Modern Rituals

by J. S. Leonard

  Is this a kitchen? Is that a cafeteria?

  He peered down at his paisley sweater-vest, which covered a striped pink dress shirt. Below that were brown khakis. He sighed and rolled his eyes.

  If any of my clientele caught me wearing such trash, they would never hire me again.

  He tore open the nearest cabinet and discovered a flashlight and a cardboard tube. The tube housed a set of blueprints, which he unrolled onto a counter. He shielded his eyes—the flashlight produced a staggering amount of light.

  Yow! Military grade, I imagine.

  The topmost sheet yielded a diagram labeled KITCHEN. This appeared to be in a cafeteria, which appeared to be within a school-like structure on a sizable compound, though he could only make assumptions from the blueprint’s general layout—the text was in Japanese. Next to the cafeteria sat a similar-sized building and beside that, a parking lot. The compound housed other buildings—the largest snagged his attention, standing three stories high and containing many equally sized rooms.

  Classrooms?

  A set of stairs at the cafeteria’s entrance led to a platform overlooking the cafeteria floor and converged into an outdoor hallway that formed a bridge to the second floor of the classroom building. Horace, always one to be prepared, decided this would be a good place to explore next: the classrooms might contain supplies—or, better yet, information regarding his whereabouts.

  He spent time searching the kitchen: its closets, pantries, doors, alcoves and the like. Horace redefined “meticulous.” His obsessive behaviors verged on mental disorders—they also empowered the surgical skills for which his colleagues and clients regarded him in the highest esteem.

  The outdoor light dimmed, reducing visibility in the kitchen to zero. He found his way through a pair of swinging service doors and into the empty cafeteria space.

  The ceiling soared, melding into grey. His footsteps echoed, bouncing from wall to wall. A spotless wooden floor, peppered with flickers of reflection, covered the hall’s length. He looked left and spotted a door—a symbol on its face caught his attention. He moved closer to get a better look: a triangle surrounding a lightning bolt. The horizontal handle bar banged as he depressed it. The door swung open.

  “Oh, dear—this doesn’t look inviting,” he said.

  Before him a staircase descended into darkness. A suspicious red glow emanated from deep within its throat—one that might originate from an emergency source near a power breaker or an exit sign. Regardless, it existed—and with it, power.

  A bucket’s hollow crash filled the hall, startling Horace, who turned away from the stairs and scanned the cafeteria.

  “Who’s there!” he said.

  No answer. No bucket.

  Adrenaline surged through his veins dilating his eyes, lugging his breath. He stepped forward and listened, wondering at his sanity, wondering if this might be a dream.

  Another bucket crashed, followed by the sing-songy hum of a young girl, which dispersed into echo.

  “Who’s there?” he said.

  Nothing.

  He spun toward the stairs and ran down them, slamming the door behind.

  Darkness engulfed Horace. Pulsating patterns of light swirled in his vision as his eyes adjusted. He fumbled for the flashlight switch and turned it on—an illuminated beam cut a sharp path through the black. A sour, musty odor clung to the hairs in his nose—like mildew and rotted milk.

  He descended.

  The stairs extended a single flight and merged into a cinderblock hallway upon which red, spidery shadows crawled through a chain-link partition that housed a near-empty utility room—naught but a circuit breaker and red light fixture. He ran the flashlight over the area.

  I’m sure that wasn’t there a second ago.

  There stood a wooden wardrobe on the wall opposite the circuit breaker. Horace slid the gate’s horseshoe-shaped handle up—the gate swung free, squeaking all the while. Entering the enclosure, he noted the power symbol on the circuit breaker box and a red handle on the box’s right, currently in the down position. Nothing unexpected. But the wardrobe bothered him—it didn’t belong here.

  He drew closer. The doors of the wardrobe glinted as the beam from his flashlight crawled over them. Windows caught the light. Horace realized it wasn’t a wardrobe at all, but a windowed cabinet that might accommodate chinaware or delicate objects.

  What’s in there?

