Spirits of the Noh

by Thomas Randall

  “Yeah,” Kara said. “I’ll see you.”

  The two girls turned and meandered off through the racks, whispering to each other in a way that she should have assumed meant they were gossiping about her. But she didn’t think they were. They had lives, just like she did. Families. They had probably enjoyed the holidays with the people they loved, and now it was a new year.

  No, they would never be friends.

  But maybe it really was a new beginning for all of them.

  Hachiro had seen a lot of impossible things since Kara had come into his life, but never a ghost. The one on the train back to Miyazu City to begin the winter term was his first.

  Late that Monday night, just a couple of days after New Year’s, he sat aboard the busy train, head lolled against the window, lights strobing across the dark glass as the express shot through some commuter station without slowing down. His parents had struggled trying to decide when to drive him back to school and who would take him, so Hachiro had suggested they let him take the train back to Miyazu. At first they had balked, but he had appealed to reason. He knew they loved him, but they both worked and he could take care of himself. Logic triumphed, and now he found himself returning to Monju-no-Chie school a day earlier than he’d planned.

  The early return would be a pleasant surprise for Kara, so he had not told her. And Hachiro had quickly discovered that he did not mind traveling alone. A couple of hours on a train had offered myriad options. He could have played a video game or read baseball magazines or manga. Instead, he listened to music and read from To Kill a Mockingbird in English. Professor Harper had assigned it over break, and explained that the subject matter would be addressed in his American Studies classes and that it would be a challenge for his English-language students. Hachiro had read it twice. Kara’s Japanese was excellent, and he wanted to surprise her by improving his command of her language.

  Now, though, as nine o’clock came and went and the long winter night was well under way, he could not help closing his eyes. He drifted in and out of wakefulness, barely aware of the murmured conversations around him, of the old couple attempting to retain their composure while their granddaughter exhibited a wild imagination and bursts of laughing energy, of the rock star–cool university guy with two giggling girlfriends fawning over him. They were all just vague background as he dozed.

  The train slowed a bit as it rattled onto older tracks, and so he knew they were not far from Miyazu City. The ride would not be as smooth from here on in, but still he rested his head against the window, skull juddering against the glass. Sleepy as he was, Hachiro could not fall into a full slumber because he knew that once he arrived in Miyazu he would have to change to the local train that would take him out along the bay to the station just down the street from Monju-no-Chie school.

  The little girl let out a mischievous squeal, forcing her grandmother to snap at her. Drifting, Hachiro listened, and felt badly for both the girl, who only wanted to play, and the old woman, who could not help being embarrassed by what she would see as improper behavior.

  Eyes closed, head jouncing against the window, he listened. The too-cool university guy whispered things to his female companions that were doubtless far more improper than anything the little girl’s grandmother could even imagine. There were giggles and more whispers, and Hachiro began to drift off again.

  A cold draft caressed his face and slipped like a scarf of silk and snow around his neck. He opened his eyes, wondering where the breeze had come from. Had someone opened a door that let the winter in?

  He glanced around at the windows, then at the doors at either end of the car, but saw nothing that could have been the source of the draft. Only when he lowered his gaze, shifting in his seat, did his mind process what he had just seen. A familiar face, spiky black hair, bright eyes. A face he knew very well.

  Hachiro’s heart raced and a tentative smile touched his lips. Impossible. He was sleepy, half in a dream. There were plenty of teenaged boys with spiky hair, and the kid was half-turned away from him anyway. He could be anyone.

  Curiosity driving him, that chill caress running up the back of his neck, he turned again and looked toward the back of the car. The kid had his chin down, almost as if he were dozing off as well, but his eyes were open and he stared at the floor. The lights in the train car flickered, and in each lightless moment it almost seemed that the darkness outside the windows was trying to get in.

  Jiro.

  But it couldn’t be Jiro, of course. Jiro had been murdered on the shore of Miyazu Bay, his body found drained of blood, his shoes missing. Hachiro had been there when they hauled his corpse out of the water. He could still feel the hollow place inside where his friendship with Jiro had once been.

