Chapter 10: Corpse Oil

Corpse Oil

Northern Chiang Mai: The Corpse-Oil Grudge Curse of the Long-Neck Village, 2019

North of Chiang Mai, a long-neck tribe village lies hidden in a misty forest a thousand meters above sea level. There, black magic and mountain beliefs are intertwined, and the most chilling secret art of all is the corpse-oil art known as Nam Man Prai.

I came here while investigating the strange death of a tourist. The dead man was a British backpacker. When he was found outside the village graveyard, his skin was waxy yellow, black mucus clung to the corner of his mouth, and beside his body lay an empty glass bottle. At the bottom of the bottle was a smear of dark red grease.

The village head was an old woman wearing silver neck rings. In halting Thai, she told me, “He stole the ‘soul oil.’ The vengeful spirits guarding the cemetery came to claim his life.”

Late that night, led by my guide Akai, I slipped into the graveyard.

Under the moonlight, several black shadows were digging up the body of a young girl who had only just been buried. They used a specially made bamboo knife to cut open the corpse at the temples, catching the oil that seeped out. Then they mixed it with corpse wax and herbs and poured it into a black ceramic jar.

“This is being refined for a boss from Bangkok,” Akai whispered, his voice trembling. “They say it can make a man rich overnight.”

Akai had once taken part in the secret art himself, until his younger sister was buried alive in that same graveyard as the “oil primer.” To refine corpse oil, the ritual must be performed on the night of the full moon, using the corpse of a young woman as the vessel. Corpse wax is lit at the head of the grave, and the “spirit-summoning spell” is recited, making resentment and oil merge together.

I saw that the arms of one of the black shadows were covered in blisters, as if they had been burned by hot oil. Akai said that was the beginning of corpse-oil backlash.

A week later, when the body of the tourist who had stolen the oil was cremated, black grease actually seeped from his ashes. It stuck to the inner wall of the cremation furnace and gave off a foul stench.

Then the three villagers who had taken part in refining the oil died one after another in strange ways.

One was swept away by the current while washing clothes by the river. When his body was found, the skin had peeled away, leaving only white bones. Another burned to death in his own home, killed by the corpse oil he himself had refined; the room was covered in black handprints. The last was pecked to death by a flock of crows while gathering mountain goods, and his death was horrifying.

The old village head said this was the vengeful spirits inside the corpse oil searching for substitutes. Every drop of corpse oil hides an unwilling soul. They will cling tightly to the user until they have drained the very last drop of essence and blood.

Northeastern Isan: The Skin Offering at the Ghost-Wife Temple, 2020

The Isan region is the heartland of Thailand’s shamanic culture. Its folk worship of ghost wives hides some of the strangest dark rituals.

In Ubon Province, I met a farmer named Phongchai. Because he wanted a son, he had been worshipping a “ghost-wife image” at the village ghost-wife temple. The image was carved from camphorwood and painted head to toe in red pigment. Its eyes were set with glass beads, making it look vividly lifelike.

“As long as I feed her a cup of fresh blood every night, she will bless us,” Phongchai told me.

He uncovered the earthen jar beneath the offering table. Inside were chicken blood and dog blood, along with several strands of a woman’s hair.

He said the ghost wife was a guardian spirit of Isan. Her origin was a pregnant woman who had died in childbirth, leaving behind extreme resentment. Only offerings of fresh blood and raw meat could soothe her soul and grant fertility.

But after Phongchai began worshipping the ghost wife, his own wife changed. Her mind became dazed and distant. At night, she often walked in her sleep and spoke to empty rooms. Her skin also turned as pale as paper.

With the help of a local medium, I secretly watched the ghost-wife temple’s midnight ritual.

On the night of the full moon, the temple keeper cut open his wrist with a knife and let fresh blood drip onto the lips of the ghost-wife image. Then he recited an ancient spell: “Lady Ghost Wife, grant me children. With blood as our bond, we shall never part.”

Suddenly, red liquid flowed from the eyes of the ghost-wife image.

The temple keeper let out a painful roar. His body began to twist, and something seemed to be writhing beneath his skin.

The medium told me this was the ghost wife feeding on the temple keeper’s vital essence. Every offering was a transaction. The worshipper would gradually be replaced by the ghost wife, until in the end he became her skin vessel.

Half a month later, Phongchai’s wife gave birth to a stillborn child. The infant’s skin was exactly the same as the ghost-wife image’s: red.

That night, Phongchai was found dead inside the ghost-wife temple. The skin had been flayed from his body and hung from the temple beam, while fresh blood dripped into the earthen jar on the offering table. Meanwhile, the skin of the ghost-wife image had become smooth and delicate, as if it belonged to a living person.

The medium said this was the ghost wife’s “skin-changing ritual.” She needed the skin of the living to maintain her human form, and those who came longing for children were nothing more than her prey.

Later, the police sealed off the ghost-wife temple. When the idol was burned, black smoke rose from it and condensed in the air into the shape of a woman. A shrill scream rang out and lingered for a long time.

Central Bangkok: The Kuman Thong Factory on the Chao Phraya River, 2021

Behind Bangkok’s prosperity lies one of Southeast Asia’s darkest underground industries: the Kuman Thong refining factory.

