“This is a Shinto image. It represents the transition from the physical realm to the sacred,” Keto said.
James lost himself—his eyes danced along the lines, jumping from stroke to stroke, but a peculiar shape seized his attention.
“Is that a bird perched on the roof? No, wait—there are several,” James said.
Keto squinted.
“Hmmm. Yes—I did not see that before,” Keto said while twisting his head as though straining to listen for someone in the distance.
“What is it?” Olivia said.
“We must be wary. The presence of birds often means death,” Keto said.
James shrugged and said, “What’s new? Is there anything else odd about the torii?”
Keto stared, his eyes skipping across the image.
“No,” Keto said. “This moonlight offers poor visibili—”
A click, and a stream of light flooded the ground.
“Does this help?” Tomas said.
James shielded his face along with the rest of the group.
“Dear God! Tomas, why didn’t you tell us you had a flashlight?” James said.
“My secret,” Tomas said. James swore he saw a smile behind the glare.
“Better late than never,” Horace said, lumped on his crutch. James was surprised the man had made it up the stairs.
“Tomas,” James said. “Any chance you could hop on the air conditioner there and shine the light from up high?” James said.
“No, but you can,” Tomas said and tossed the flashlight to James.
“Thanks,” James said. “Keto, can you give me a boost?”
Keto moved next to the tall unit, clasped his hands tight and bent his knees. James placed a foot in Keto’s hands and leapt as Keto pulled up. James soared higher than anticipated—his arms flailed until he found his feet.
“Damn, Keto—work out much?” James said.
“I’m accustomed to lifting lumber at my home in Kobe,” Keto said.
“Remind me to come visit,” James said. “Okay, here goes.” He pointed the flashlight downward.
A swath of light washed over the image—it seemed James held a stadium light in his hands. Every last detail of the torii clarified—and dead-center, between the pictured gates’ columns, stood a girl with long, wiry hair in a white gossamer gown.
CHAPTER 4
Beware the minotaur.
(Phæleh 40:33)
1
Trevor watched the mayhem unfold from the roof’s exit. Super-814N, better known as Arikura Fukushima’s residual spectral energy (or ghost), bared her hands and locked her mad eyes on Horace. Hair whirled around her tiny body, creating a vortex that lifted her into the air.
The group shouted and scattered. Colette retreated backward to the roof’s edge until her hips bumped the retaining wall—she steadied herself with her elbows and sunk into a helpless position, her lips quivering. Horace attempted to escape but fell flat and then crawled toward the edge of the roof. James leapt down, tumbled and dove for Horace. Super-814N reacted instantaneously—hair shot from her head, aimed at Horace’s neck—he dodged and grabbed hold of the ledge. A rope of hair wrapped around his midsection and heaved him toward her. He anchored himself to the ledge and howled.
James threw the flashlight at Super-814N. The heavy cylinder smacked the back of her head, fell to the ground and somehow leaned upright against the girl-ghost’s leg. It shone a bright beam in her eyes. She screamed and flailed and kicked the flashlight away, then turned on James—her grip on Horace loosened in that moment, and he desperately launched himself in the opposite direction.
James dashed toward Horace, paying no mind to Super-814N who blocked his way. He dodged, but she swatted his sternum and he sailed high and long, wind knocked from him, head jostled—and as he flew, Horace toppled over the ledge.
Trevor rushed to find Horace’s body.
Olivia stood with Colette and Keto near the exit. She saw Trevor head down the stairs, and almost called to him, but a meaty thud interrupted her: James skidded along the ground and stopped short of her feet.
“James!” Olivia said.
James’ eyes scrunched, lips in a grimace, and he lay lifeless until his diaphragm let in a storm of air. He fought against Olivia as she helped him to his feet.
“Sorry—damn—she can throw a punch…” he said.
She shoved him through the exit. As he stumbled through the door, she caught a glimpse of the girl peering over the ledge, fixated on the place where Horace’s body had fallen.
Olivia took the stairs two at a time and filed into the hallway with James, Keto and Colette. Instead of returning to the multipurpose room, she chose the nearest exit, which led them outside where they regrouped in a field near a stand of trees.