  He bent toward a window so dark he couldn’t make heads or tails of its contents. He put the tip of his flashlight against it. The light scattered in the glass. Horace gasped. The cabinet wasn’t empty. Not in the least.

  Is that…hair?

  Thick tufts of spindly, coal-black hair crowded the cabinet’s shelves. They slithered, quivering and sliding like a pit of snakes. Horace’s curiosity pushed aside the fear welling within him urging him to flee, and he remained transfixed. An unusual glimmer caught his eye: a fingernail. Horace watched as a finger emerged from the riling mass. It showed no indication of life. A second finger surfaced, then another, and another—a hand followed, pressed against the glass, gyrating with the hair’s rhythm.

  The hand yielded a forearm, its end terminated in a blood-caked stub. Horace felt a terrible, burning desire to press his body against the glass. He bit it back.

  In another window, Horace observed as a chunk of torso, thigh and neck came forward. A petite nose surfaced accompanied by plump lips, chin and eyes until the full-featured face of a young girl sat decapitated in the window, hair waving and shimmering around her head, eyes shut and lifeless.

  In the cabinet’s reflection, Horace’s intense stare expanded into wide eyes and gaping jaw. He stepped backward, and as he did, the girl’s eyes snapped open. He gasped, rushing away, but he tripped over his own feet and crashed to the floor. The flashlight leapt from his hand and rolled near the circuit breaker box. The cabinet creaked open. Like a crab on its back, Horace scurried across the floor. He fumbled for the flashlight to no avail.

  He squinted into the shadowed recess that rendered the cabinet indistinguishable from darkness. A hunk of meat slapped the concrete floor. Another. Severed limbs tumbled to the ground. A child squealed with laughter.

  As his fingers brushed the flashlight, a rope-like strand tickled his foot. He screamed and ripped his leg away, looking down—a spindle of hair had snaked across the floor and was now wrapped around his ankle. Cast in the circuit breaker’s red glow, several others appeared, slithering toward him.

  He yelled. Kicked. Flailed. But the hair gripped like a relentless vice forever bound to him, tugging, pulling him toward the cabinet. Horace let out a guttural roar. Spit flew from his retracted lips. His muscles cramped as he wrenched his leg with every bit of his strength. All concern for preserving tendon or socket fled. A loud pop filled the small room; a searing pain burst through his Achilles. For a moment, stars filled his vision. But the hair lost its grip. A numb, anxious pain persisted where it had been.

  The thing from the wardrobe emitted another laugh, sinister and playful, as if enjoying this game of cat and mouse.

  Horace scrambled to the wall, fighting tendrils that nipped at his legs, and saw the dim outline of the flashlight a few feet away. He grabbed hold of the base and swung it wildly from shoulder to knee, as a naive child might swing a sword in self-defense.

  “Get. Away. From. Me!”

  The flashlight’s switch flipped, hurling dizzying shafts of light. Horace witnessed within the strobing rays a new shape: the ghastly silhouette of a young woman. He focused the flashlight on her. She glared at him, possessed of crooked grin, cosmic eyes, and piecemeal, degraded flesh. His lungs betrayed him, delivering a meager squeak instead of a scream. From her head flowed the serpentine hair that convulsed around her body and on the ground.

  This is it…

  The first strand encompassed his injured ankle again, biting down without mercy. Another seized his thigh. Another wrapped around his waist. Others attached to his every extremity. The
last encircled his neck, squeezing. A fist of hair shoved itself into his mouth and crept down his throat, stealing his breath. His vision blurred.

  I’m going to die. Like this…?

  An otherworldly light danced into the room.

  Horace gazed into the heavenly, luminous beams scattered around him. His eyes, wide with wonder, streamed tears.

  A shriek dispelled his awe—as if a banshee’s vocal chords exploded. The hair jumped from his mouth and slackened its grip on his limbs and body. Air rushed into his lungs. His vision cleared. The frightful creature thrashed its arms, tussling with the light. Horace saw his escape and scrabbled away.

