spike was a composition of perfectly symmetrical perfection.”

Laughter erupted around us — a chorus of dry, self-righteous audio.

“A perfect score for gravitational acceleration. Absolute full marks,” I muttered, lowering my head, not intending for Rowan — standing like a bamboo pole on the court — to hear.

She walked over, ignoring her teammates’ confusion, and crouched before me. “My dear scholar,” she whispered softly.

“Are you alright? Were you trying to tell me I’m beautiful?” “Yes… yes. I’m a fool,” I replied.

Silence. “Go back and rest.” Her face darkened, then she smiled, giving me a light push.

Gao Yong seemed to drop from a tree, approaching silently, his throat rattling with a thread of phlegm.