The Cry in the Night and a Lesson on Presence

**Summary:** The story of a brave researcher haunted in Beijing and a nun’s account of the silent presence of the departed, through which Venerable Thích Chân Quang explains the connection between the two realms.

The fluorescent light in the Beijing dormitory room cast cold streaks across the silent space of the late night. A gentle wind whispered outside the window like someone trying to stifle a sigh. In that small room, a woman’s figure sat huddled on the edge of the bed, her trembling hands clasped tightly around a mobile phone. This was Lan, a graduate student in Traditional Chinese Medicine, who was once known for her stubborn bravery, never fearing heaven or earth.

But at that moment, her voice over the phone line to Vietnam broke into utter horror: “Master, please help me! A ghost… a ghost has appeared in my room. It’s not a dream, Master. It stands right before me, clearly visible day and night. I dare not move. I don’t know where to go.”

Lan was an intelligent doctoral student, determined to follow her family’s tradition of Traditional Chinese Medicine. She once took pride in her ability to face any academic pressure and any difficulty in a foreign land. Yet, that unseen presence shattered her iron will. The helplessness of being unable to change rooms, unable to flee, and especially the profound loneliness in a distant city caused her spirit to collapse entirely.

Lan’s story reminds us of another memory, also involving the presence of the unseen world, recounted by a young nun from Phat Quang Pagoda. That year, during the Vu Lan festival, the nun and some lay followers went to attend a ceremony at Phuc An Vien Cemetery. The preparations stretched late into the night. When the clock struck exactly midnight, everyone was exhausted, and the nun returned to her room to rest for a moment.

Darkness filled the room, with only faint moonlight filtering through the curtain gap. The nun had just closed her eyes when she heard a soft creak. The room door slowly opened. A woman’s figure stepped in, her long hair hiding her face, her slender form in a pale white dress. By reflex, the nun thought to herself: “It must be a young lay follower who’s worked late, or perhaps someone from the group wanting to ask about the tasks.”

The nun asked softly: “It’s so late, why aren’t you resting? Where are you going?”

The figure did not respond. There was no greeting, no answer. She silently turned, walked out of the room, and closed the door. The lock clicked dryly, echoing in the quiet night. The nun felt it was strange, but she was too tired and drifted into deep sleep.

The next morning, upon waking, the nun suddenly recalled the previous night’s event. She hurriedly asked her fellow nuns: “Last night, around midnight, did any lay follower come into my room? I thought it might be someone returning late.”

Everyone looked at each other in surprise and shook their heads: “No, Sister. We had all been asleep long before that. No one woke up or went outside.”

Their firm denial sent a chill down the nun’s spine. If it wasn’t a living person, then who had entered her room, silent and then departed? The question hung in the air, carrying a vague yet deeply reflective sense of fear.

Returning to Lan’s story in Beijing, Venerable Thích Chân Quang listened and gently reassured her: “Do not be afraid. What you saw, and what happened to the nun in the past, is actually a manifestation of another world—the world of the departed. They still exist, they still see us, but we cannot see them. That is the tragedy of the division between the realms of yin and yang.”

He explained that the departed often wish to make their presence known. Unable to communicate directly through words, they affect physical matter: knocking over a glass of water, opening a door, creating footsteps. These actions unintentionally cause fear in the living. And it is this very fear that pushes the two worlds further apart. The departed suffer from being despised, while the living panic from not understanding the true nature of the situation.

“They are people too,” he emphasized. “They once had lives, had emotions, and they need love. Do not treat them as monsters. Use compassion to dissolve the conflict.”

According to his teachings, instead of seeking amulets or inviting masters to exorcise spirits—which only complicates matters by attracting other negative energies—the living should focus on two core practices: offering meals to soothe their spiritual hunger, and chanting sutras to guide them, elevating their awareness and helping them transform their karmic obstructions. When the hearts of the departed are imbued with positive teachings, they will gently depart, seeking a more peaceful place, and the relationship between the two realms will become harmonious, reducing needless fears.

**Meaning of the Story** This story reminds us that the world of the departed and the world of the living, though separate, are always intimately connected. Fear arises from ignorance. Instead of rejecting or suppressing, we should treat the deceased with compassion, respect, and wholesome methods such as making offerings and chanting sutras. Only through understanding and love can we resolve invisible conflicts and bring peace to both realms.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thích Chân Quang