  A clear path lay to the chain-link gate and the stairs leading out of the basement. He reached the gate, pulled himself upright and placed his weight on his uninjured ankle. Scorching pain shot through his injured leg as it dangled, almost causing him to stumble, but the fence held him fast. He hobbled to the stairs, hoping the creature would take no notice as it fought off the whirling rays of light.

  Reaching the base of the stairs, he grabbed hold of the handrail and hopped up the steps with his uninjured leg, whimpering and biting down a scream with every bounce, until he reached the exit and tumbled through it. The door swung closed, muffling the horrifying sounds from the basement. He scoured the door, listening with wolf ears.

  The noises stopped.

  He moved.

  At the front of the cafeteria was a flight of stairs that led to an outdoor hallway connecting the classroom building. It took him longer than he liked, but crawling on his hands and knees got him to the foot of the stairs. Again, he used the stair’s handrail and hopped, step by step, until he reached a platform overlooking the cafeteria.

  A mop stuck out of an empty bucket on the balcony nearby. He flipped it over, placed the shaggy side under his right arm and tested his weight on it—it would have to do as a crutch.

  A few cautious steps placed him in the outdoor hallway. He limped down the corridor—each step an echoey click, slow and queer—and arrived at the classroom building’s double doors with no sign of the creature.

  He entered a hallway lined with lockers and classrooms. Gleaming wood floors stretched before him. He glanced back. The girlish creature stood motionless, staring from the end of the corridor, her gaze venomous. The sight startled him, and he turned to run, tripping instead. His injured ankle folded beneath his weight. A scream erupted from him and his body smashed to the floor.

  6

  James ran out of the room first, tossing chairs and desks aside in his wake. The others followed.

  A man lay writhing on the ground, tears streaming down his cheeks, his face contorted into a silent scream, gasping for air, hands clawing at his leg. Colette shrieked as she rounded the classroom door and took in the horrifying scene. Everyone froze. James awoke from this morbid trance when he noticed the wet girl skulking across the corridor.

  “Oh, shit! We gotta go! That thing is here!” he said.

  Colette was already on her way back out the door and Anthony was right behind her.

  “We can’t just leave him!” Olivia said, pointing to Horace.

  James couldn’t bear to leave someone—even a stranger—to his death. He rushed to the man’s side and hoisted him onto his shoulder. The man yelped, firing painful white noise into James’ ear, then fell silent. Probably unconscious.

  “Try the door!” James said, nodding to the concealed hatch.

  Keto was already on his way. He fumbled with the circular inlay handle but found nothing to turn. Colette bounced as she watched him, suppressing a gasp with cupped hands. Olivia’s gaze alternated between Keto and the classroom entrance. James repositioned the injured man on his shoulder to wipe a stream of sweat from his brow.

  “C’mon—c’mon!” Tomas said.

  Olivia picked up a chair and held it like a shield toward the doorway—maybe she could buy some time if it came to a fight. The overhead lights flickered and static electrified the air. Olivia’s wavy hair rose from her shoulders—James’ arms prickled and the taste of a fresh battery coated his tongue. Olivia wobbled and nearly dropped the chair as she hugged her midsection with her other arm.

  “Dear God, it’s like I can feel it coming!” Anthony said, gripping his stomach. “Keto, hurry!”

  The walls vibrated, synchronized to the flickering lights. Tables and chairs moved randomly, racked by an invisible force. Olivia bent her knees and dug her heels into the floor.

  Deafening laughter filled the room.

  The young girl traipsed into the doorway. Musty, jet-black hair dangled in front of her face, flowing downward and twisting into ropes that snaked across the floor toward them. Olivia stepped forward—Keto grabbed her arm, jerking her into now-opened the passage.

  The laughter became a desperate shriek. Halogen canisters exploded, spraying shattered glass.

  James lumbered into the secret corridor and stole one last look: a strand of hair leapt toward them—Olivia slammed the door and shoved her body against it. Thumps and thuds pounded against it as the hair pummeled outside—James prayed the door would hold.

  It did. The sounds behind it subsided.

  James looked around, catching his breath. They stood in a tight passage enclosed by stone walls inset with flaming candle holders an arms length apart. The flames cast a subtle glow illuminating a set of descending spiral stairs.

