The Suffering

by Rin Chupeco

  What I see makes my spirits sink even further. There is a large, gaping hole in the floor. Kagura isn’t here.

  I ponder using my flashlight, hesitating only because I don’t know if this might attract more attention than I want.

  A twig snaps somewhere behind me, and I whirl around. The road behind me is empty, and I don’t see anything moving among the houses. Still, I grip the spike tightly in my right hand, the flashlight in my left, in case it’s possible to bash a ghost’s head with it. After all, these bastards cheat.

  I resume looking through the hole and blink. The shrine’s floor and the walls, in their varying shades of darkness, have disappeared. Now everything’s blue, as if a blanket had been draped across the opening when I wasn’t looking. In the center of that blue is a small black circle.

  I still don’t understand.

  Until the black circle in that pool of blue dilates—and she blinks.

  Chapter Eleven

  Purpose

  I don’t recall how I made it from gaping at the ghost girl to cowering inside the nearest house. But I’m taping another ofuda across the sliding screen by the time I’m aware of what I’m doing. Then I sag to my knees, because if those ghosts don’t kill me, a premature heart attack will.

  I can feel Okiku stirring, concerned.

  “No.” My voice comes out hoarse. “I’m okay.”

  It’s too early for her to have fully recovered, and despite all the evidence to the contrary, male pride insists I can handle the situation until she has.

  I scan the room with my flashlight, trying to listen for any sounds of scratching and thumping, but I don’t seem to be sharing the space with anyone else, incorporeal or otherwise. Then I devote a minute or two to rocking myself on the floor and whimpering, because holy hell, that was scary as fuck.

  Blue eyes. The ghost had freaking blue eyes. I’m the only Asian I know with blue eyes, and my dad is to thank for that. Kazuhiko Kino never mentioned any of the girls having a foreign mom or dad, which makes this even more confusing.

  After I calm myself as best as I can, I take another quick look around. This room is much larger than the first one I entered. It’s also more fully furnished with an assortment of tables and chairs that have stood the test of time. What catches my eye are the books strewn about—some still on makeshift wooden shelves and bookcases, others tumbled about the floor—as if someone left in a hurry and didn’t bother to clean up before he went. When I examine one of the far bookcases, I find another writhing cocoon on the floor beside it, this time an old woman, which I take care of quickly.

  A yellowed and moth-eaten old futon is folded in the room’s center. A small Jizo statue, complete with its own mini stone grotto, is built into one corner. It’s the only thing in the room that looks intact, though parts of its face have eroded over time.

  The books are the obvious choice to look through, but I’m not sure how much information I can glean from these. Aside from being written in kanji, they are worn out and capable of crumbling into dust if I so much as touch them. There’s nothing sadder than a book that hasn’t been cared for, a book too broken to read.

  Still, I try to thumb my way through the ones that seem most durable, hoping for an illustration or some clue as to where Kagura and the others might be. Some books look like they’ve been churned out of an old printing press, but others appear to have been written by hand. Those are the ones that I concentrate on. I find a book with a series of rough diagrams and a drawing I recognize immediately, given my previous scares.

  Silkworms. The diagrams depict silkworms in varying stages of life, from egg to pupa to ugly flying insect.

  I remember the white, shapeless mass thumping on the floor, and I shudder.

  I find a few more drawings in other volumes—either raising silkworms was the occupant’s hobby or Aitou trade centered around it. There must be a connection between this and the large creature I had to kill, because there was no way that cocoon could have been natural.

  Remember my pet spider? It’s back. I know even before I turn around that there’s a presence behind me. The tape recorder is within reach, but I’d need to dig into my pack for the dolls I brought with me. The wooden stake is my best hope.

  I gulp in a deep breath and then whip around, taking several steps back as I do, in case it tries to lunge for me.

  It doesn’t. It’s not the crawling ghost or the ghost in the videos or even the shrine ghost.

