From somewhere beyond, from the inky stillness of the convent, there came a sound. Geraldine listened. It was of a voice, though not quite a human voice; it seemed too wavery and high-pitched.
At first she wasn’t sure even if it was human, so distorted was it by the walls and corridors and the distance it had to travel. She stopped scrabbling on the floor a moment to concentrate on it as it became stronger. Clearer.
And closer.
Then the footsteps. Faltering, irregular steps. As if someone was unsure of their passage perhaps. Or couldn’t see where they were. Cheated of the light, not unlike little Geraldine herself.
Finally she could hear the voice properly: it was the purest soprano, perfect in pitch, singing a hymn.
‘Ave Maria’.
Geraldine made out the words:
“Sáncta Maria, Máter Déi
óra pro nóbis peccatóribus…
nunc, et in hóra mórtis nóstrae. Ámen.”
It was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard.
The singing stopped. The footsteps stopped. Just by the slightly opened door to the Drying Room.
No other sound then except breathing; unlike the purity of the singing voice, this was deep, rasping, and jagged. Whoever it was, it was as if they had forgotten how to breathe.
Her own breathing now in shallow pants, her mouth as dry as bone, Geraldine stood and switched on the torch for whatever illumination it might provide.
The door opened wider, ever wider, and she shone the pencil-thin beam on the long dark folds of a sleeve. But the fabric was ragged and had marks on it: crusted, indefinable stains. As the door was opened fully, she trained the light from the arm to the body, and clad in rotting raiments from the charnel house, there stood what once had been a nun, shrouded by a foul and foetid odour, the stench of decomposition.
The tunic, the wimple, the veil, all were tattered, smeared and mildewed with filth from decades in the tomb. The face was not a face, nor was it a skull; it was in some unholy place between the two. Blackened, leathered flesh still adhered to it, and small brown teeth showed in the open maw that was the mouth; the torch’s dying light revealed shrunken lids half-closed over milky eyes, like dead opals. The thing, the nun, blocked the doorway, its head turned slowly this way, slowly that, as if searching for something.
The creature stretched a hand in, scraping at the air between herself and the child, reaching towards her. Not so much fingers, withered claws, that may have been fingers once, pecked at the space as the nun leaned in and brushed the cheek of the small girl.
When they found Geraldine several hours later, it was not possible to do anything for her. Her crumpled body was wedged inside the door to the Drying Room, one hand holding a torch and the other outstretched, mere inches from her inhaler.
Police and medical examiners were summoned, questions were asked in the most reverential of tones, and all protocols duly observed.
The nuns washed her, dressed her, and laid her out in the sick bay to await her parents. They placed rosary beads in her hands, but her father removed them and flung them across the room as he beheld his only daughter.
All her belongings were hastily packed up by Sister Ursula, her form mistress: some exercise books, her missal, her clothes, her transistor radio that was permanently tuned to Radio Luxembourg. She had smuggled it into the school, her one small act of defiance.
Also, there were several hand-written copies of what appeared to be horror stories. As they were not official schoolwork, Sister Ursula presumed they were rubbish and placed them in a wastebasket.
At Geraldine’s Requiem Mass, Sister John Bosco sang the ‘Ave Maria’, her voice piercing the chapel’s dusty air.
It was a sweet soprano, though not as sweet as another.
L. P. LEE
HIBAKUSHA
L.P. LEE was born to a British father and South Korean mother, and she grew up travelling between South London and South Korea. A trained sinologist and anthropologist, her short fiction has appeared in such periodicals as Litro, Eastlit, Space Squid, BFS Horizons, The Fabulist and Popshot Magazine.
Lee shares an artistic synergy with acclaimed UK contemporary artist Annie Ridd, who has produced several illustrations based on her short stories, including ‘The Man Root’, ‘The Feast’ and ‘Call of the Cicadas’. Ridd’s artwork often accompanies Lee’s stories in print and was exhibited at the Riverside Gallery, Richmond, in 2015.
“I began writing this story because of something I had come across, several years ago, that still haunted me,” reveals the author. “I wanted to go deep into a mysterious island, and uncover a secret. A secret that would draw attention to a forgotten people, and a horrific past.”
THE CLOSER I get to the island, the more of a dream Tokyo becomes. The obelisks of high glass, the polished people, their nails and shoes so clean. The neon canopies, the subtle dishes, the cab drivers with white gloves on their hands. I leave it behind on the train ride down. Down to the fishing town with its immaculate streets and kindly grandmother, who hosted me in her ryokan and made me a breakfast of rice and fish. Now the fish scatter before my boat, clean waves break against the hull, and the green island looms ahead, rising from the horizon like an old god.
Our boat hurtles through the sea. Sounds surround us: the roar of the engine, the whipping spray, the cackle of birds overhead, but my heart beats loudest of all. A drum-beat, rhythmic in my blood; a constant drum, a war drum.
The waves crash and I remember:
His face and body, so white. White paint on his unclothed skin. His bald head, white as a peeled egg. He squats on the floor, except you cannot see the floor. It is a black space, maybe a black sea. The black space surrounds him. He sits hunched over, head bowed, cradling his knees against his chest, rocking.
