The Suffering

by Rin Chupeco

  Also unlike her sister ghosts’, Hotoke’s head has nearly been taken off her shoulders. Her neck is slit from ear to ear, blood dripping onto her clothes.

  I cringe, taking a step back before remembering the mob of skeletons behind me. Okiku thinks differently, positioning herself between us. I grab her hand.

  “Ki, no.” I don’t want her to face the ghost, though I can’t think of another alternative. I’d rather risk using my recorder and my last remaining Kewpie doll in lieu of a hanayome ningyō to trap the ghost than see Okiku helpless again.

  She squeezes my hand. “It is all right.”

  “But—”

  “Look.”

  The ghost circles us, blue eyes trained on my face, but she doesn’t attack. If anything, she’s hesitating. A vengeful creature would be trying to gnaw my face off by now.

  “She has not been sacrificed,” Okiku says.

  Slowly, Hotoke nods. It takes a moment to process what they both mean. “She hasn’t taken part in the ritual,” I say, trying to puzzle my way through. It explains how the manner of her death—obvious enough—isn’t consistent with the suffocation that the others succumbed to.

  I remember my visions, the sluggish way the other girls walked to their executions, as if they had little control of their bodies.

  The tea Father gave me is getting cold, Hotoke had written in her diary, so I have set it aside.

  That explained all the research Kazuhiko Kino did about the use of belladonna. I had glossed over most of it, but a few things stand out in my mind. Belladonna is a poison, one that can have a paralyzing effect, and it was known as “the beautiful death.”

  Even Yukiko Uchiyama’s mad scribblings had a grain of sanity to them.

  Don’t drink the tea.

  Beware the beautiful death.

  “There was something in the tea,” I say, understanding. “That was why the other girls didn’t resist. They wouldn’t have been willing to be martyrs, so there had to be a way to keep them docile before they were sacrificed to meet the ritual’s prerequisite. But you didn’t drink the tea, did you, Hotoke-san? You weren’t docile when they came for you once you realized the truth. You interrupted the ritual.”

  I refusssed. Her voice gurgles from the never-ending stream of blood flowing out of her neck.

  “Tomeo told you what really happened to the other girls. He suspected that they and their companions were killed, right? And when he was killed, you tried to stop the ritual by killing yourself, thinking it would all end in your death.” I struggle to remember what The Book of Unnatural Changes had mentioned. “Except it didn’t. Instead, the ritual failed. Whatever was keeping the hell’s gate stable fell apart. The gate wrested control away from the kannushi and condemned the whole village.”

  Sssuffering. Amendss.

  “Is that why you helped us? To avenge Tomeo’s death and to help the village?”

  No.

  In spite of her cut throat, she moves fast. She’s in front of me in a blink of an eye, dead face lolling against mine. I fall back, but she’s already reached a hand out and laid it against my cheek.

  And I—

  “You’ll never win,” she says, triumphant.

  She does not resist when the men take hold of her arms, because she knows she cannot escape. That does not matter. Beside her, Tomeo’s face is dirty and smudged. He too is being restrained by an assistant priest, but she draws comfort from his nearness, mustering all the strength that she will need. He looks over at her and tries to smile—

  —Wait. I know that boy! I know—

  —The kannushi stands before her, and she knows that he is angry, even through his mask. Small torches flicker in the cave, casting an eerie light over the silkworm tree.

  “We will.”

  “You will not.”

  “You can escape again, and we will still find you,” the kannushi repeats, unrepentant. “Your attempts are futile. Now, we shall finish this.” He gestures and the men obey. They force her toward the altar, and still she does not struggle. A long ceremonial knife lies in the center of the slab, the blade’s dark gleam bright and beckoning.

  “I am sorry, Hotoke,” the kannushi says. “There is no other way.”

  “There is always another way.” She sobs bitterly. “I trusted you! Everyone in the village trusted you! You cannot do this!”

  “But I can, my child.” The man lifts his mask and smiles at his daughter. “Imagine what we can do with this power, Hotoke! Imagine how we can change the country, fostering a new age of prosperity and strength! I have the vision and the will to see it through, unlike the emperor’s sycophants. Once we control the gate, Hotoke, I will bring you back, bring the whole village back! I will bring your soul back with the Hundred Days ritual. I swear on this!”