  It’s an old man, and he doesn’t attack. Instead, he stands there and looks at me with a sad, forlorn look on his graying face. He’s dressed in a long, plain robe, and the tate eboshi cap on his forehead tells me he was someone of enough importance in the village to be given the right to wear it. Every textbook I’ve read on Japanese history always portrayed scribes with that tall, black hat.

  He’s staring at me—not in a bad way but not in any way I can call good either. He lifts his hand and points at a spot above my head and then vanishes before my eyes.

  I turn in the direction he pointed. There are a couple of books on one of the upper shelves, collecting dust and cobwebs. I carefully take them down and slowly open one, trying not to choke on the dust billowing in my face.

  It doesn’t look all that different from the others I’ve tried to read, but the handwriting’s a lot more legible and I can pick out maybe one word for every seven or eight. Some words, like hitori-kakurenbo and kekkon, jump out at me, because I’ve researched them enough to familiarize myself with the kanji.

  Hitori-kakurenbo means one-man tag. The same game I played with Sondheim and Trish and the seven-armed, unfortunately named Dumbelina.

  Kekkon is not a word I would normally find with it, but I know what it means—marriage. Kagura’s father wrote about a ritualized marriage in the village, and Kagura mentioned it in the video.

  I don’t like where this is going. I’m not surprised that marriage is mentioned in connection with the village, but what does one-man tag have to do with all this?

  I pick out a few more words, but the context is difficult to understand. I see “shrine maiden” and “dolls” and “companion,” but the rest of the passage may as well be caveman drawings for all the good it does me. My frustration mounts. I know there’s something important written in these pages, but I can’t read it!

  I turn a few more pages and a sheaf of paper slips out. I pick it up; it looks like a list:

  I don’t recognize most of the kanji, but I know the third column is a list of dates based on the Japanese calendar, with the last entry in the same time period as that in the girl’s diary. This could be important.

  I turn my attention to the book’s cover. It’s blank, except for a name scrawled along the bottom. Japanese names are even harder for me to understand than words, because one additional stroke of the kanji can completely change its meaning. But the owner of this house was clearly an important person—possibly the man whose ghost directed me to the book.

  “Are you still here?” My voice quavers. Helpful or not, he’s still a ghost, and I’m still not sure what his motives are. I’m not actually expecting a reply, but I’m disappointed by the silence.

  “Tarquin?” I hear Okiku whisper. I feel her step out, stronger now than she was, another sign that there are no other spirits nearby—malignant ones anyway.

  “I need some help.” I show her the book. “Any idea what this is all about?”

  Okiku studies the pages and turns them rapidly. She could soak up a library in minutes if she wanted to. “It is a ritual,” she says softly.

  “What kind of ritual?”

  “A sacrifice. A foul sacrifice.”

  I swallow, my sense of foreboding rising. I’m trying to put together all the information I’ve gotten so far. “What does it say?”

  “That girls are given to boys in the village for marriage.”

  “The ritual marriages, right? I guess one part of Kagura’s father’s research has been verified. Anything else in particular?”


  “For three years, she is given only the boy for company. At the end, she is willing. At the end, he will also be willing. She will be chosen.”

  “So it’s a nicer way of saying she’ll be killed. I get it. Did Kazuhiko interview some of these boys before they were… No, I don’t think so. It would have been too important not to have been mentioned in his research, and Kagura never said anything about it. Do you know what this list is for?” I show her the page.

  “Girls,” Okiku says softly, touching the first column. Her finger moves across the rest. “Ages. Nengō.” I nod. Nengō are Japanese eras—often named in accordance with the emperor in power—that were used in place of dates on the standard Western calendar. The dates in the girl’s diary were marked the same way. Based on how these nengō were written, I estimate that three years have passed in between each name, which makes seven names over twenty years. Okiku nods in confirmation, then explains the final column. “Boys.”

