This is from a third-person dream: a young girl, a strange illness, a small mountain village.
The girl, about 10, was loved by everyone. The day she fell ill, she was picking mulberry leaves under the big mulberry tree. Villagers saw her collapse and yelled for her parents, but no one dared get close.
Her illness was bizarre. Blood seeped from her skin without warning, gushing out. A pool of blood formed beneath her, mixing with the dirt. She screamed, digging trenches in the ground, quickly filled with blood. Onlookers, terrified, backed away, unsure if it was a disease or an evil spirit.
Her father was miles away, planting rice. Her mother rushed to the village entrance. The girl was pale and unconscious. It seemed she had bled out completely. The mother pushed through the crowd, knelt in the blood, and cradled her daughter, wailing.
After a few minutes, someone shouted, “Quick! Take her to the hospital! There might still be hope!”
The mother jolted, but felt her daughter move. She thought she was hallucinating, then saw her daughter open her eyes. The girl, covered in blood, only saw her mother’s distorted face and the villagers. Color returned to her face; she looked like she’d just woken up. She asked softly what was wrong, with no memory of the pain.
The mother looked around, but everyone looked terrified. Some pointed, mouths agape. Some ran. Sparks flew off the mother’s body, with arcs of electricity at her joints. But she felt nothing, and her daughter was unharmed. The sparks disappeared, and the daughter, seeing the blood, burst into tears.
Life returned to normal, except for the two sets of blood-stained clothes. Miraculously, the girl’s grandmother, bedridden before, was walking within a month. Villagers called it a blessing after a great ordeal.
The girl would occasionally relapse, each time dying and reviving. People touching her afterward would have sparks fly off them and experience good luck within six months. One adopted an unclaimed cow, another found a long-lost son, and another dug up antiques, selling them for a good price.
The girl became a god-like figure. Villagers called her the “Blessed Child,” treating her with respect, but no longer joking with her. A wealthy businessman built a “Blessing Temple,” with three courtyards and an altar, to repay her blessings. She was carried to the altar whenever she fell ill. Everyone would kneel, waiting for her to wake and touch them, “receiving blessings.” Someone proposed a “Blessing Cult,” with the girl as leader. Her parents became guardians, announcing the ceremony and holding considerable influence. The cult became famous, attracting people from neighboring villages.
At one ceremony, the guardians stood on either side of the altar, followers kneeling. The temple was silent. More followers rushed in, joining the kneeling crowd. After a while, the guardians exchanged worried glances. A stir arose: an elderly woman struggled to stay upright.
Whispers broke out. Followers looked at the altar, then at the guardians. The father whispered, “Leader?” No response. The mother pushed the girl’s arm, and blood overflowed, flowing down the stone.
The girl didn’t wake, and there were no sparks. The followers were in an uproar. Someone shouted, “The leader can’t take the blessings anymore!” The crowd dispersed. The guardians, bewildered, shouted, “The leader hasn’t woken up yet!” but couldn’t stop them.
On the altar, the girl lay curled up, pale. Nail marks on the stone were covered by fresh and dried blood.