Colette spun around.
“Where’s Trevor? And Tomas?” She said.
James looked around with the others.
“No time to look for them,” James said.
“I saw Horace fall,” Colette said. “He…He landed on his neck.”
“Shit,” James said.
“There was nothing any of us could do,” Olivia said.
Olivia scanned the roofline for the girl’s presence and saw nothing. James waved to her to follow and she scurried past the field to the forest after him. Keto, Olivia and Colette kept close. They slowed after minutes of running full speed. James keeled over, panting.
“Ugh—I’m not this out of shape, I swear,” James said. Everyone seemed exhausted, herself included.
“All things considered, I think we’re holding up rather well,” Olivia said.
“We need to find those two and think through what to do about that thing—” James stopped. “Dammit! I left the flashlight up there. Speaking of which, it bounced off her like she was made of steel. I doubt there’s much we can do confronting her physically.”
“She did give you quite a wallop,” Olivia said. “You are lucky the wind is all that got knocked out of you.”
“No kidding—thank God she decided to punch me—” James said. “That hair of hers is some scary shit! She also seemed hellbent on Horace.”
A wave of disgust wrenched James’ intestines. He peered through the tree branches into the black sky. Hope evaded him. His imminent death—as alien an idea to his twenty-five year-old mind as maintaining a 401(k) or getting married—mocked him. Just hours before he’d flown into New York, prepared to indulge himself in art and perhaps a girl—or two—expand his palate over Haute Gastronomique and help his sister acclimate. His sister. She must be worried. His parents, too. And his friends.
Wait.
Joe.
If he just had his smartphone, he could email Joe. If anyone could figure this out, Joe could.
No. It was hopeless.
Aside from the NcCo cable, they had uncovered no evidence of cell phones, landlines or computers. This place may be beyond the Internet—the thought startled James.
We have no means of leaving or contacting anyone. This is it.
He waited for his heavy panting to subside and gestured for the others to follow. James didn’t know where to go. He figured moving away from the school was their safest bet. If they hit the invisible wall, so be it. The wall was better than facing a devilish zombie-bitch dead set on murdering them.
2
Trevor plunged down the stairs and ducked into a hall closet, keeping a safe distance from Super-814N as she attacked. He had no means to restrain her or defend himself if she chose to turn on him—well, not hand-to-hand that is, though Clayton had a gadget or two that could do the job. Out of the nineteen kill zones, the roof most disturbed her: Amida had murdered Arikura’s little brother there.
He waited, crouched. Four members of the group passed and moved to the rear of the school grounds—they escaped unharmed, including James, who carried the wooden figures of Arikura’s family—Trevor imagined that Purgatory 8’s camera feed had burst some blood vessels in Theo’s eyes, and maybe an artery or t
wo as well. Next, he needed to confirm Part Seven’s death and find Part Two.
Horace and Tomas, was it?
He disliked referring to them by name; the mental association felt too personal, too human. They operated as ingredients to a ritual, nothing more. Some people just had shit luck.
A timer ticked on his watch. Ten seconds…five…two…zero: safety. Super-814N’s six-minute emergence window ended, starting an eleven-minute recharge cycle. He set the timer for six hundred and sixty seconds and hurried toward the multipurpose room. He estimated Part Two’s trajectory had placed him twenty feet from the north side of the entrance.
Trevor stayed low and rushed out the multipurpose room’s front door, turning left—a semi-truck smashed into his chin, leveling him. Blinding stars coalesced into his peripheral vision.
“I don’t trust you,” a man’s voice said.
A tenebrous shape loomed over Trevor. He scrambled to his feet.
“You are stronger than you look,” the voice said. “People tend to stay down when I hit them.”
Trevor’s head wobbled then snapped forward—he pressed a forearm to his eyes, the removed it, blinking. As the stars retreated, Tomas materialized in front of him.
“Whoa, you got the wrong idea,” Trevor said, finding his footing.