Slowly he lifts his head in an unnatural movement. The face reveals itself, eyes wide, staring with the blankness and malleability of a baby. The mouth hangs open, spittle on the chalk white lips. He begins to grin. Spit oozes over his chipped white teeth. Close up, into the emptiness of his eyes, or are they holes? Holes torn into white paper, and on the other side is a black space, empty as the space that surrounds him.
The sun and sea dazzle; I raise my hand, shield my eyes from the sight. The island looms closer.
“She’s seen us now,” the captain shouts.
I lean forwards, plant my hands on the boat’s ledge only to sharply withdraw. I turn up my palm to find a splinter has pierced my skin.
The island jumps closer. When I look up again, the trees are now clearly distinguishable. The black volcanic rocks jut from the shore.
It is a small island, a Pluto of the sea, empty of people.
As our boat approaches, the captain tries again to sway me. “What research can you do here? There’s nothing to see.”
“I just want to understand.”
The beach ahead is pristine; it seems like a paradise. Waves lap at the shore, birds swoop overhead.
But the captain’s concerns seep into me. Perhaps there’s something about the island, like they say, something darker than what meets the eye, lurking just beneath the surface. But I can’t let my imagination be provoked, and besides, I won’t let myself turn back now. I’ve been working on this project for months, and there are a few questions that remain, that will wrap up my research on Kaita Morimura.
Gradually I’ve chipped away at the mystery that surrounds him, unpicking his background and gaining insight into his thinking. Now I want to see where Morimura spent the last years of his life, secluded away from the world; see the writing that he etched onto the walls of his solitary home. I want to understand why the other island inhabitants fled from him. What was it about him, his death, that caused the island to become deserted?
The roar of the engine dulls to a throb. The boat bobs in the water, keeping its distance from the shore. The captain frowns at the green trees and volcanic rocks. His face, tanned a dark nut-brown, betrays a look of apprehension.
<
br /> Slowly we approach the dock. The wood is not in good condition; parts of it have fallen into the sea.
The captain moors the boat and helps me onto the pier. His hand is weathered, his manner firm and gentle. His physical presence has been sculpted by a life at sea; eyes used to looking across vast distances rather than small, confined spaces, and a way of standing and moving that seems accustomed to the rhythm of the boat.
My own body has atrophied from a life of written words. My muscles are soft and underdeveloped, my stature is slight. I wouldn’t be good at lifting heavy objects. My skin is pale from university lecture halls and from working indoors. While the captain has a sense of energy spread evenly across his body, all my energy is concentrated in my head. I get headaches often; my tensions reside there too.
“You’ll be all alone,” the captain says.
I smile and tap my camera. “I’m not alone.”
He smiles too but there is concern in his eyes. I begin to make my way across the pier, onto the island.
I’m wearing sturdy boots and a rucksack. In the rucksack I have a notebook, a tape recorder and a collection of tapes.
On one of the tapes is an interview with a dancer who knew Morimura. I replayed it this morning, over the breakfast of rice and fish. It went like this:
“Sometimes when I looked into his eyes, I felt that there was nothing on the other side. Just an emptiness, like his face was a paper mask, or his eyes were holes into outer space. Black and cold, empty of other people.
“I thought it was because of what had happened. After Hiroshima and Nagasaki, people didn’t really understand. They thought that the survivors might be infectious, that they wouldn’t be good employees because of their ill health, and that they wouldn’t make good marriage partners because of the risk of deformed children. The survivors were called hibakusha, ‘bombed persons’.”
A bird squawks above me, in the trees. The sun is blinding; I feel its summer heat on my face and neck. But the sky is a beautiful blue.
The boat is now far away. The captain bobs disapprovingly in the distance.
There is a narrow dirt track that disappears into trees. I follow it and am swallowed up by the forest.
“He came from Hiroshima. Survived the vapours but his family didn’t. Sometimes I thought I saw this in his dancing.
“While he was with us, he was invited to put on a show to commemorate Hiroshima. But he refused.
“There was a businessman called Mr. Tanaki. He came out of Morimura’s performance looking very shaken. He thought he could launch Morimura, and reach a lot of people around the world. Never let people forget.
“But Morimura didn’t even say no. He just ignored the offer. Went silent for a long time. I don’t think he spoke to any of us for a few months. Just ate with us, drank with us, and danced. But it wasn’t the same after that. Mr. Tanaki’s generosity would have been very good for us, as a group, and Morimura’s rejection caused bitterness. It started off small but gradually it simmered. Then there was Morimura’s big performance, and he left.”
The forest clears and there is a cluster of houses. They’re small, modern, whitewashed houses. There’s a road behind them, leading to the other side of the island which is more developed.
A ginger cat slinks through the grass. It has a collar on but it looks skinny and malnourished. It moves nimbly, close to the earth. When it sees me, it freezes. The amber eyes fixate on my face. I crouch down and make coaxing noises, hoping it will come closer. But the amber eyes show no memory of ownership. In a moment it’s gone; dashed away, out of sight again.
Hesitantly I approach the houses and peer in through the windows. They’re all deserted.
