Lotus Alley lay silent under the mid-July moon, the night air thick with incense and the distant clang of ghost-money burners. Every year, on the fifteenth day of the Hungry Ghost Month, the old residents of Pingxing Town nailed red paper to their doors and placed bowls of cold rice on the windowsills—payment for the wandering dead. No one stayed out after the third watch, for it was said that any man who crossed the alley alone might meet the Paper Bride.
Chen Wei, a twenty-four-year-old photographer from Shanghai, laughed at the superstition. He had come to “document fading folk customs,” but what he really wanted was a viral series for his online portfolio. At half-past eleven he stepped into the alley, LED panel lighting the cracked plaster walls. The paper talismans fluttered like nervous birds.
Halfway down he saw her: a figure in an antique bridal gown, scarlet veil stitched with gold thread. She stood motionless, face hidden, one pale hand beckoning. Chen’s pulse spiked—perfect content. He raised his camera.
The shutter clicked. Flash.
Through the lens the alley was empty.
He lowered the camera. She was there again, three steps closer, veil now translucent, embroidered phoenixes writhing like living fire. A smell of wet earth and old make-up flooded his nose. His viewfinder showed only black, yet his naked eyes saw silk rustling, saw the hem of her gown drip water onto the stones though the sky was clear.
“Another trick of moonlight,” he whispered, but his voice cracked. He backed away. Behind him the alley entrance was gone; the passage had become an endless corridor of red doors, each numbered in fading white: 1, 2, 3… counting down. Somewhere a match struck; the numbers began to burn.
The Bride lifted her veil.
There was no face—only a sheet of rice-paper, blank except for two eye-holes torn raggedly in the centre. From the holes oozed ink that crawled across the paper like ants, forming characters Chen almost recognised: his name, his birth date, and beside them a single vertical phrase—婚书 (marriage contract).
He ran. Every footstep landed on paper, not stone; the ground was a mosaic of crimson envelopes, each sealed with black wax. They opened as he sprinted, releasing whispers: “Stay… stay…” Cold fingers brushed his ankle. He stumbled, camera flying, shattering. The LED panel died, yet the alley brightened. The Paper Bride hovered inches away, ink-eyes weeping strokes that turned into red threads. They wound around his wrists, pulling his hands together in a ceremonial bow.
Memory flooded him—an old village tale his grandmother once murmured: girls drowned in the Ming dynasty to feed river spirits, wrapped in wedding clothes so the gods would mistake them for willing brides. The spirits grew lonely, began to choose living grooms.
Chen felt the threads tighten, sealing his fate with each loop. The red doors burst open. Behind every one stood a veiled bride, faces blank paper, ink eyes shining. In unison they lifted their arms, revealing mirrors instead of hearts. In each mirror he saw himself—older, paler, wearing a groom’s black robe, paper skin stretched over his own.
“One night every year,” the brides chorused, voices rustling like turning pages. “One groom forever.”
The alley snapped shut like a book.
Morning found Lotus Alley quiet, red talismans intact. Tourists arrived, cameras ready, but no one noticed the fresh sheet of paper wedged between stones—thin, life-sized, bearing a perfect photograph of Chen Wei, eyes wide, mouth open mid-scream. When the wind lifted, the paper fluttered, as if trying to speak.
Locals say if you visit during the Ghost Month and listen at midnight, you can hear the rustle of silk and the click of a shutter that never stops.