This is the first entry in a series cataloguing the creatures that share our world. The author has spent seventeen years collecting accounts from villages, monasteries, and imperial archives. Some names have been withheld. Some places should not be visited.

Classification: Corporeal Revenant Threat Level: Variable (Class II–Class V) Preferred Habitat: Remote mountain roads, unsealed burial sites, underground chambers Signs of Presence: White fur on the coffin lid, claw marks on doors, the smell of old ginger

The word jiangshi (僵尸) translates directly to “stiff corpse,” but the term captures none of the terror. In the West, they call them Chinese hopping vampires—a description that makes them sound almost comical, bouncing through the night like toys wound too tight. The reports I have collected over seventeen years suggest otherwise.

I will describe what I have verified.

The Stiffening

All accounts agree: the jiangshi is not created, but revealed. The corpse was a person once. The stiffening begins three to six weeks after burial, if the conditions are right. The limbs lock at the joints—elbows, knees, fingers, every hinge in the human frame fusing into fixed positions. The fingernails continue growing past death. The hair grows. The skin tightens against the skull until the face becomes a mask with no expression left in it.

The cause is debated. Village elders say the corpse absorbed too much yin energy from the earth—the wrong burial date, the wrong soil composition, a cat that crossed the grave at the wrong hour. Taoist priests say the corpse’s soul failed to depart, trapped by unfinished business or improper rites. My own research suggests a third explanation, one I have kept out of my published work: something enters the body after death. Not the original soul. Something else, drawn by the stillness.

Locomotion

The hopping gait is real. I have seen it.

A jiangshi cannot bend its limbs. The joints are locked, the muscles rigid. To move, it must spring—both feet together, arms extended forward, the entire body vaulting through the air like a frog straightening its legs. One leap can cover ten to fifteen feet. A well-developed specimen can outrun a horse over short distances.

The arms extend forward because the corpse is following a specific signal. Jiangshi track living breath. The outstretched arms are sensors—the skin of the palms and fingertips, exposed to the air, reads the direction of the warmest current. They do not see. The eyes are filmed over, clouded, worthless. They hunt by temperature gradient.

If you find yourself on a mountain road at night and hear a rhythmic thumping behind you—not footsteps, something heavier, the sound of a sack of rice being dropped and then dropped again—do not look back. Do not stop. Find moving water. Jiangshi cannot cross running water. No one knows why.

The Ranks

I have classified jiangshi into five grades, based on skin color and behavior.

White Jiangshi (Class I). The earliest stage. The corpse is still recognizably human. The skin is pale, waxy, with patches of white fur or mold on the shoulders and crown. These are slow. A fit person can outwalk one. The danger is not the kill—it is the scratch. The nails carry rot. Even a graze will blacken the wound within hours.

Black Jiangshi (Class II). The skin darkens as the corpse dries out. The internal fluids evaporate, leaving the muscles tough and stringy. The fingernails reach three to four inches—curved, yellowed, thick as horn. Black jiangshi are the most common type reported in southern provinces. They are drawn to the sound of living voices. I have witnessed one track a conversation from over a li away.

Green Jiangshi (Class III). A layer of moss or fungus covers the body, giving it a greenish sheen. These are found only in humid environments—southern caves, flooded tombs, the bottom of old wells. The fungus acts as a secondary nervous system. It can feel vibration through the ground. A green jiangshi knows where you are standing before you take your second step.

Red Jiangshi (Class IV). The corpse has absorbed enough yang energy to develop rudimentary intelligence. It no longer hops—it walks, stiff-legged but coordinated. It can open doors. It can remember. Red jiangshi are associated with blood curses, vengeful deaths, and improper burial practices. I have found only four verified cases in my seventeen years. Three of the witnesses are dead.

Yellow Jiangshi (Class V). Also called the Emperor’s Plague or the Flying Corpse. The skin turns a pale amber, translucent, like old honey. The nails are black and the hair hangs to the waist. These are the rarest and the most dangerous. They are said to have developed the ability to fly—not in the sense of wings, but a kind of levitation, rising several feet off the ground and moving through the air. A yellow jiangshi can drain a man’s life in the time it takes to draw a single breath. The accounts I have collected from monks who claim to have faced one are sparse and contradictory. Most of the writers did not survive long enough to finish their reports.

Countermeasures

I list these with reluctance. Knowing the method is not the same as surviving the encounter.

Talismans. The yellow paper charm inscribed with cinnabar ink is not a myth. The ink must be mixed with real cinnabar—ground to a specific grain size, applied at the correct phase of the moon. The characters must be written by someone who has fasted for three days. A properly prepared talisman applied to the jiangshi’s forehead arrests the body’s internal circulation. The corpse freezes. Immobilized but not dead. It will stay that way until the talisman is removed or rots away.

Sticky Rice. Broadcast handfuls of uncooked sticky rice across the path between you and the jiangshi. The grains absorb the moisture from the air and confuse the corpse’s tracking. The effect is temporary—the rice will be crushed under the hopping gait within minutes—but those minutes may be enough.

Peach Wood. A stake through the heart, carved from a peach tree that grew on the south side of a hill. The peach is a yang wood. It disperses the accumulated yin energy that animates the corpse. I have seen a single well-placed peach-wood stake drop a Class III in under a minute.

Fire. The body is dry. The internal organs have desiccated. A Class I or II will ignite within seconds of contact with open flame. Above Class II, the corpse’s hide becomes fire-resistant. A red jiangshi can walk through a burning building without slowing.

Running Water. Already mentioned. The jiangshi cannot cross it. The reason is unknown, but the effect is absolute. A stream a hand’s width across is enough.

A Warning

The jiangshi described in these pages is not supernatural. I have come to believe that it follows a set of rules as rigid as any physical law—rules we do not yet fully understand. The corpse is not possessed. It is not cursed. It is occupied. Something is using it the way a hermit crab uses a shell.

The shell degrades over time. The jiangshi’s body will eventually rot beyond usability. When that happens, the occupant leaves. The question I have not answered—the question I may never answer—is what it leaves to find.

I am collecting data. If you encounter a jiangshi and survive, please contact me through the publisher. Describe the color of the skin. The nature of the terrain. The phase of the moon. Every detail matters.

Stay away from unmarked graves. Stay off mountain roads after midnight. And if your grandmother warns you to never bury the dead on a day with a double-yin hour, listen to her.

She may not know why. But the knowledge is still true.