“Do I?” Tomas said. “You knew what was going to happen on that roof. You slunk away and watched that girl attack us from a safe distance. I saw no surprise in your eyes.” He stepped forward. “Don’t lie to me.”
Who am I kidding? Not this guy, obviously—he’s a hitman, for Christ’s sake.
Trevor feinted left and threw a weak punch to Tomas’ side. Tomas sidestepped, as expected, and Trevor thrust his knee into Tomas’ gut, throwing him back.
“I mistook you,” Tomas said holding his stomach. He grinned, an unsettling sparkle alive in his eyes.
Tomas came toward Trevor, staying outside arm’s reach, then crouched and launched into Trevor’s midsection. He caught Trevor’s left leg and ripped it upward, throwing him to the ground, then mounted him. A torrent of fists and elbows smashed into Trevor’s face, and he guarded with his forearms, but not before he felt the sharp, moist pain of a cut eyebrow. Tomas let free a guttural roar and stretched upward, fully extending his fists above him, and then brought them down on Trevor’s head.
Trevor thrust his hips, using the momentum from Tomas’ attack to propel them into a roll. Trevor straddled Tomas and dug his thumbs into Tomas’ eyes. Tomas clawed at Trevor’s hands, screaming, then jabbed Trevor’s throat with a flattened hand.
A burst of unrelenting pressure in Trevor’s Adam’s apple forced him to gag. He scrambled from Tomas while Tomas rolled on the ground and held his eyes, attempting to stand amidst painful yelps. Trevor bolted, fleeing past Part Seven’s estimated fall position—no time to investigate. He needed to scout out a location where he held an advantage over Tomas. The classroom and administration buildings were too confined; the garden had too many variables; the courtyard not enough. The basketball and tennis courts, however, skirted the edge of the school grounds—a well-lit, open area with a means of escape into the forest. He picked up his pace toward them.
Tomas collected himself and ambled to his feet. His vision returned in time to gauge Trevor’s direction. Saliva dribbled from his lips. He licked them—a tinge of metal danced on his tongue, and its presence excited him. His hands shook and he steadied them into fists. Malvado’s hunt began.
Trevor reached the basketball courts and prepared for Part Two’s arrival. High, chain-link fences surrounded three full-size courts with four entrances, one at every side of the rectangular facility. An unassuming maintenance box sat beside the south entrance. Trevor kicked it, popping off the lid, and dug his hand into the container, fumbling for a round knob and pressing it. This unlocked a thumb-sized repository into which he reached and retrieved a long wire, so thin it was imperceptible to the human eye. He handled the cable as a fisherman might hold a fresh-caught piranha and went to work.
Trevor stationed himself center of the basketball courts as Tomas rounded the corner. Their eyes met, Tomas’ blind with rage. Trevor shivered at his overwhelming presence. Tomas entered the arena.
“Stop!” Trevor said. “I’m warning you!”
Tomas slowed.
“Your next step will be your last,” Trevor said.
Tomas laughed. “You talk big for someone who—how do you say, ‘crashed this party?’” Tomas said. He stayed put.
I don’t want to kill this guy if I can avoid it. Trevor thought. It’s too risky, and that shit will weigh on me. But if it’s him or me…
“Listen,” Trevor said. “I know you think I’m lying about who I am. I don’t know how to convince you otherwise, but let’s pretend you’re right for a minute.”
“Go on,” Tomas said.
“If I am the enemy, instead of trying to tear me apart, why don’t you try and get information out of me?”
“I have a funny way of asking questions. It involves ripping people’s arms off until they tell me everything they know.”
This guy…
“You really think torture is the best means of gathering information?”
Tomas wiped his mouth and spat.
“All right, all right. I can see this is getting us nowhere,” Trevor said and considered his next words. “You’re right—I’m not who I say I am. My name is Gregory Bleaker and I’m…” Trevor pocketed his hands, stared down and kicked an imaginary rock on the ground. “…a ghost hunter.”
Tomas stared at Trevor. As the words registered, Tomas’ eyes floated to a point over Trevor’s shoulder, then snapped back. He burst out laughing.