  She does not answer her father at first, instead focusing on Tomeo. “Swear to me,” she says, “swear that you will escape from here. It is the only way.”

  He knows it is futile to pretend that he could save her. His eyes fill with tears. “I swear.”

  “Now.” With a sudden burst of energy she tears herself from her captors’ grasp and snatches the knife. Tomeo shoves the assistant priest aside, taking advantage of the confusion to dart away.

  Before anyone can stop her, she presses the knife to her throat.

  “You lie, Father,” she says, and—

  “That is enough,” Okiku interrupts sharply, ending the connection between the ghost and me. I stagger back, my hands clasped over my eyes. I had lifted them without thinking, an instinctive bid to shield myself from the sight of Hotoke Oimikado slitting her own throat, though it is hard to avoid if it’s happening inside your mind.

  I look up. Okiku hovers over me protectively, glaring at Hotoke’s ghost.

  “I-I know the boy,” I manage to say, trembling, “I know Tomeo.”

  I’ve seen his face among Kagura’s belongings—in the faded photograph of the kid with the solemn, sad smile, and then again in his twilight years, posing with his daughter, Kagura.

  Tomeo is Kazuhiko Kino. It explains how he claimed to have been to Aitou, though he never told Kagura how he accomplished it. It also explains why he was so obsessed with returning to lift the curse. When Hotoke killed herself and unleashed the hell’s gate, he must have found a way to escape the village.

  As I struggle through this newfound epiphany, Hotoke is silent. Of all the spirits who reside in this tiny purgatory, she is the only one who has remained unaffected by the hell’s gate’s malice, but she has still been forced to endure years in this place, waiting for someone to lift the curse.

  “She cannot enter the kannushi’s territory as she is,” Okiku whispers. “The tree will entrap her if she does.”

  “Then how do we make this right?”

  She indicates the magatama I hold. With a sudden burst of inspiration, I raise the jewel to my eye again.

  The apparition staring back at me is no longer a figure of nightmares. She is a sad-eyed young girl, staring back at me with a combination of regret and determination. You must perform the final ritual before he does, I hear her say in my head. Do not let him do it.

  I know who she’s referring to. The kannushi. Her own father. I do not know the extent of the magatama’s power—if it shielded Kazuhiko from the bride ghosts or if it kept him sane during his time here—but it was not enough to protect him from the priest’s wrath. If even Hotoke hadn’t been able to save Kazuhiko, then the kannushi would be difficult to get rid of.

  Even worse, I recognize the kannushi’s face. He guided me out of the underground passage and showed me the books in his library.

  The mob in the pit is still scratching at its sides, but now that I know the truth, they no longer seem as malevolent, only beseeching. I watch as Hotoke drifts toward them, stopping by the corpse of her boyhood companion, the man who survived the first culling, only to succumb many years later to the fate he once escaped. I watch as she stoops to lay a hand along the man’s sunken cheeks, fi
ngers tracing a pattern across the withered skin.

  “Will you help me?” For us to leave, I have to finish the ritual. And to finish the ritual, I need a sacrifice. I ask.

  Hotoke doesn’t answer, doesn’t even turn to look at us, but I can hear her reply, loud and clear.

  “Thank you,” I tell her, but she continues to stroke the dead man’s face like she hadn’t heard. I feel Okiku’s hand on my sleeve.

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Of course I do,” I respond, appalled that she would have to ask, but when her eyes don’t meet mine, I understand. Keren McNeil’s death still hovers between us, and she’s thinking about my previous accusation that she was no better than the woman in black who haunted my life for so long.

  I cradle Okiku’s face with my hand. “I trust you with my life, Ki. I will always trust you.”

  Her rigid mouth relaxes slightly. “She needs something from you.”

  I glance at the ghost. Hotoke kneels beside the remains of her fallen love while skeletons cluster around her, a mass of spectral memories venerating their queen. After a moment, she rises and moves toward me. I shrink back despite myself. “Do you trust her?” I ask Okiku.

  “Enough for our purpose.”