  The resemblance was uncanny. Hachiro wanted to look away, but he couldn’t stop staring. The train rumbled over a rough section of track and outside the windows he saw the lights of shops and offices—they would be arriving at Miyazu station in moments.

  The wan, yellow luminescence inside the train car flickered again, off and on, off and on, off for several long seconds, and then on again. The kid had not moved.

  Hachiro leaned forward to get a fuller view of the kid, slid almost off his seat so he could see past briefcases and small suitcases and outstretched legs. Then he froze, ice racing through his veins. His breath came in tiny, hitching gasps and he slowly shook his head.

  The kid had no shoes on. His feet were so pale.

  He turned to look at Hachiro, not in some random fashion but in a slow, sad glance that said he had been aware all along of being watched. And when he smiled wistfully and gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment, Hachiro could not lie to himself anymore.

  Jiro.

  The train began to slow. Hachiro could not breathe. He locked eyes with the ghost—for what else could it be?—and felt all of the sadness of his friend’s death return. He wanted to speak, to ask questions, to say that Jiro had been missed. He wanted to run, to hide, to nurture the fear that rose in him. The lights flickered again, and now, for the first time, he realized that Jiro had faded, his presence thin as delicate parchment, the shapes and shadows of the floor and the seat and even the window visible through him.

  The conductor’s voice filled the air. The train lurched three times in quick succession, but the third was the worst, rocking Hachiro forward, breaking his eye contact with Jiro. He had to put a hand out to keep from being thrown from his seat as the train came to an abrupt halt.

  As he turned, the doors shushed open and people rose, grabbing their bags, chatter erupting as they began to herd out.

  “No,” Hachiro said, grabbing his bag and standing.

  He thrust himself into the flow of disembarking passengers, searching the crowd for that spiky hair, that familiar face. He caught a glimpse of a silhouette he thought might be that of the ghost.

  “Jiro!” he called.

  Several people gave him disapproving looks, but most simply pretended not to hear him. Hachiro called out again, fear and confusion warring within him, and he pushed through the crowd and stepped off the train.

  On the station platform he stopped and looked around. Hachiro was tall and broad shouldered, so he stood his ground and peered over the heads of the other passengers. He called Jiro’s name again, but already his hopes were fading. Someone bumped him from behind and he staggered two steps forward.

  People streamed away, reuniting with family and friends and lovers and then vanishing from the platform. Only stragglers were left when the train hissed loudly and the doors closed and it began to glide away.

  Jiro stood just inside the doors, staring out at Hachiro as the train pulled away. He hadn’t been there a moment before. The ghost watched him with sad eyes, and as the train rattled out of the station he faded from view.

  Gone again.

  Hachiro stared along the tracks for a long time after the train had gone, frightened and glad all at the same time, and he wondered if, perhaps, he should never have come
back to Miyazu City. To Monju-no-Chie school.

  To Kara.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THOMAS RANDALL is the author of the popular children’s fantasy series Adventures in Strangewood. He lives in Tarrytown, New York, and frequently vacations in places that exist only inside his head.

  www.thewakingbooks.com

  Also by Thomas Randall

  The Waking: Dreams of the Dead

  Copyright © 2011 by The Daring Greatly Corporation

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  First published in the United States of America in June 2011

  by Bloomsbury Books for Young Readers

  E-book edition published in June 2011

  www.bloomsburyteens.com

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Bloomsbury BFYR, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Randall, Thomas.

  The waking : spirits of the Noh / by Thomas Randall. — 1st U.S. ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Just as Kara and her friends at the Monju-no-Chie school in Japan are beginning to get over the horrifying deaths of two students, another monster emerges to terrorize the school.

  ISBN 978-1-59990-251-7 (hardcover)

  [1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Monsters—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Japan—Fiction. 5. Horror stories.] I. Title. II. Title: Spirits of the Noh.

  PZ7.R15845Was 2010 [Fic]—dc22 2009018251

  ISBN 978-1-59990-712-3 (e-book)