“You fight well for a ghost hunter,” Tomas said. The laughter did wonders for his complexion—he now seemed only slightly pissed.
“Yeah, well…I took some ninjutsu classes. Kind of a big MMA fan.”
“Is that right? Tell me then, what ghost are you hunting?”
“There’s a local legend about a girl who haunts this school during summer when the students are out. I trekked here from America—thought I could get on a reality TV show or something if I discovered anything. I was about ten miles from the place and found myself here—which I think is the school. Strange luck, really.”
Tomas folded his arms.
“Where exactly are we?” Tomas said.
“Um…Greater Tokyo, near the Kantō region?”
Tomas ground his teeth, veins popping from his temples.
“Do you know a way out?”
“Sure,” Trevor said. “There’s a road at the school’s entrance. Just follow it until you hit town.”
Tomas’ visage darkened. Trevor shuddered.
“You expect me to believe you? Even if I did, you are dead. I avoided finishing the girl when I saw your behavior. Fair’s fair,” Tomas said. “You are my next kill.”
“You really don’t want to—” Trevor said, waving his arms.
Tomas had demolished the ten yards between them when his face flushed white. He touched his neck—a warm crimson wax coated his fingers. His lips flared, curling into a sinister smile, eyes locked on Trevor as his head fell from his shoulders.
“Told you not to move, you dumb, vengeful bastard,” Trevor said.
Trevor carefully walked to the fence, making sure to stay on the north side of the painted court line. He counted the fence’s wired cross-hatches, twelve up and fifteen over. He wrapped his gloved fingers around the end of the slice-wire and unhooked it. He repeated the same exercise on the south fence, then returned the wire to the aluminum box from whence it had originated.
He mused at his clever scheme. Amida, a fickle bitch of a god, would accept only accidental deaths or murders at the hands of Arikura. Trevor, a new addition to the ritual, had to avoid raising suspicion.
“I never thought I’d use slice-wire for…well, slicing someone’s head off,” Trevor said recognizing the humor but choosing not to laugh.
S
weat dripped on his brow. He plunked to the ground and monitored his breath until his muscles loosened. More scientist than soldier, he usually dealt with ritual casualties via a video feed, not in person—especially not by his hands. He pined for Purgatory 8’s comfort.
What am I doing here?
His sense of duty clashed with his conscience. Duty won.
Trevor stood, grabbed Tomas’ ankles and dragged him to a drain at the foot of the fence. He positioned Tomas’s lopped neck on it—blood oozed in dwindling palpitations from gaping veins and spilled into the drain.
Two down and one more, potentially. That’s the minimum requirement.
Trevor located the closest hidden camera and held up two fingers. The camera’s tiny red light blinked twice. Purgatory 8. Always with him.
Time to go back to work.
3
James led. And led. And led. Where to, he knew not. He needed time. Time to think. To plan. To act. He continued, and the rest followed, wandering through the starless woods.
James had been lost once when he was a young boy. His mother had taken him shopping for clothes at J.C. Penney—a run-of-the-mill department store at the mall. He must have been six—maybe seven. She’d stopped to look at a pair of shoes. He’d lost interest and sought the nearest distraction: a t-shirt bearing a Tyrannosaurus rex. He desperately wanted it. She turned her back—he escaped.
His stubby fingers traced the outline of the dinosaur’s teeth, illustrated with dashes of emerald, pinks and ivory. “Ouch!” he said in jest and laughed and wrapped his arms around the shirt, nuzzling it with his cheek. “Oops!” He fell forward. The clothing rack grabbed his arm, bit at his leg and nipped his stomach. He landed, enmeshed inside the rack, inside an unfamiliar world. Shadows surrounded him. Adult voices echoed beyond a dense barrier, muffled in his new refuge.
A thrill coerced from his chest to fingertips. An unseen stalker, he squatted like a ninja, superhuman, like the men in the comics he read with his dad. He giggled. A passing shape stopped and turned toward him. He froze. It moved elsewhere and he sucked in a gulp of air.
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