The supernatural has long been a prominent feature of Chinese culture and folklore， from the infamous annual Hungry Ghost Festival to Pu Songling’s Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio， an arcane anthology of 491 chilling tales long regarded as the best of Chinese short-story writing.
　　But what of the more earthly mysteries that befuddle modern minds？ How to explain the spooky disappearances and unexplained ancient objects that still defy explanation from scientists and historians alike？ Was that a woodland ghost that just went bump in the night， or the legendary “wild man” of central China？
　　Here we present three famous myths that have persisted into the modern age， examining the lore behind each—and asking which， if any， of these legends are true. So draw the curtains， light some candles， and prepare to shed some light on China’s greatest mysteries.
　　神秘追蹤：神农架的野人传说，消失的楼兰古国，和中国的“百慕大”
　　Where the Wild Things Are
　　In one of China’s least populated forests， legends of a yeti-like “wild man” live on
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　　ild Man， come out and reveal yourself to us！” Mr. Li bellowed into the quiet forests of Tianmen Mountain， located in Hubei province’s massive Shennongjia National Park. He turned and smiled mischievously. “Be ready with your camera，” he instructed. “If we get a photograph， we can sell it for 5 million RMB.”
　　Our destination was a cave where， according to local lore， the legendary yeren （野人）—a two-meter tall， red-furred “wild man，” sometimes referred to as China’s Bigfoot—used to live. Our guides from the forestry district office， Mr. Li and Fu Rao， had never trekked to this remote location before， so had little idea of what to expect. The cave itself—with its hidden crannies， 30-meter ceiling， and panorama view of the mountains below—turned out to be worth the hike， but there was no sign of its alleged former inhabitants.
　　Although less internationally famous than the North American sasquatch or its Himalayan cousin， the yeti or Abominable Snowman， Shennongjia’s yeren has captured local imaginations： Xinhua conservatively estimates the number of yeren sightings at around 400， though some say it’s well into the thousands—a testament， perhaps， to the millennia-old mythology of the yeren’s existence.
　　Shennongjia’s isolated and mostly untouched karst mountain forests have long been a source of fascination—the yeren is mentioned as far back as the Warring States period in poet Qu Yuan’s “Mountain Spirit.” Fossil evidence suggests the area was once home to a prehistoric giant ape that stood as tall as three meters. Nowadays， the remote region is renowned for rare and endangered animals， like the clouded leopard and golden snub-nosed monkey， which helped it gain UNESCO World Heritage status 　　in 2016.
　　Yet the most elusive of these creatures， the yeren， is arguably the one that provided the biggest boost to the local economy， with “wild man” tourism bringing a welcome revenue to these isolated parts. There has been some rush to cash in （there is even a brand of hiking boot called Yeren）， along with a few small attractions， but Shennongjia bucks the tourist trend of cynical sites staffed by perfunctory disbelievers. Among its hamlets， modernity has not yet penetrated timeless beliefs in the supernatural.
　　Instead， one encounters a nuanced relationship between humans and nature， science and the search for the yet-unknown. Although larger than the state of Rhode Island， Shennongjia has only 80，000 residents scattered among its three townships and small highways. Many locals seem ready to believe in the yeren because， surrounded by unutterable beauty every day， it’s easy to believe in nature and all its mystery.
　　At Songbai Township’s Natural History Museum， 23-year-old local Wang Yuling offers a personal tour. Besides a mother and her toddler， we were the only visitors. “This is our off-season，” Wang explained. “During the summer， we can have upwards of 1，000 people per day visiting.” Many of them come just to see the museum’s infamous “Wild Man Room.” The highlight is a life-size model of a female yeren， whose furry features resemble a Neanderthal from science textbooks rather than popular depictions of Bigfoot.
　　There are also illustrated posters， in both English and Chinese， relating some of the most exciting recent encounters with the yeren： farmer Xiao Ren， who accidentally encountered two yeren copulating in 1993; hunter Cai Yuetian， who claims to have been abducted by a female yeren， who then killed a tiger to protect her new “husband”; and the time that Kuomintang troops caught and executed a yeren in 1942.