  “Do you know what this means? Are these the girls who were sacrificed? Why does the last entry only include the girl’s name?” I pause, staring at the last line. Then I take the book back from Okiku and look at the cover again.

  “Say, Ki… This name has some of the same kanji as the one on the cover.”

  “Oimikado Hiroshi.” She touches the book, then returns to the loose sheaf. “Oimikado Hotoke.”

  “They’re related? Like…father and daughter?” Did incomplete information mean that the girl managed to escape and the practice was discontinued? That didn’t sound likely. I know from firsthand experience that botched rituals can lead to hauntings and curses. And I’m beginning to think the ghosts who haunt the village are the sacrificed girls. Was that what the man’s ghost was trying to do? Show me how to break the curse somehow?

  What had Kagura’s notes said again?

  Should any of these rituals fail, then the sacrifices shall be released back into the world of men. Those who face their wrath are doomed.

  Well, damn.

  A cry splits the air from somewhere outside, all the more horrifying because I recognize it as a human sound. I spring for the door and edge it open, careful not to dislodge the ofuda and wary that this might somehow be a trap, though I think it would be hard for any ghost to mimic the absolute terror I hear in that voice.

  A man is on the ground, his shirt caked in blood and grime. There are several cuts on his face, and one of his legs appears to be broken. His eyes widen when he sees me. “Help!” he gasps, turning to look over his shoulder in fright.

  I don’t need to see why. The crawling ghost is back, and she is closing in. I know he will never make it into the house by himself.

  I tear out the ofuda to open the door all the way and lunge forward to help. The man has thirty pounds or so on me, and lugging him inside is both exhausting and terrifying, because the ghost is gaining on us. For a brief moment, I’m tempted to leave this man to his fate and save myself. But the ghost makes a horrific clacking sound, and every muscle in my body screams at me to stop thinking and bring him in, goddamn it.

  We make it inside, the ghost only a few yards away. I all but toss the poor man into the center of the room and slide the door shut, though the force makes the screen bounce open a couple of inches. I yank out another ofuda and slap it onto the screen, right in the gap between the two—just moments before the girl’s ghastly white face appears, clacking her teeth at me.

  I freeze, ready to pee in my pants and expecting the ofuda not to work. We stare at each other, and the girl’s smile only widens, like she’s enjoying the game I’m letting her play. She lifts her hand and places it on the shoji screen. Her smile shrinks when Okiku looms up behind me, matching her stare for undead stare. The other ghost eventually retreats but only partly because of Okiku. Her filmy eyes flick to something to her left, and she emits a furious snarl before vanishing into the mist—but not before I get a better view of the bloodied green kimono she’s wearing.

  My blood freezes at the sight. It’s a selection of cranes—how did that girl’s diary describe it?—“looking out through the bamboos and plums.”

  Another ghost flits across the opening of the door, head tilted to one side, hair thankfully covering her face and sparing me the horrifying sight. Unlike the first, this one prefers to stand, passing me without so much as a glance. Her focus seems intent on the other ghost, and when she disappears, I am too glad to question her indifference.

  Shaken, I sag to the floor before remembering I have a wounded guy with me. Up close, his injuries are more serious than I thought. There are angry red gashes across his chest, the tip of one extending all the way up to his cheek. As far as I can tell, his right leg is useless. I don’t need a medical degree to know he won’t be using it ever again. He’s making harsh sounds, nearly unintelligible in his agony.

  At best, I can do something about the lacerations on his chest. I pour some of my water onto the wounds and wrap the deeper gashes with the strips of bandages from the medical kit. The man sinks into unconsciousness, still sobbing. From the ragged remains of his shirt, I can see the Ghost Haunts logo, and there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s one of the film crew. The knowledge brings me hope—because Kagura and the others might have survived too—but also fear that they all encountered the ghost that did a number on this guy.

  Okiku is perched atop a small pile of rubble, eyeballing the man the way she might a poisonous snake. I shoo her away, because a competent nurse she is not.