  It’s not the most comforting answer, but I nod. The specter studies me almost curiously, and then I feel the lightest of touches in my mind again—

  It is late in the afternoon when a group of woodsmen encounter the half-delirious boy, too weak to resist as they carry him away. From the gates of the cursed village, the ghost watches until they are gone, the stillness of the woods muting their footsteps.

  “Do not come back, Tomeo,” she whispers. “Do not come back—”

  —I don’t quite understand what happens next, but when I resurface, Hotoke is gone. With her departure, the other ghosts have also lost their mobility, their bones lying scattered as they were when we first arrived.

  “She wishes to be left alone,” Okiku says. I decide not to argue with her. Kagura and Riley are still somewhere in these tunnels, and I need to find them quickly.

  But first, I hang the magatama around my neck and attend to the cocoons, which contain the essence of more villagers and a few of the lower-ranked assistant priests who’d been too innocent to really understand the kind of ceremony they were taking part in.

  The last cocoon reveals the image of a familiar face, and my heart lurches in sympathy.

  I’ve found Garrick Adams. I don’t know how he found this place on his own—if his past experience with ghosts enabled him to get this far—but I’m sorry to discover one more person we couldn’t save.

  ***

  The old man is waiting for us when we return to the fork where I lost Kagura and Riley. It is as if he’s been expecting me all this time. He tips his head and gestures toward the other end of the tunnel.

  “Cut the bullshit, kannushi,” I snap. Hotoke’s memories are still as clear as a cloudless day in my head, and her hatred for her father mingles with my own disgust. “Or should I say, Hiroshi Mikage. Stop pretending to help me. We both know finishing the ritual is all you’re interested in. Where are my friends?”

  If I’m hoping to somehow intimidate the man, I’m wrong. A tiny, almost mocking smile appears on his face. It was the same expression I saw when he lifted his mask and condemned his own daughter, using her life to strengthen his.

  My previous hunch is right. Hiroshi Mikage is the Lord Oimikado, the kannushi of Aitou village. Mikado means “emperor” in Japanese, a clue I should have noticed sooner. Given the accounts of him before his exile from the emperor’s court, Mikage wouldn’t have stooped to using some lowly peasant name.

  Without saying a word, Oimikado walks down the passage. I follow; I already know where he’s taking me.

  When we step into a cave even larger than the one containing the altar, the silkworm tree is what first catches my eye. It’s every inch as imposing and as terrifying as in the girls’ visions: a stunning monument to decay and aberrance.

  There is no need for torches here; a queer light emanates from somewhere above our heads. I can’t tell if the ceiling opens to the sky or if the light is from some luminescent mold.

  Kagura stands below the silkworm tree, her hands tied above her head, much the same way the bride ghosts were bound. My hands clench when I see that the lower part of her body is already cocooned in a long silk cloth. Her bag is on the floor, and the bridal dolls she’s acquired circle the tree. As I draw closer, I see the cocoons surrounding her and realize, to my revulsion, that some of them are moving.

  Riley kneels beside Kagura, his hands bound behind his back. Two specters—both assistant priests, judging from their clothing, and still loyal to the kannushi even in death—stand behind him. The Ghost Haunts host looks visibly frightened, uncertain of what is going to happen next, but Kagura is calm and composed. She spots me, and her gaze hardens.

  “Please get out of here, Tarquin-san.”

  “I won’t, Kagura.” I don’t think I could have, even if I wanted to. There is only one way to end all this, and that is to face Hiroshi Mikage and all the demons he’s freed from the hell’s gate.

  The kannushi does not need to ask me for the terms of my surrender. I can already imagine what he wants me to do. “My life in exchange for hers, right? And if I refuse, you’ll kill them both, huh?”

  “Don’t do it, Tark!”

  “He’s been planning this from the very beginning, Kagura. Why else would he go through all this trouble to be helpful to me? He wants me here. Showing me that old book in his house, helping me through the tunnels—he wanted me to learn about the ritual, to come to this silkworm tree. I am meant to be a part of the sacrifice.”

  Because I’m exactly what he needs: a boy with a particularly strong attachment to a young ghost girl who, if not actually killed by the ritual Lord Oimikado or Hiroshi Mikage began, nonetheless meets all the requirements for it.