　　“There is bound to be one，” surmised Wang， after looking at the museum’s evidence， which included fossilized yeren footprints. It was a sentiment that was repeated frequently during TWOC’s visit， with varying degrees of certainty： Some substituted the surefire “肯定有” with the more diplomatic “可能有 [there might be]，” but no one expressed any doubt that something unknown lived in these misty peaks.
　　Skeptics suggest this is simply a scheme to boost interest in the national park. Paleontologist Zhou Guoxing， former director of Beijing’s Natural History Museum， is one. In 2012， Zhou published a disbeliever’s manifesto， “Fifty Years of Tracking the Chinese Wild Man，” declaring he had found no evidence of the yeren’s existence in all his decades of research， field studies， and interviews; most eyewitnesses could not even agree on the description of the creature they saw. 　　If the purpose of promoting the yeren’s existence is simply exploitation， though， the locals seem slow to take advantage. The unashamed cash-in trade， ubiquitous at so many Chinese sites， is largely absent; there are no Bigfoot toys （though one can buy a stuffed panda or snub-nosed monkey）， no Bigfoot exploration coach tours， nor theme parks， other than a few museums （free with entrance to the park）， with one offering a “haunted maze” filled with lurking wild men and loudspeakers emitting bestial shrieks; for 10 RMB， one can pose with a man in a yeren suit.
　　Researchers， though， have generally taken the subject seriously （even if it’s to disprove a sighting）， perhaps because so many of the sightings have come from supposedly reliable sources， from soldiers to party members， rather than uneducated peasants. Even government engineers have glimpsed one： A placard alongside the Tianyan Scenic Area marks the spot where a dozen specialists from the Ministry of Railways reportedly encountered a yeren while visiting in 1993.
　　Adding to the credibility is the Chinese Academy of Sciences （CAS）， the country’s top science institution， which launched the only state-backed expedition to investigate the rumors in 1977， after a local deputy director， Chen Liansheng， claimed that he and several colleagues had spotted a beast （“covered in red fur…face human-like， with upright ears and a protruding mouth”） blocking the road while returning from a conference early one May morning. The expedition was ultimately inconclusive， and was perhaps doomed to failure， as much of the search was conducted during daylight hours by large， noisy groups.
　　If the example of the Tibetan yeti is any indication， though， deeper scrutiny usually brings disappointment for monster-lovers. The upright Himalayan biped called the metoh-kangi in the local language， or “man-bear snowman，” has captured the public imagination ever since British explorer Charles Howard-Bury reported seeing one crossing a glacier in 1921. Most recent scientific explanations， though， state that all the physical evidence， and therefore sightings， points to two species of indigenous bear.
　　Zhou， the Beijing paleontologist， also believes that the “strange footprints” found around Shennongjia most likely belonged to a bear. In his 2012 paper， he dismisses hair samples as belonging either to a wild boar or a human hoaxer.
　　At the area museums， much of the discussion about the yeren is couched in academic terms. While the Natural History Museum at Songbai takes an anthropological view， exhibiting oral histories of the legend， exhibits on Guanmen Mountain and Tianmen Mountain delve deep into the science， with the latter claiming to “seek the missing link in the process of evolution.” 　　For the new Natural History Museum at Guanmen Mountain， an introduction to infamous yeren is a means to promote the diverse flora and fauna of the region. With over 3，700 unique species of plants and 4，300 different types of insects， Shennongjia is home to various protected species， as well as an unusually large number of albino animals （sometimes credited for the tufts of yeren “fur” found by locals）. The museum urges visitors to explore the forests further， claiming that there are still many discoveries yet to be made， a message that likely resonates with pragmatic officials and amateur enthusiasts alike.
　　Science lessons aside， there is an almost whimsical nature to the yeren that’s presented to tourists. The gate at Guanmen Mountain， made up of miniature metal cut-outs of the hominid， features a 10-meter-tall statue of a female yeren giving her infant a kiss—tarry a while， and the gatekeeper may even surprise you by pulling a hidden lever that makes the baby yeren “urinate” leftover rainwater， giving any vehicles underneath an impromptu wash.
