Chapter 8: The Na City Case (Part One)

Ten years ago, in the spring when the snow in the Northeast had yet to melt, a biting wind tore across the land like a wild stallion unleashed from the icy plains of Siberia, shaking this small town to its core.

Nacheng was a border town so small it could hardly be called a town. Its environment was beautiful, and its people simple and sincere. Yet, the name that lingered longest in memory was tied to its sweet beets and potatoes, famed far and wide for their exquisite flavor.

The afternoon sun was warm. A young couple walked arm in arm through a dilapidated alley, their faces bright with laughter.

Beneath the eaves, icicles shimmered like stars in the sunlight, lending the scene a touch of romance.

As they walked, they whispered tender words:

“This day is so cold, yet your hands are warm, full of life and vigor—I like that so much.”

“Yes, this year is colder than last. If you’re feeling chilly, come inside and chat—you’ll like it even more.”

“Do you have a place?”

“No, how about yours?”

“That won’t do—I have company.”

“Think of a way; everything’s negotiable.”

“Then I insist!”

No one knew that these two were not lovers at all. The man who wanted to enter the woman’s home had once been an industrial worker, a butcher, and even a level-eight fitter (a pickpocket). Now, he was about to become the instigator of a bizarre and grisly crime.

To understand the cause and effect of this strange case, one must first look at his shoes.

He wore a pair of brand-new, oversized leather shoes—this year’s latest fashion, paired with baggy trousers, also the trendiest style. Yet the soles were filthy, caked with mud, incongruous with the city streets.

Where in the city could there be so much mud? The answer: the cellar.

In many places on the city outskirts, nearly every household had a cellar. These cellars stored the vegetables—cabbage, radishes, turnips, Jerusalem artichokes—that helped families survive the long winter. Of course, potatoes were indispensable.

Winter itself was almost drawn out from these cellars. Potatoes were fetched from them every few days, often in baskets of two.

Usually, children undertook this task, their small, agile bodies able to navigate the cramped spaces with ease.

These vegetable cellars were often dug into wasteland, orchards, or out-of-the-way corners where village walls stood without blocking paths. After mid-December, in areas dense with these cellars, groups of people would bend low, craning their necks to peer down and ask questions of the earth below. To the uninitiated, it was an eerie sight.

Ten years later, when his hometown faced demolition, village officials, unable to locate him, took it upon themselves to break the lock on the old door that had remained sealed for years. No one could have imagined that opening it would unleash the gates of hell.

Curious onlookers discovered the unassuming cellar. Upon opening it, a stench so vile it struck them like a physical blow burst forth.

Down below was pitch-black; nothing could be seen.

After a quick glance, the onlookers pinched their noses and fled, forgetting even to close the lid.

But the nauseating odor lingered, refusing to dissipate.

In the days that followed, the village dogs barked furiously at this spot for no apparent reason.

Neighbors dared not enter, instead pointing at the gate in complaint: What was hidden in that cellar?

Several days later, the unbearable stench drove the neighbors to call the police.

When the officers arrived, even before entering, the indescribable foul scent caused dizziness.

An experienced veteran officer immediately sensed something was amiss.

“It’s the smell of death,” he said.

The younger policeman nearby grew nervous. Preparing himself mentally, he ventured into the long-abandoned cellar and was soon heard screaming sharply, then fell silent. Eventually, he was carried out.

Outside, a crowd gathered, and rumors began to fly. They said the cellar was haunted, that spirits could steal souls, and the policeman’s soul had been taken.

Days later, the police clarified:

There were no ghosts in the cellar, but instead, it was filled with countless bodies piled densely.

The scene was so gruesome that even seasoned officers felt their spines stiffen and a cold sweat break out.

The scream made perfect sense.

As for why the officer had to be carried out, the police explained it was due to toxic gases from decomposing bodies. The microbes in the air, inhaled without protective gear, had poisoned him into unconsciousness.

It was said the young officer suffered severe aftereffects. His lungs became infected and have yet to fully heal.

In the dark cellar, a casual touch could find thick layers of corpse fat. The bodies were tossed about haphazardly, twisted and contorted. Even experienced police and forensic experts, accustomed to handling bodies, had never seen such a horrific scene. The perpetrators could only be described as utterly callous toward human life.

Enduring the stench, the forensic team began removing the bodies. Fragmented bones piled thickly, further complicating their grim task.

Due to limited forensic technology locally, they resorted to the oldest method: boiling the bone fragments in large pots, then painstakingly identifying and piecing the remains together.

In the end, they confirmed forty-two bodies.

The mutilated corpses, the overwhelming stench, the pools of corpse fat—all bore witness to the brutal and malicious nature of the crime.

Though the police dispelled the ghost stories, the village remained rife with rumors. The old house became a haunted place everyone avoided.

Believing in ghosts was far easier than embracing the idea that "men’s deeds are watched by heaven."

Finding the bodies did not solve the case. The police needed more valuable clues—where was the owner of this old house?

Before the cellar was opened, its door had been locked for seven or eight years. Undoubtedly, whoever had last owned it was the prime suspect.

The police summoned the village committee secretary, a young man who had just returned to the village after university. Though not completely ignorant, his knowledge was limited.

Thus, the police called other village officials, learning that the owner had long since left, even transferring her household registration.

The house had changed hands multiple times. Even neighbors did not know who had lived there, only recalling that the last occupant was a young woman.

The police asked: What kind of woman?

The neighbors’ eyes filled with disdain.

“Just one of those women who sell themselves.”

“A prostitute?”

“Yes, exactly.”

The police were puzzled. How could a prostitute possibly kill over forty people?

It seemed the suspect was not this woman but someone else.

So they inquired: Did she have a husband?

“Husband? How could a prostitute have a husband? What a joke.”

“What about a boyfriend?”

The neighbors shook their heads but confidently claimed that among the many clients they had seen, very few ever returned. When pressed why they were so sure, one said he had a photographic memory.

The officers exchanged knowing smiles and said no more.

No husband, no lover—could a woman of ill repute really be capable of such mass murder? Among the forty-two bodies, many were adult men.

To experienced detectives, this was an almost impossible scenario.

Finally, the police asked one last question:

Where did that woman go afterward?