The evening was surprisingly cool for an evening in the seventh lunar month, the ceremonial time for wandering ghosts according to an ancient calendar, and there was no sign of wind in the humid air. Three of us passed the vendor who sold half-matured eggs, and were about to turn onto the narrow footpath towards Cam Re passing the army base. The sentry in the guardhouse was examining the colorful lanterns in the distance, and his unfocused eyes spotted us only when we were almost at his feet. Everywhere were clouds of incense smoke. Illuminated by the red, yellow and blue lanterns, the clouds shifted in color. Shops laid out magnificent banquets on their doorsteps between the shutters. Private houses prepared relatively modest, but equally impressive, tabernacles of offering in their front courtyards. As we were passing, some impatient people were already kowtowing in our direction with thick bundles of fuming incense sticks raised to their foreheads. Some did it in silence, others with audible poems of invitation.

Leaving this blissful theatre of commemoration behind, the three of us stepped into the dark cemetery area behind the army base. No one else was around along this footpath on this unsettling evening. Walking in Indian file, we discussed the plot once again. In our previous meetings, we had agreed that each of us should ask one unorthodox question, either to the ancient deity Sharpshooter (Nghe Chien Xa) or to the young goddess Impartial Heaven.