　　These fanciful portrayals are amplified by the magic of Shennongjia forest， where traces of civilization are few and far between， and mountain roads perilously wind around dizzying cliffs， corroded rock faces， and roaring waterways.  “Have you looked around at our forests？” I overheard a visitor asking her companions at dinner. “If a yeren could be anywhere in China， it would be here.”
　　The logic of this argument has resonated with many who have made it their life mission to discover the yeren. An independently funded， volunteer-run “Hubei Wild Man Research Association” organized expeditions in 2010， which proved as inconclusive as the CAS one. Perhaps most famously， an amateur explorer named Zhang Jinxing spent over two decades living in Shennongjia as a hermit， vowing to keep growing his beard until he was successful in finding Hubei’s Bigfoot.
　　But the Shanxi native recently left the forest mysteriously， closing down his private yeren museum. “It is quite a pity，” our guide， Fu Rao， noted. “He spent so many years dedicated to Shennongjia， researching the yeren， yet he was never able to realize his life dream of seeing one for himself.” What had happened to Zhang？ Some reports claim he only ever found hairs， feces， and footprints.
　　In 2016， though， Zhang told the Global Times that he had in fact encountered yeren several times in the wilderness， but was hesitant to share his so-called discovery with the world. “Once I make it known，” he asked， somewhat theatrically， “will the yeren still be able to live freely and peacefully？” – Emily Conrad 　　Riddle of the
　　Sands
　　The discovery of an ancient vanished civilization on the far reaches of China’s Silk Road raises as many questions as it answers
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　　here is a beauty in the North， matchless and unmatched; one glance from her felled a city， another glance felled a kingdom” goes “The Beauty Song，” a famous Han dynasty （206 BCE – 220 CE） ballad composed by court musician Li Yannian in the second century BCE.
　　Li， though， seemed to have gotten his location wrong. It was in China’s remote west that， in 1900， the ruins of a kingdom were discovered by Swedish explorer Sven Hedin in the desert—complete with Han-era artifacts， all the signs of a sudden collapse， and even a famous “beauty.”
　　As Hedin writes in his memoir， My Life as an Explorer， the discovery was a total accident. Since the 19th century， explorers had been traveling to present-day Xinjiang， in search of an immense former salt lake described in Chinese historical records， and a lakeside Silk Road trading post called Loulan （樓兰）. When Hedin’s Uyghur guide， Oerdek， loses his way while searching for a shovel， he stumbles upon evidence of buried dwellings and a former stupa （Buddhist shrine）. “No explorer had an inkling， hitherto， of the existence of this ancient city，” Hedin recalled. “Here I stand， like the prince in the enchanted wood， having wakened to new life of the city which has slumbered for a thousand years.”
　　After a second excavation in 1901， Hedin announced his discovery to the world as the lost Loulan， a kingdom first mentioned in the Han Records of the Grand Historian. Known as Kr?ran， or Kroraina， in the Kharosthi script of this region， Loulan was described as one of the states conquered by the Han’s arch-nemesis， the Xiongnu， in 126 BCE. It wasn’t long before the central empire decided to seize the oasis kingdom for themselves： Loulan had a prime location at the junction of the Silk Road’s northern and southern routes， and a third road that led straight to the Han capital at Chang’an.
　　For the next 30 years， the Han and Xiongnu struggled over control of Loulan， before it finally became a vassal state of the former， known as the Shanshan， though it retained de facto independence for most of the century afterwards. According to the Book of Han， the kingdom was located in an oasis by the lake， Lop Nor （“Vast Lake”）， and “produces jade， with an abundance of reeds， rose willow， poplars， and white grass. Residents raise livestock and forage aquatic plants. There are donkeys， horses， and many camels.” These Arcadian visions came to an end in the sixth century CE， when Loulan totally vanished from the record. Buddhist pilgrim Xuanzang， returning from India via this region in 644， saw only an eerie ruin： “A fortress exists， but not a trace of Man.” 　　Such are the bare facts of the story. Almost nothing is known， though， about the actual people who inhabited this kingdom， where they came from， and why they vanished so quickly and utterly.