  “You’re not going to die,” I tell the man, trying not to sound too grim about that statement. I don’t really want another death on my conscience, and if I want to find his companions alive, that revolves around keeping him breathing so I can ferret out as much information as I can.

  The man revives again after a few minutes, and I help him drink from the bottle. The thought crosses my mind that this place doesn’t look like it has access to clean drinking water, and with mine now more than halfway depleted, I’ll need to figure something out later on.

  “You’re not a ghost,” the guy whispers after one last swallow.

  I bite back the urge to be sarcastic, lowering my voice instead to try to sound soothing. “No, I’m a friend of Kagura’s. You’re with the Ghost Haunts crew, right?” A weak moan is his answer. “I’ve been looking for you guys. Do you know where the others are?”

  “The shrine. They’re heading to the shrine…”

  “I’ve been to the shrine. It’s boarded up.”

  The man tries to shake his head, but he mews in pain again. I take the rolled-up futon and prop it behind his back. There isn’t much in the way of blankets, so I’m relieved the house is sturdy enough to stop the cold drafts from outside.

  “A…nother way,” the man gasps. “There’s another way…”

  “Another way into the shrine? Where is it?”

  “The dolls,” the man sobs. “Miss Kino…”

  His strength gives out, and he lapses once more into unconsciousness.

  I stare at the overhead ceiling, scowling, like maybe the answer is going to leap out at me from there. Then I look through my backpack and bring out the camcorder. My skin crawls at the thought of the video, but I can’t bring myself to delete it, under the absurd, twisted notion that it might still have useful information that I missed the first time.

  I play the second video again, fast-forwarding through Kagura’s interview until I come to the part I’m looking for. “He possessed a rough map, supposedly of the village itself. I can’t vouch for its accuracy, but certain houses were marked with names—seven in all,” Kagura is saying. “These were believed to be the family residences of the seven girls who had been sacrificed—”

  I hit the fast-forward button and release it. “I’d like copies for all of us before we set out, if you don’t mind,” Garrick says this time. “It might not be accurate, but it’s the best lead we’ve got.”

  Bingo.

  Pawing through an unconscious man’s pants while he’s still w
earing them does not rank up there as one of my greatest moments, but given what’s at stake, I mumble an apology and dig into the sleeping man’s pockets like my life depends on it. I find a lighter, his wallet (driver’s license puts his name as Alan George), and a piece of paper that I unfold eagerly.

  A “rough sketch” is right. The only houses listed on the map are the girls’ residences, but based on my last exploration outside, I know there are a lot more houses than this, and none of them had any family names written on their front porches. Okiku seems to be able to detect where the ghosts are, so I figure I’ll let her do the guiding if I need to.

  All the houses look the same to me anyway, so I focus on the shrine to get my bearings, then work from there. If this map is accurate, then the house we are in must be the Oimikado household, which explains a lot. The ghost I saw earlier must be the elder Oimikado, and his daughter the last to be sacrificed.

  But what happened to her? The list implies that the seventh ritual hadn’t been completed. Where is the girl now? Is she one of the spirits roving this village, or did she manage to escape?

  I scan the map again to compare it with the list. The kanji of the girls’ family names match the houses mentioned, which bolsters the credibility of both. But is there something in these houses we’re supposed to find? And for what? Hiroshi Mikage’s residence isn’t marked, and I’m assuming the most important man in the village gets to have a palace of sorts. Why isn’t it indicated here?

  All girls eight through twelve shall bring their hanayome ningyō, each in their likeness. When the door closes, the sun shall die. When it is reborn anew, she whose doll is honored shall be chosen, and she must be willing.

  I’m pretty sure that was how they selected the girls for the ceremony. If the families in Aitou village were as traditional as they sounded, they would have kept their daughters’ dolls. They would have found places of honor for the dolls in family shrines, where they would have been protected and worshipped along with the other gods.