In the heart of San Francisco’s bustling Chinatown, a father ran a cozy but renowned teahouse. He had two sons: the elder, Li, was astute and practical, adept at brewing the finest teas, while the younger, Chen, was ever-curious but had a peculiar obsession: he longed to experience the sensation of fear. Whenever locals spoke of chilling tales, Chen would invariably muse aloud, “I wish I could shudder.”

One evening, as the last of the patrons departed and lanterns illuminated the streets, the father, exasperated, said, “Chen, it’s time you learned a trade. Your brother has mastered tea brewing. What will be your legacy?”

Chen, stirring a cup pensively, replied, “Father, more than anything, I wish to learn what fear feels like. I've never shuddered, not once!”

Li chuckled, “Brother, there are more pressing matters than chasing chills!”

The father sighed. Just then, old Mr. Wong, the town’s historian, overheard. “If it’s shuddering you seek,” he began, leaning on his cane, “there’s an abandoned mansion at the edge of Chinatown. Those who’ve dared spend three nights there have never returned the same.”

Chen's eyes lit up. “I’ll do it! If I learn to shudder, perhaps I’ll find my calling.”

The next night, equipped with just a lantern and his unwavering determination, Chen ventured to the decrepit mansion. The wind howled, making the lantern's flame dance, and echoing through the vast chambers were the whispers of ancient legends. In the main hall, Chen set a makeshift camp.

Midnight approached. Suddenly, a spectral game of mahjong began on the ornate table in front of him, with ghostly hands moving tiles. “Mind if I join?” Chen quipped, feigning confidence. The ghosts paused, then gestured for him to play. Hours seemed like minutes, but when the rooster crowed, the apparitions vanished, leaving Chen alone, still not having shuddered.

On the second night, Chen heard distant operatic notes. Following the sound, he discovered ethereal performers enacting a ghostly Beijing opera. The spirits, seeing Chen, beckoned him to participate. With gusto, he sang and danced, losing himself in the performance. Yet, as dawn broke, the phantoms disappeared, and Chen, though exhilarated, hadn't shuddered.

The third night, the ground trembled as a massive dragon, made of mist and moonlight, spiraled around Chen, its eyes piercing the very essence of his soul. “Why seek the shudder?” it boomed.

“To find my purpose,” Chen replied, voice unwavering.

The dragon, intrigued, conversed with Chen until dawn, discussing life, fear, and purpose. As the first sun rays pierced the mansion, the dragon faded, leaving Chen in profound thought.

Returning to the teahouse, Chen realized his true calling: storytelling. He regaled patrons with tales of his nights, the ghostly mahjong game, the ethereal opera, and his discourse with the dragon. The teahouse, under Li's management, flourished as the finest brews were paired with Chen's enchanting tales.

Yet, despite his newfound fame, Chen would sometimes whisper to his wife late at night, “I still haven’t truly shuddered.”

One winter night, his mischievous wife, recalling an old prank, fetched a bucket of icy water and splashed it on Chen as he slept. He jolted awake, exclaiming, “That’s it! I’ve shuddered!” The two laughed heartily, their laughter echoing through the teahouse, blending with the tales of old and the aroma of brewed tea.

Copyright © 2023 by Paul Henry Smith

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