　　Loulan is as desolate today as when Xuanzang found its remains. Visitors are not allowed at the ruins; researchers who obtain special permission to go must drive 250 kilometers from Ruoqiang， the nearest county seat， to Lop Nor， and then go off-road into total desert. In modern times， the lonely location has become the setting of many uncanny tales. China used to test nuclear weapons at the spot， and the basin perfectly resembles a human ear in satellite images. The area has also become notorious for strange disappearances： It is the last known location of， among other things： two buses; an aircraft that vanished en route from Chongqing to Urumqi in 1949 （it was discovered， nearly a decade later， almost 180 degrees off its charted course）; a PLA officer， whose remains were eventually found 100 kilometers away; and Peng Jiamu， a senior Chinese Academy of Sciences researcher who went looking for water during an expedition in 1980 and was never seen again.
　　The desert has slowly given up some of its secrets over the years， though often these clues raise more questions than they answer. Hedin， like his colleague and successor Aurel Stein， reported coming across the occasional desiccated body in the dunes during his visits. Over 200 of these so-called “Tarim mummies” have since been unearthed， dating from the Bronze Age to 200 BCE. The oldest， nicknamed the “Beauty of Loulan，” was discovered by a team of Xinjiang archaeologists in 1979， and is believed to have been a woman in her 40s who lived sometime around 1800 BCE.
　　Astonishingly， this beauty and many of her fellows bore typically Caucasian features—deeply-set eyes， chiseled faces， tall noses， and hair that ranged from blond to red to russet， their colors impeccably preserved by the sand. This accords with a legend in the Book of  Jin， which stated that， in 326， the king of Shanshan ended a war against Zhang Jun， the warlord of Dunhuang， by offering Zhang a golden-haired， blue-eyed “Loulan beauty.”
　　These discoveries sent archeological interest into overdrive; researchers from around the world， and across disciplines， came to have a crack at the mystery. The earliest expedition led by Victor Mair suggested that these Bronze Age inhabitants were a subgroup of Indo-Europeans of the （now extinct） Tocharian language branch， later joined by other Caucasians from the Eastern Mediterranean. Other studies using craniometry， textile comparisons， and DNA have suggested connections between the early or later settlers of the region with the Celts， Austria， or non-European civilizations of the Indus and Oxus river valleys. 　　What’s also still debated is whether these early people were migrants from west of the Central Asian steppes—or if Caucasians were， in fact， the indigenous people of this corner of Asia， an explanation which would surely add more fuel to the separatist movements brewing in the region today.
　　In 2015， researchers from Jilin University tentatively offered the most neutral （if least exciting） answer to this politically charged mystery： According to physical and DNA evidence， Loulan’s earliest inhabitants were Western Europeans from various points of origin， who later showed signs of intermixing with Asiatic populations from Siberia and Mongolia. It seems， the Belt and Road Initiative possibly had origins several millennia older than anyone had imagined.
　　It’s hard to picture what Hedin， wandering in the desert over a century ago， would have made of all the squabbles. Claiming to be “no archaeologist，” he left the question to the experts and occupied himself with Loulan’s other great mystery—its disappearance. Tang dynasty （618 – 907） records stated that the city was frequently invaded by nomadic peoples and was relocated east to Qumul （Hami） in 630， where most of the silk trade had already been rerouted. Other theories posit irrigation failures， plague， or a cricket pestilence. None of these， though， explained why the lake， Lop Nor， had also vanished—an event which Hedin believed to be connected to Loulan’s decline and fall， as “the last drops of water disappeared after their hopeless struggle with the dunes.”