  Okiku does meet all of the kannushi’s requirements. I am to her the way Tomeo was to Hotoke, and Okiku doesn’t need to have spent three years in an isolated room to strengthen our bond. She’s rife with spiritual energy. To rule the gate, one must suffer. My death would cause Okiku to suffer, just as the ritual demands. And Mikage clearly intends to rule the gate.

  That is the reason he has waited so long without performing the seventh ritual. He was willing to wait as long as it took for an eighth sacrifice to come to the village—for the eighth ritual to be performed as well. Kagura must have seemed like a viable candidate until he set his sights on Okiku.

  “But you can’t do that just yet, can you, Lord Oimikado? Or Hiroshi Mikage or douche bag or whatever the hell you call yourself nowadays.” I reach behind me and produce one of the hanayome ningyō. “There are five dolls here, but you still need a sixth.” I point to one doll lying by its lonesome, some distance from the circle—Yukiko’s hanayome ningyō, still uninhabited by its owner.

  Should the gate fall, only one hope remains. Use the vessels to trap the sacrifices within. Perform a final ritual one last time in their presence. Wasn’t that what The Book of Unnatural Changes instructed?

  “You have no control over the ghost brides, or you would have found a way to bind them years ago. For all the power you claim to possess, you can’t even control your own failures. In fact,” I add, with a sudden burst of certainty, “you don’t go out much, do you? All those ghosts crawling the village scare you. They don’t like you, do they? It’s why I only see you inside your own house or here, underground. Hiding.”

  I didn’t intend to bait the kannushi, but I guess it’s just my personality. His face hardens and the gentle, almost compassionate features twist. The monster inside him comes out. It’s like Keren McNeil all over again. Mikage’s own incompetence obviously grates on him, and my barbs are hitting home.

  I risk more of his wrath by walking over to the empty bridal doll and picking it up. Faint movement above us tells me I’ve got more to worry about than just the
priest, and I struggle to keep the same composure as Kagura. I don’t have much of a choice; the circle of ghost brides needs to be completed in order to pull this off the way I hope to. The problem is that Lord Oimikado–Mikage–douche bag needs for it to happen too.

  Another problem is the ghost lurking in the shadows above—Yukiko Uchiyama in her kimono of plums and bamboos and cranes. Kagura and I never did catch her, but the miko banked on the fact that Yukiko’s ghost would be attracted to the spiritual energy surrounding the place, to the dolls and the ghost brides trapped inside. To her own doll that we’d taken, the one I’m holding at the moment.

  I can feel Okiku breaking away from me, her attention focused on the cave ceiling. The action is all I need to prepare myself. I slip my recorder out of my pocket, still holding on to my wooden stake.

  The hissing, inhuman noises above me are my signal. I glance up.

  Yukiko Uchiyama’s ghost crawls along the rock, trailing blood and other sorts of crazy. For once, the dead girl’s focus isn’t on me. Her gaze is trained on Hiroshi Mikage, the man responsible for her years of torment, and her wide-lipped grin is bright with the promise of bloodshed.

  That’s the problem with collecting too much energy in one place. There’s the energy that the silkworm tree possesses and the dolls multiplying it further. Just as I attract spirits to me when Okiku isn’t around, the tree attracts spirits eager to feast.

  Good thing there’s one other person Yukiko despises more than a budding exorcist.

  A thin, earsplitting wail breaks through the air, and the ghost attacks. Her claws sink into the kannushi, driving him to the ground. I sprint toward Kagura and Riley. The assistant priests hesitate, torn between protecting their master and preventing their prisoners from escaping. Finally, they abandon the duo and race to defend their head priest.

  “That was dangerous,” Kagura whispers after I use the jeweled dagger to cut her bindings, then do the same for Riley.

  “Put that in my annual performance review.” Yukiko is still going to town on the kannushi, but as neither can bleed, I don’t know how much damage Mikage is sustaining. The assistant priests reach his side, but Yukiko doesn’t even blink. Her hands tear through one of them like he is made of paper, and the glowing figure collapses, falling to his knees.