I return to the dirt path and climb further up the hills, into the forest again.
The trees close behind me until I cannot see the white houses anymore. And beyond them, I can no longer see the sea, the bright waters and the little boat waiting. The canopy above my head grows denser and plunges me into shadow.
“Morimura had his own style. We never questioned it. Right from the start, Hijikata made it clear that the dance form was a reaction to structure and ‘fixity’. We were fed up with the rules of noh, and with the upright physiques of ballet, the Western ideals that were taking root in Japan.
“Our way of dancing was a return to the essence of the body. Letting out what was in us, raw and unconstrained. In the 1960s this was a big deal. It was a new bodily aesthetic, overturning our post-war values of refinement and understatement. But it was also a return to an older kind of body.”
The forest clears again and I can see a house. A plain, modern, whitewashed house like the rest, but much smaller. It’s a relief to see the sky blue and expansive again. I squint as the sun beats down.
My eyes have not adjusted to the bright clearing yet, but as the house comes into focus, I realise that the windows are broken.
This is where Morimura lived.
After his performance in Tokyo, his last performance and his greatest, he came here, secluding himself away from the world.
I am at the house. I can’t remember crossing the clearing. I circle the house in a daze.
On the walls I find a line of writing. I hope that it is Morimura’s hand.
I take a photo. My Japanese is not good enough to translate it here and now—I’ll save it for when I’m back on the boat.
I circle back to the front of the house, and try the door.
I look for a rock and clear the jagged glass that remains on one of the windows. I heave myself through the window and into the dark room.
The noon sun is directly above the house; little light filters in and again my eyes must adjust, this time to darkness.
“His last performance involved all of us, as a group. He’d never asked for our help before, and some people were reluctant at first. But we allowed him to choreograph us, and straight away, after the first session, we knew that it was going to be big. It’s still the most important piece of work that I’ve ever done.
“We were very excited, and we put a lot of resources into publicising the show. We didn’t have much money, but with some help we rented a space in downtown Tokyo. Whatever we thought of Morimura as a person, we had faith in him as an artist. We knew that he was going to make an impact.”
The inside of the room is bizarre. Whoever broke the windows before me didn’t do it for theft. Everything is neat and orderly, everything except for the talismans…
Strips of white cloth fill the room, draped over the seats, hanging from the light bulb, and strung up along the walls like bunting. They are embellished with stark calligraphic strokes; energetic black ink on white, calling for an expulsion.
These writings are ofuda. What happened here was an exorcism.
I take out my camera. The camera flashes are like lightning strikes, and they make me shudder. I feel as if I am waking up a tomb.
Quickly I look around for any notes that I must make. I want to get out of here as fast as possible.
I feel my heart pounding.
I search through the room, and find nothing.
My gaze drifts to the door.
I edge my way into the corridor, and there are talismans here too. They are like long ribbons of noodles, or a crowd of white birds whose feathers obscure my view, or stretched out ghosts.
I look up the stairs.
My heart pounds harder.
I creep up the stairs.
Why am I creeping? There is no one here.
I tread gently. I don’t make any sudden movements. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end.
I am holding my breath.
As I ascend the stairs, the question comes into my mind…
Do I really have the right to be here?
I’m on the landing now. There are no talismans here.
The door to the bedroom is open.
I creep in and find that there is another line of writing, this time on the wall above the bed.
I tak
e a photo.
Again the lightning strike, and the sense of awakening.
I delicately look through the items in the room. Under the bed I discover a box. It is wooden and the size of a shoebox. Gingerly I lift the lid open, and find papers and a black and white photograph inside.
Kneeling next to the bed, I lift out the photograph.
It is of a man and a woman, with a small child between them.
They look at the camera with the unsmiling expressions common at the time for photographs. But the woman is wearing a dress that makes me confused.
It is a style of dress that comes from Korea. It’s a hanbok, a traditional Korean dress with a long-sleeved top and a bouffant skirt.
I put down the photograph and pick up the papers. The writing is in Japanese. It starts out neatly, and then becomes wilder. Morimura’s last words?
I feel very urgently now that I must leave.
But I spread the photograph and papers on the floor and lift up my camera. My grip on the camera seems unsteady.
Something compels me against pressing the shutter, but I fight against it. I press down anyway.
I take a photo and the lightning strikes again.
I spread out the documents, and take more photos. In that final flash, I see something. Under the bed…
Out, out! Down the stairs, the talismans are alive, a flock of white birds awakened whose wings flap in my face, obscuring the way ahead. Down, I almost trip on the last step, turn right, into the room where the talismans shake.
Through them, tearing away the white cloths that hinder me, towards the broken window. And out, falling onto the lawn outside, and stumbling across the clearing, blinded by the sun, until I am in the darkness of the forest again.
Down the dirt track I run, so fast and so panicked and on a declining hill that I risk losing my footing and stumbling. Hurtling down through the trees until I reach the next clearing with the small, white, modern houses. Past them, and down again. Finally, the sea! The boat bobbing up ahead, the captain reading a newspaper at the helm.
He looks up and sees me running. Immediately he is on his feet and coming towards me.
Best New Horror 27 Page 27