　　Widely ridiculed for his theory， which would require the Tarim River to almost completely reverse its course， Hedin was suddenly vindicated in 1921 when the Tarim changed course again， reverting to its original riverbed before explorers’ incredulous eyes. Revisiting the desert in 1936， Hedin took a joyful canoe trip to the restored Lop Nor， paddling down the same path he had traversed by camel 36 years ago.
　　In his memoir， Hedin described the enchantments of this “wandering lake”： “I felt myself in fairyland out on the waters of that lake sanctuary…ducks were swimming; gulls and other sea-birds uttered their cries of warning.” Here， finally， was the real desert “beauty，” an elusive attraction which held the power of life and death over civilizations. – HATTY LIU
　　Lake of the Lost
　　Hatty Liu gets to the bottom of a maritime mystery dubbed “China’s Bermuda Triangle”
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　　riving up the northeastern shore of Poyang Lake （鄱陽湖） today， the first things one sees are 33 skeletal wind turbines towering over China’s “Bermuda Triangle.” The largest wind farm in the province， which has generated over 700 million kilowatts of renewable energy in the impoverished region since 2011， is an oddly triumphant sight for a spot known to be cursed. 　　“In just one hour， we can make what other wind farms generate in one year，” Zhang Yuanxing， a retired local fisherman， shouts over sporadic gusts reaching over 50 kilometers per hour.
　　Officially， the wind is also the culprit behind the consistently strange disappearance of ships on the nearby channel， called the Laoye （“Lord”） Temple waters after the 18th-century shrine on its shore. Lying at 32.48 degrees north of the equator， these waters share the same latitude as the infamous Atlantic Bermuda Triangle. Conservative estimates put the number of shipwrecks in this channel at over 100 over the last 60 years alone， while higher figures claim over 1，000 in the last century， though neither can be verified due to poor record-keeping and the tendency of mariners to enhance their yarns in the telling.
　　It’s undeniable， though， that on August 13， 1985， a whopping total of 14 ships sank in a single day. More recently， the 2001 sinking of a sand barge was witnessed by area fishermen， who described to state broadcaster CCTV a gale that whipped up from nowhere and sent the boat spinning in circles， minutes before it was sucked below. For most of these six decades， moreover， no wreckages from these lost vessels have ever been found on the lake’s bottom.
　　These waters are no stranger to legend. In 1363， rival rebel leaders Chen Youliang and Zhu Yuanzhang faced off at the Battle of Lake Poyang， allegedly the largest naval clash in history. After both sides’ fleets were destroyed， Zhu—now better known as the Hongwu Emperor， the eventual founder of the Ming dynasty （1368 –1644）—found that he had no way to retreat to the other side of the lake. At this critical moment， a giant turtle appeared and carried the future emperor safely across. Some time in the early Qing dynasty （1616 – 1911）， a temple was built on this shore in honor of the “Dragon King，” which later became the Laoye Temple.
　　Today， the temple is still a popular destination for pilgrims from nearby villages and towns， who come to pray away a cornucopia of problems such as poor grades and stomach pain. Local fishermen， too， take a few days off during China’s “Golden Week” vacation each year， and moor their boats below the temple to serve as makeshift “cruise” ships. Tourists sign up gamely， in spite of the ominous stone slabs that were erected on the shore by the local tourism bureau in 2014， which proclaim the area as the “Bermuda of the Orient.”
　　“Sure， I’ve seen shipwrecks，” says Zhang the fisherman conversationally， even as the boats below us pull away from shore， joining dozens of vessels of all sizes that are busy on the lake on this day. “Forty or 50 years ago， when I was growing up， we often saw boats go down in storms， and a dozen crew members would die.” As the only body of water connecting China’s largest freshwater lake to the Yangtze River， the Laoye Temple waters have been an important shipping channel since ancient times， most recently serving Poyang Lake’s bustling （if mostly illegal） sand-extraction industry. 　　According to the most famous modern tale about the lake， it was also while attempting to ship contraband through this channel—in this case， 1 billion USD’s worth of stolen Chinese gems—that a Japanese military cruiser called the Kobe Maru disappeared off Laoye Temple in 1945. So patriotic were the waters， they not only swallowed the ship and all its hands， but also the Japanese divers sent to salvage the wreck， along with the members of an independent underwater excavation team led by an American named Edward Boer （or Bolton） the following year. Boer alone lived to publish the tale 40 years later in the “United Nations Environmental News，” still apparently haunted by the “white underwater light” that devoured the rest of his crew.
