The Weeping Jade

The heat was a wet blanket that clung to my skin as I stepped off the bus, the air thick with the smell of fried food and exhaust. I was back in the city a week early, a foolish decision in retrospect, driven by the need to get ahead on my thesis. My shared apartment in the sprawling, rundown district near the university was empty, my housemates still at their family homes. The building itself was old, its walls stained with years of monsoon rains, and the corridors always seemed to hold a faint, musty odor. I unlocked the heavy wooden door, stepped into the stale silence, and immediately felt the oppressive weight of the place.

That night, I decided to sleep early, exhausted from the journey. My usual hours were past midnight, but the heat and the silence pushed me to bed around ten. I drifted off quickly, falling into a dream that felt unnervingly real. An old woman, her face deeply lined and her hair pulled into a tight bun, stood before me. She wore a faded blue samfu, and in her hands, she clutched a small jade pendant shaped like a teardrop. She looked at me with an urgency that felt like a cold hand on my chest. ‘Pack your bag,’ she said in Hokkien, her voice thin but commanding. ‘Go to your friend’s house. Do not stay here tonight.’ I woke with a start, my heart thumping. The room was dark, the only light a faint glow from the streetlamp filtering through the window. I checked my phone: 11:32 PM. I felt a strange unease, but I dismissed it as the result of too much spicy food and drifted back to sleep.

The same dream returned, but this time the old woman was visibly angry. Her lips were a thin line, her eyes sharp. She pointed a gnarled finger at me and spoke faster, the Hokkien words tumbling out. ‘You must listen! Go to Mei Ling’s house now! Do not stay! The jade is crying!’ I woke again, gasping, my shirt soaked with sweat. The name Mei Ling rang in my head—my friend from the lab, a quiet girl with a kind smile. Why would she be in my dream? I shook my head, trying to forget, and forced myself to sleep once more.

This time, the dream was different. I was no longer in my bed but standing in the narrow alley behind the apartment block. The old woman was there, her silhouette barely visible in the dim light. She was not looking at me but at the ground, where a small pool of water had formed, and from it came a sound—a soft, weeping, like a child’s cry. She turned to me, her face now streaked with tears, and said, ‘You see? It is here. It has always been here. Do not let it follow you.’ Then she pointed to the window of my room, and I saw a shadow move behind the glass. I screamed and woke up, my body drenched in cold sweat. The clock on my phone read 1:47 AM. The dream had felt more than real—it had felt like a warning.

I decided I had to leave. My hands were shaky as I grabbed my bag and threw in a few essentials: phone charger, wallet, a change of clothes. I didn’t know where Mei Ling lived, but I had her number. I fumbled with my phone, dialing her number, praying she would answer. It rang three times before a sleepy voice answered. ‘Hello? Who is this?’ I apologized and explained, my voice trembling. ‘I’m sorry, Mei Ling. I know it’s late, but can I stay over? I had a terrible dream…’ There was a pause, then she said, ‘Of course. I’ll text you the address. But… how did you know my place? I’ve never told you.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. ‘I don’t know,’ I whispered. ‘It was in the dream.’ A long silence, then she said, ‘Come quickly.’

I dashed out of the apartment, leaving the lights on, and hailed a cab. As I slid into the backseat, I glanced back at the building. In my window, I thought I saw a silhouette—the unmistakable shape of an old woman, her hand pressed against the glass, a single finger tracing a pattern in the condensation. I turned away, my heart racing, and told the driver to hurry. The drive was a blur of neon signs and rain-slicked streets. When I arrived at Mei Ling’s flat, she was waiting at the door, her face pale. She let me in without a word, and I collapsed on her sofa, my breath ragged. She handed me a glass of water and sat across from me, watching me with wide eyes.

‘I had a dream too,’ she said quietly. ‘An old woman, she said to expect you. She said you would bring the jade.’ I stared at her, uncomprehending. ‘I don’t have any jade,’ I said. She looked at me with a strange intensity. ‘The pendant you’re wearing. The one with the teardrop.’ I glanced down, and my blood ran cold. Around my neck, on a thin silver chain, hung a small green pendant shaped like a teardrop. I had never seen it before in my life.

I tore it off, but it stuck to my skin like it was alive. Mei Ling gasped as I held it out—it was warm, almost hot, and it pulsed slightly, as if it had a heartbeat. Then, in the silence of her flat, I heard it: a soft weeping, coming from the pendant itself. The sound grew louder, filling the room, until it was the only thing we could hear. The old woman’s voice echoed from somewhere deep inside it: ‘I have kept you safe. Now you must keep me.’ I dropped it on the table, but it rolled onto the floor and began to move, sliding toward the door, dragging the chain behind it like a tail.

We both leapt up, but the pendant reached the door and stopped, its weeping subsiding to a low hum. Then the door’s lock clicked, and the knob turned slowly, as if someone were opening it from the other side. Mei Ling screamed. I grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the kitchen, where there was a back door. As we fled into the night, I heard the old woman’s voice one last time, from the darkness behind us: ‘You must not let it cry. If it cries, she will come.’

We ran through the rain, not looking back, my hand still clutched around the warmth of the pendant—I had grabbed it without thinking. Now it hung on my wrist, and the weeping had stopped. But I knew it was only dormant, waiting. The old woman had tried to warn me, but I had ignored her. Now, I had become the guardian of the weeping jade, and I had no idea how to stop it. Every time it cries, the shadow in the window grows closer. And I am terrified of what will happen when it finds me.

That was six months ago. I have not returned to my old apartment. The pendant never leaves my side, and I have learned to quiet it with a soft hum, a lullaby my grandmother used to sing. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I feel its warmth pulse against my skin, and I hear the faint, distant weeping—and I know that the old woman is still watching, waiting for me to fail. The jade is not a charm; it is a prison. And I am its new warden.