Long ago, in a quiet village, there lived a woman of extraordinary beauty. But as time passed, youth faded and her once radiant looks began to wane. The loss weighed heavily on her heart, and a shadow of sorrow settled over her spirit.
One day, her husband set off on a long journey for trade, leaving his heavily pregnant wife alone in the house.
Time moved slowly in her solitude. She spent her days embroidering quietly, the needle threading patterns through the fabric with a steady rhythm. Then, one day, the lively shouts of traveling merchants pierced the stillness outside. Curious, she stepped out and saw a small crowd gathered.
Tables were spread with colorful silks, sparkling ornaments, tea leaves, and various goods. But among the array, her eyes were drawn to a single old book lying in the corner of a table. It was not ornate or flashy; the cover was worn, the spine cracked, and the corners bent. Yet the intricate patterns etched into its pages captivated her completely.
She purchased the book and carried it back to her home, feeling a quiet excitement, as if the worn pages held a secret meant just for her.
In the dead of night, after finishing all her chores, the woman spread out the old book beneath the dim flicker of candlelight. Its pages were filled with knowledge of folk remedies—herbs to cure fevers and colds, plants that healed wounds. She read with curiosity until, midway through, a passage startled her so violently that she threw the book far across the room.
Shaking, she pressed her trembling hands against her abdomen, trying to calm both herself and the child within. That very night, she took the book to a nearby grove, dug a deep hole beneath an ancient tree, and buried it there—never to be retrieved again.
As her husband's return drew near, sudden, intense pain gripped her, and labor began. The midwife arrived in haste, doing her best to help the woman deliver safely, yet the house resounded only with endless cries and wails.
Hours passed, the cries finally subsiding, but no child had yet come into the world. The mother grew weak, the midwife anxious. At last, the baby was born, silent and still, three weeks before the expected time.
The room was heavy with exhaustion and relief, and yet, the first sound of life—the newborn's cry—never came.
When the midwife placed the newborn upon his mother's chest, the tiny body had already begun to grow cold, like ice. The woman had no strength even to wipe the tears streaming down her cheeks. Her lips parted as if trying to whisper something—to call a name perhaps—but her throat tightened, and no sound escaped her chest.
In that room, where blood-stained cloths lay piled in disarray and a sour odor clung heavily to the air, the woman placed her lifeless son upon the one clean corner of the quilted floor mat that had not yet been soaked through. She covered the small body gently with a blanket, then lay beside him, gathering him back into her arms.
There she remained for three days, unmoving, holding the child against her as if warmth alone might call him back to life.
On the fourth day, she finally stepped outside, the child wrapped carefully in a white cloth and held close to her chest. The neighbors looked on with quiet pity, and that very day they performed the burial.
A few days later, her husband returned. He sat beside his wife, who stared blankly into space. Along the road he had already heard the sorrowful news. Time passed, and after about a month the woman's health slowly returned. A faint smile began to appear on her face again. Reassured, her husband allowed himself to believe that life might return to normal, and they continued living as before.
But soon afterward, something dreadful began to unfold in the village.
Children were born healthy, their cries filling their homes with hope—yet only a few days later, each one died for reasons no one could explain. Fear spread from house to house. People began whispering that the village had fallen under a curse, and even traveling merchants stopped passing through.
By then, only one young woman in the village remained who was close to giving birth.
One day, when the husband returned home, his wife was nowhere to be found. After searching for a while, he walked into the backyard and saw her there, her back turned to him, digging into the soil as if burying something.
When he called her name, she startled and dropped the shovel.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I was just thinking of planting some vegetables," she replied hastily, brushing the dirt from her hands before hurrying back inside.
It felt a little strange, but he dismissed the thought and said nothing more.
As time passed, his wife's smile grew brighter. She spent more and more time looking at herself in the mirror, studying her reflection with quiet fascination.
Around the time the young woman in the village was nearing childbirth, a violent storm broke over the land. Rain poured without mercy, and soon the river swelled into a flood.
When the husband returned home that day, he found the house half-submerged in water—and his wife gone.
He tried to push the door open to get outside, but something had become lodged against it from the other side. Reaching into the cold water, he felt around until his fingers caught hold of the object and pulled it free.
It was the skeleton of a tiny child, small enough to rest in the palm of his hand.
Startled and horrified, he flung it away—but as he did, more small bones drifted past him in the water.
They were flowing in from the backyard.
Panic seized him. He ran outside and plunged his hands into the flooded yard, clawing frantically through the murky water.
What rose from the mud were not one or two bones—but countless tiny skeletons of children.
He burst out of the house screaming and ran through the village, searching desperately for his wife—but she was nowhere to be found. The villagers soon heard the news and joined the search.
They combed through the fields and paths until, at last, beneath a lone tree, they found her sitting with her back turned to them.
They approached carefully and called out to her.
When she turned—
her mouth was smeared with blood, and in her arms she was feeding upon the newborn child of the young woman who had only just given birth.
The sight froze everyone in place. Then someone shouted in horror, "A demon!"
Panic spread instantly. The villagers seized her and dragged her back to the village. There, before everyone's eyes, they set her on fire.
The woman screamed in agony, her cries piercing the air as the flames consumed her.
Among the crowd stood her husband.
Tears streamed endlessly from his eyes, running down his cheeks and dripping from his chin. He stood motionless, silent, as if all life had drained from him. He could not speak—only his eyes revealed the unbearable grief and torment inside him.
When the flames had finally burned out and only ashes remained, the husband walked slowly to the place where his son had been buried. With trembling hands he dug into the earth and pulled out the small bundle wrapped in straw.
But when he opened it—
there was no body inside.
Only a piece of wood lay where his child should have been.
The shock struck him like a blade. His heart seized, and in that very moment, he collapsed—his life ending beside the empty grave.
Even after the woman had been dead for a year, the village's misfortune did not end. Infants continued to die one after another. Desperate and fearful, the villagers finally decided to summon monks to rid the land of the curse.
An aged monk arrived with seven disciples. After listening to everything, he said calmly,
"This is not a curse. Though the woman died, her spirit has turned into a demon."
Following the traces of its presence, the monks eventually came to the ruins of the woman's burned home. There they sat in a circle and began to chant their scriptures.
At first, the world fell into complete silence. Over the charred remains of the house, only the soft crackle of candle flames could be heard.
But before long, that dead stillness was torn apart.
The heart-rending cries of children filled the air—endless wails of grief and suffering, piercing screams that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The sound did not merely reach the ears; it drove deep into the mind like iron nails, threatening to shatter one's sanity.
Several of the monks could not withstand it. Their eyes rolled back, and they collapsed onto the ground.
In the end, only the old monk and two of his disciples remained seated, unmoving like stone statues.
Thick red blood streamed from their ears, and the world before their eyes blurred into a haze. Yet their lips never stopped moving, whispering sacred mantras without pause.
For three days and three nights they endured the assault of those dreadful sounds and the unseen force behind them, resisting it with every ounce of body and spirit. At last, after a struggle that demanded their very lives, they succeeded in subduing the demon.
It is said that one of the old monk's disciples later built this very temple.