　　The chilling tale is repeated across various news and paranormal sites， although neither Boer nor the UN Environmental News seems to be otherwise traceable. Some skeptics have suggested that the legend of the downed Kobe Maru may have been confused with resembling tales： The similarly named Edward “Teddy” Bolton Tucker， an American diver famous for recovering lost wrecks around the actual Bermuda Triangle， died on Somerset Island in 2014; an Awa Maru， carrying Chinese gold and jewelry （and， some say， the lost skull of the Peking Man）， was torpedoed by American forces off the coast of Fujian province in 1945.
　　In 2011， the editors of the Jiangxi News received a phone call from a distraught Nanchang writer named Xiong Jianhua， who confessed that both the Japanese treasure ship and the American diver were fictional creations from his novella “The Hair-Raising Chinese Bermuda—Report from the Lake Poyang ‘Devil’s Triangle’，” published 20 years ago in Spring Soil literary magazine. Xiong claimed that he’d drawn from existing local lore—and cited fictional news “reports” in his story for added verisimilitude （although a Tachibana Maru， built in Kobe， had been torpedoed on Poyang in 1938）. He stressed， though， that he never imagined that the story would become such a sensation， nor so widely believed.
　　Meanwhile， scientists have been doing their part to—literally—take the wind out of the legend’s sails. Researchers at the nearby Duchang County Meteorological Institute blame geography for the area’s peculiarities. Speaking on an episode of CCTV’s Approaching Science program， they claimed that the narrowness of the channel at Laoye Temple—a mere three kilometers across—created a tunnel for the winds that rushes down from the slopes of Jiangxi’s most famous peak， Mount Lu. Before the gusts can exit the channel， though， they run up against more mountains to the south of the temple， doubling back over the “Devil’s Triangle.” 　　What results is a topsy-turvy weather pattern， where neither the direction nor the speed of the wind can be predicted ahead of time. The shallow lake bed， just 18 kilometers deep in some places， also makes for muddy waters with almost zero diving visibility， which， combined with a lack of government action or advanced equipment， had thwarted most efforts to look for wrecks in the past. Still， since 2011， several fishing boats have been salvaged from the bottom using metal-detecting and electromagnetic equipment （the latter， incidentally， also disproved previous theories about “irregular electromagnetic fields” causing ship disappearances.）
　　So much， seemingly， for the mystery. Do the waters still hold any secrets—or is mystery-hunting doomed to be anticlimactic， as each new clue or explanation inevitably chips away at the mystique？ The fishermen believe the former. “The people born and raised here have always known it’s just the wind，” admits another fisherman， also surnamed Zhang， grinning. Nevertheless， “We will always have faith.”
　　According to this Zhang， it’s still the custom for ships to set off firecrackers as they pass the channel; whether aboard the biggest container vessels or the smallest dinghy. Even on the skeleton of the Duchang-Jiujiang Highway bridge， currently under construction over the channel， mariners and workers kowtow and set off firecrackers to ensure a safe passage from the gods. “Any society needs faith; it’s the soul of our civilization，” says Zhang. “Some people are Christians or Buddhists; we pray to our Laoye Temple and [believe] it’s the best in China.”
　　“You might not want to publish the truth; people wouldn’t like getting the story spoiled，” Zhang’s wife， Ms. Guo， whispers conspiratorially as she tows their boat back to shore. Yet the Laoye Temple was perhaps unique enough， even without lost treasure， extraterrestrials， or other occult embellishments. As I turn to leave， a southeasterly squall thunders down the shore， flattening the long grasses and taking several hats as spoils. By the time I turn around， the wind had already died as suddenly as it came; the lake was as smooth as a mirror. – H.L.