  The injured man’s limp body bore down on James, who grunted as he shifted the weight on his shoulders. They descended without losing pace.

  “Keep moving. I think it’s gone,” Olivia said.

  “Are you sure? My God, what was that thing?” Colette said, her skin pale and feverish.

  “I’m not sure, but she just up and disappeared when the passage opened.”

  “She…it…whatever it was…that’s what Olivia and I came across earlier,” James said, huffing.

  “Yes, we have no reason to doubt you now,” Anthony said, “We must be on guard from here on.”

  “Well, at least it appears we’re safe—” James said.

  “—for now,” Tomas said.

  James made another mental note to smack Tomas’ bald head if he got the opportunity.

  “Yes, for now. Thank you Tomas, very insightful,” James said, straining under his passenger’s seemingly lead-filled body.

  They descended far beneath the classroom building. James yawned, popping the pressure from his ears.

  “I wonder who lit these candles. Was someone here recently?” James said.

  “Perhaps we will find out,” Anthony said.

  Olivia crossed her arms and rubbed from shoulder to elbow. Colette started to shiver, hugging herself for warmth. James dripped with sweat and welcomed the frosty nip.

  “This is quite the set of stairs,” James said.

  As they rounded the final spiral, the passage opened to a damp chamber alike in size to the classroom they had just escaped. Wax-red candles planted on the floor, each varying in height from their length of burn, flickered near an altar that rose to the ceiling.

  “Whoa, okay… What is that? A shrine?” James said. He lowered his burden to the floor and leaned him against an earthy wall.

  Olivia glanced around—she seemed hesitant to enter. Keto, Anthony and Tomas ambled toward the shrine. Colette knelt down next to James as he checked the man’s pulse. Olivia appeared at James’ other side.

  “Let me take a look,” she said, “I’m a nurse.”

  “Knock yourself out,” James said. He pushed himself up and panted.

  Colette stood too and kept herself shoulder-to-shoulder with James.

  “You okay, hon? That must’ve been hard, carrying that big guy down God knows how far,” Colette said.

  Her southern drawl charmed away his ability to look her in the eyes.

  “Oh, yeah, heh, it was nothing,” James said, scratching his head, turning his attention to the shrine.

  “Bruises…” Olivia said more to herself than James. She
had lifted Horace’s shirt and had begun squeezing and poking him. “Inflamed ankle—no, more likely a torn tendon—seen injuries like this before. Guy must have been through hell but is going to be okay, though his ankle is in terrible shape. I need to secure it until he can get proper medical attention.” Olivia said, her eyes scanning the room. “We need to create a makeshift splint or ankle wrap.”

  James half nodded to her as if to say, “You’re the boss,” but the shrine area held his gaze.

  Keto, Anthony and Tomas converged around the altar, blocking James’ view. He squeezed in between Anthony and Keto. The shrine exhibited a distinct naivety, as if a child had slung wood together to mimic a holy artifact. It sat atop a worn, ornate wooden table with gilded edges and rough, splintered wooden feet—likely from having been dragged down the stairs. A pair of doors—now open like a bare wardrobe—revealed a mostly empty inner space.

  Dilapidated Japanese scrolls pasted to the shrine’s interior depicted macabre scenes of death and portraits of worshippers prostrated before them. A solitary item centered within the shrine disturbed James: a petite, wooden statue of a woman. In contrast to the altar, the statue showed delicate and precise detail carved by a master hand, and—given the size—designed for a child. But those factors did not alarm James. Rather, the statue’s body language unnerved him: she huddled on the ground, her gaze forced backward (from what?), her face compressed with anguish. One raised arm protected her head, while the other steadied her body.

  James glanced at Keto, who stood motionless, scrutinizing the altar with quiet eyes. James turned back to Olivia—she’d torn the man’s sleeve free and repurposed it to bind his ankle—nice work for having limited means. He and Olivia’s eyes met as she made her way to him. Colette had already joined the group.

  “What the hell is this doing in the basement of a school?” Tomas said.

  The question hung in the air.