Bi Ming

Benny B.M. · Thriller Author

The more I wanted to write it, the less I dared. At last, the right opportunity came—and I wrote the story I had most longed to turn into a book throughout my career.

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張草 · Taiwanese Novelist Known for His Inventive Fiction

“Searching for Vengeful Spirits in the Threads of History”

There is a distinctive realm within Japanese culture that Japanese people may take for granted, but which strikes us as extraordinary: vengeful spirits.

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The ghosts of the Heike clan who haunt Hōichi, and Okiku, endlessly counting plates, are deeply rooted in the popular imagination. Their prominence may owe something to the dramatic portrayals of popular theatre during the Edo period. These spirits have not only appeared repeatedly in fiction; artists have also devoted paintings to them that survive to this day.

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Perhaps vengeful spirits command our attention because resentment itself is so powerful. Or perhaps the negative energy of hatred resonates particularly easily with us.

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Anyone working in journalism knows that bad news attracts more readers than good news, making reports of misfortune more common than accounts of happiness. Perhaps, too, our ignorance and tendency to cling to things allow resentment to endure without end, its influence persisting even through reincarnation.

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History inevitably brings war. War inevitably brings killing. And amid the killing, humanity is often lost.

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Terrible massacres leave behind immense resentment, becoming a burden of memory borne by the names of places: the bombing of Dresden during the Second World War, the Nanjing Massacre, the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. Each event is inseparable from the place where it occurred.

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Perhaps these places, too, are filled with vengeful spirits—those unwilling to accept such sudden, painful deaths, who missed their opportunity to be reborn.

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Many writers draw upon the painful histories of their homelands. Mainland Chinese writers explore the Cultural Revolution; Malaysian Chinese writers portray their towns and communities; European writers revisit the Second World War.

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As a Hong Kong writer, Benny B.M. brings the city’s dark, spirit-haunted history into supernatural thrillers. This gives the genre greater depth while helping readers who never lived through those terrible years understand why older Hong Kong people still speak of the invaders of that era through gritted teeth.

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Those older residents are gradually passing away, and their terrifying memories are disappearing with them. But history must not be forgotten—especially the history of how human beings brutalise their own kind in wartime.

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I hope Benny’s work encourages younger readers to take an interest in these histories.

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徐振邦 · Hong Kong Cultural Researcher and Author

“The Story… Begins in Wan Chai”

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June was impossibly busy. Almost every day, I worked from morning until late at night.

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In the middle of that relentless workload, Benny called and invited me to walk around Wan Chai. With so much to do, I was reluctant to go. But his invitation was so heartfelt that I agreed.

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“A little fresh air and a chance to stretch my legs would do me good,” I thought.

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Benny wanted to explore the district’s past and its surviving traces, hoping to find inspiration for a new book. I was happy to accompany him. We wandered through streets and alleys, turning this way and that, while he told me stories of Wan Chai. It was fascinating.

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“This was the 千歲花壇… There used to be a military ‘comfort station’ here… This was where writers and cultural figures hid… Japanese troops were stationed here…”

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He spoke with such animation that I felt transported into those scenes. One episode of wartime history after another unfolded vividly before me.

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But Wan Chai is crowded with traffic and people. A leisurely stroll is not always easy. Noticing my impatience, Benny kindly changed our route.

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“I’d like to visit a few old friends. We can have a rest there, too.”

At the words “have a rest”, I immediately quickened my pace and even urged him to hurry.

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We followed the tram tracks and turned a few corners. Suddenly, Benny stopped.

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“Here we are.”

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“This is…” I looked up. “What is this place?”

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“Hong Kong Cemetery.”

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“A cemetery?” I asked. “I thought you were visiting friends?”

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“I am. Don’t be afraid. Follow me.”

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Without waiting for an answer, he strode through the entrance.

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I steeled myself and followed.

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The cemetery was quiet, but far less desolate than I had imagined. There was a peaceful beauty to it. We walked uphill, passing through one section after another, until we reached the highest part.

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The graves here were distinctive, quite unlike those we had passed earlier.

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“This is the Japanese section,” Benny said. “A few friends of mine rest here.”

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“Is that so?” I tried to sound composed. “Take your time. I’ll rest over there.”

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In a corner of the burial ground stood a stone monument shaped like a pillar, bearing three characters: 萬靈塔—“Tower of All Spirits”.

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At its base lay a battered notebook. Curious, I picked it up and turned a few pages. There were hand-drawn maps and passages of writing, all in Japanese.

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Unable to understand them, I put the notebook back and found somewhere to sit.

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As I browsed my phone, looking up the things Benny had told me, a piece of information appeared on the screen. I was absorbed in it when he came over.

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“That is the Chinese translation of the ‘Dark History’.”

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“The ‘Dark History’?”

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“The original material has been lost. This is the Chinese translation that still circulates. Its contents may not be genuine.”

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He took out his folder and pointed to a picture.

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“This is the original document. It contains first-hand records of the Japanese invasion of China.”

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“A notebook?”

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“Yes. There were supposedly maps, too, but the Chinese translation contains no record of them.”

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“There are maps. Five of them.”

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“Five?”

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I pointed towards the Tower of All Spirits.

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“The notebook is right there, beneath the monument…”

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“Beneath it?”

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“Where has it gone? Just now…”

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Benny smiled, patted my shoulder and motioned for us to leave.

“Enough joking. Come on. There’s a café nearby famous for its pineapple buns with butter and hot milk tea.”

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“But just now… that…”

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“The notebook?”

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I nodded.

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“There’s a story that the ‘Dark History’ reveals itself only to those destined to find it,” he said. “If the original ever reappeared, it could reshape our understanding of the past.”

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I turned back towards the monument.

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An old man stood there holding the notebook, waving goodbye to me.

I screamed—and collapsed.

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I opened my eyes and found myself at home.

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I had fallen asleep at my desk and slipped off my chair.

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Then my mobile rang. Benny’s name appeared on the screen.

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“Hello? Benny?”

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“Yes. Fancy going out for a walk?”

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“Yes! I want to find the ‘Dark History’.”

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“What ‘Dark History’?”

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“The war… three years and eight months… Wan Chai…” I stammered.

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Benny laughed.

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“How did you know my new book was about the Japanese occupation of Hong Kong?”

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“Your new book?”

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“Yes. 《駱克道》—Lockhart Road: The Blood Pact. It has just come back from the printers. Come on, we can talk when we meet. There’s a café nearby famous for its pineapple buns with butter and hot milk tea…”