The Corpse Retriever

When my mother was just two months pregnant with me, my father died. Birth, aging, sickness, and death are all part of life; perhaps one might sigh and say my father passed away quite early. But if I tell you that my father's death was the greatest unsolved mystery of the past twenty years, then surely you would want to hear this story.

To be precise, it was twenty-three years ago.

That year, my father’s skin was found hanging on the crooked willow tree at the entrance to our village. The first person to discover my father’s skin that morning is no longer with us. While he was alive, everyone in the village called him “Simpleton Second.” They said that when he was young, not only was he a decent-looking man, but he was also particularly hardworking—a remarkable young fellow. Every day, he was the first to head out to the fields, and it was precisely due to his diligence that he was the one to find my father's skin.

I have imagined that morning, picturing Simpleton Second with his hoe slung over his shoulder, leaving the village and spotting something hanging from the willow tree. He walked over and took it down, only to find it was the skin of a person, flayed alive.

The thought of that scene alone sends chills down my spine.

For someone who actually experienced it, it’s no wonder Simpleton Second was scared out of his wits.

I never saw the skin myself, but over the years, this incident has been a favorite topic of conversation among the locals. I learned the details from others who were there: whoever skinned my father did s