I received a report from an informant that, in the slums along the Chao Phraya River, an illegal workshop was using the corpses of dead infants to refine Kuman Thong, then selling them to celebrities and businessmen. Each one could sell for as much as one million baht.

Disguised as a buyer, I slipped into the workshop.

A wave of rot hit me in the face. The floor was packed with glass jars, and inside them floated the corpses of infants. Some were wrapped entirely in gold leaf. Others had been fixed into eerie positions with iron wire.

The workshop owner was a middle-aged man named Khun Phan. He opened a wooden crate. Inside lay more than a dozen infant corpses, each only the size of a palm, with a copper nail driven into the center of the forehead.

“These are ‘golden boys,’” he said. “They’re refined from seven-month dead fetuses. They have the strongest spiritual nature.”

He described the refining process as extremely cruel: first the fetus was roasted dry over a flame, then charms were drawn across the corpse with cinnabar, and the “soul-locking spell” was recited. After that, the corpse was made into an idol and buried beneath a temple stupa for seven sevens, forty-nine days, allowing resentment and Buddhist force to mingle and form powerful spiritual power.

I saw a pile of gold leaf stacked in the corner. Khun Phan said wrapping the infant corpses in gold leaf was meant to “lock in the resentment,” making them obey only their master.

But the workers in the workshop all had pale faces and hollow eyes. One young worker had a dark red strangulation mark around his neck, as if a baby’s hands had once choked him.

“Last month, a worker secretly took a Kuman Thong home,” Khun Phan said. “The next day, he was found dead by the river. His body was swollen from soaking in the water, but he was still clutching the idol tightly.”

There was not the slightest trace of pity in Khun Phan’s voice.

I secretly installed a pinhole camera and recorded the entire process of Khun Phan refining Kuman Thong from infant corpses.

But just as I was about to leave, all the Kuman Thong idols in the workshop suddenly began to shake. The infant corpses inside the glass jars let out piercing cries.

Khun Phan’s expression changed drastically. He knelt on the floor and kept kowtowing.

“Babies, spare me. I’ll never dare do it again!”

But those idols slowly stood up and moved toward him. Their tiny arms grabbed his ankles. In an instant, Khun Phan’s skin began to shrivel rapidly, and his hair fell out in clumps. His whole body aged at a visible speed, until finally he became a withered skeleton and collapsed to the floor.

When the police arrived, the workshop was already empty. Only broken glass and gold leaf covered the floor, and the cries of infant corpses still lingered in the air.

Later, I saw on the news that the Kuman Thong idols that had flowed out of the workshop had begun to show signs of backlash one after another. A wealthy businessman was strangled to death by an idol in his home, his death exactly like Khun Phan’s. A famous actress suddenly went mad during filming and cut her own face with a knife, shouting, “The baby wants me dead.”

The water of the Chao Phraya River remained muddy. But beneath the surface, it seemed as if countless infant spirits were drifting, waiting quietly in the darkness for their next prey.

Southern Songkhla: The Grave-Soil Curse of the Witchcraft Village, 2022

Songkhla Province in southern Thailand borders Malaysia. The witchcraft and gu culture here blends elements of Islam and Buddhism, and the most terrifying practice is grave-soil gu.

I met a local fisherman named Ali. His wife had been afflicted with gu by a neighbor. Every night, she suffered unbearable abdominal pain, and there were traces beneath her skin as if insects were crawling there. Yet doctors could find nothing wrong.

Ali took me to see a Malay witch doctor. The witch doctor’s clinic was hung with dried animal corpses, and in the corner was a heap of grave soil giving off a rotten smell.

“This is blood gu,” the witch doctor said. “It is refined from grave soil mixed with gu-insects and black dog blood. Once a person is struck by it, the gu-insects will gnaw through their internal organs, and they will die in agony.”

The witch doctor took out a black ceramic jar. Inside was dark red powder.

“To remove the gu, we need the hair of the person who cast it. It must be mixed with rooster blood and sticky rice, burned on the night of the full moon, and accompanied by the recitation of the gu-expelling spell.”

But the person who had cast the gu was Ali’s neighbor. The two families had become enemies over a land dispute, so there was no way the other man would cooperate.

I decided to follow the witch doctor to the cemetery to collect grave soil.

The Muslim cemetery in the depth of night was gloomy and terrifying. Arabic script was carved on the tombstones. Under the moonlight, the witch doctor used a hoe to dig open a fresh grave, took out a handful of grave soil, and murmured spells under his breath.

Suddenly, a woman’s crying came from inside the grave.

The witch doctor’s face changed drastically. He grabbed me and ran.

“It’s the grave-guarding ghost. We woke it!”

Behind us, the grave soil began to rise. A black shadow climbed out of the grave and drifted in our direction. The shadow’s face was rotten, and black blood flowed from its eyes.

We hid behind a large tree, watching the shadow wander through the cemetery until daybreak before we left.

But the very next day, the witch doctor was found dead in his clinic. His body had been gnawed full of holes by gu-insects. The grave soil from the ceramic jar had spilled all over the floor, and black insects crawled across it.

Ali’s wife did not survive in the end either. On a rainy night, she died in agony. As she died, her skin split open, and countless black gu-insects crawled out of her body and burrowed into the mud.