by Rin Chupeco
It also meant that if these daughters are still prowling the village, the only vessels capable of containing them will be these dolls, if any of them still remain.
“Oh shit.” I whisper. To close the hell’s gate, seven rituals are required, and at least six have already been carried out. Six girls meant six dolls. I now understand the purpose of one-man tag in this village. To contain their ghosts, I’ll have to play with each of them.
“Oh shit,” I say again, just because I can. The thought of playing another game of one-man tag is enough to make me weep, let alone six more.
“Okiku, can you tell me her name—right here?” My finger hovers on the sixth name on the list.
“Uchiyama Yukiko.”
“Uchiyama Yukiko,” I echo. The Yukiko-chan referenced in that unnamed girl’s diary that Kagura kept. The same Yukiko-chan to have worn a kimono of cranes and plums.
She had been chased away by that other ghost and for no reason I could think of. Are they possessive of their respective territories? It’s something to remember at least.
The man coughs weakly and opens his eyes again. I’m by his side within seconds. “Listen, Mr. George,” I begin, trying to make myself as precise as I can, wanting to learn as much as I can without pushing. “My name is Tark Halloway. I’m looking for Kagura and the rest of your crew. Do you understand me so far?”
The man blinks at me but nods.
“Good. I know you’re in pain, and I’m sorry, but this is important. I want you to tell me everything Kagura told you about this place. Do you know where she is or where the others are? What did she tell you to do?”
Alan gulps, his eyes flicking toward the shoji screen.
“No one is coming in, Alan.” I try to sound reassuring. “There are wards on the door to prevent anything from coming in. Please, I need to know.”
The man’s lips move. “The dolls,” he croaks out. “The dolls are the key.”
“The key?”
“The key to the shrine below. Miss Kagura…” He coughs again and struggles to sit up. I help him back down, not wanting him to see the extent of his own injuries. “Miss Kagura took…the ghost. It…went into the doll. But there were more of them…”
“What doll was this?” I persist.
“She found it. In one of the huh-houses…” His voice trails, losing strength again. “She called it a…a haname…hayome…”
“A hanayome ningyō.” A bridal doll, just like Okiku had said. Just like the doll that had been staring at me in the first house we snuck into. I’d dismissed it as a simple child’s toy.
Then there must be other dolls like those, scattered in the houses around us.
That settles things. George’s account cheers me up, as odd as it may seem. Kagura’s alive. I know it. She’s stuck here in this strange limbo, and she’s done what I would have counted on her to do: seal these ghosts away. If I investigate the houses, I can possibly find the bridal dolls and find her.
The downside is that to do this, I’ll have to brave going outside again. Out to face the ghosts and whatever creatures wander in that dark.
Decisions, decisions.
“I can sense them,” Okiku says.
“The ghosts?” I ask, ignoring the man’s confused expression.
“No. The dolls. They are still in the village.”
“Are they intact? I mean, can we use them?”
“As long as the ghosts wander, the dolls remain.” Okiku purses her lips.
“Good to know.”
“It is strange. They feel…”
I wait for her to finish, but Okiku’s train of thought ends there. Instead, she stands by the shoji screen, frowning to herself.
I give the man more water to drink and adjust the futon behind him so he’s as comfortable as he can be. “I am going to leave,” I begin and then keep him still when he bolts up to protest. “No, listen to me. I’ve placed wards on the doors. As long as you’re here, you’re going to be safe. I mean, we’ve been here for a while and we have been, right?”
I fish out a few of the ofuda and press them into his hand. I add a couple of the wooden spikes as well. “Keep these close to you at all times. They can protect you. I’ll ward the doors again when I go out. Do not open them to anyone else. As soon as I find Kagura and the others, I’m coming back for you.”
“You’re going out there? With all those…things?”
“Somebody has to. I must find Kagura. I’m…her apprentice.”
A small shudder goes through the man, but after a moment, he nods again, firmer this time. “Be careful.”
Probably not, I think grimly, as I finish my preparations and slide open the door, knowing I am exposing myself to the terrors with that simple action. But hey, I’ve got nothing else planned tonight.
“Let’s go kick some ghost ass, Ki.”
Chapter Twelve
Maternal Bones
Okiku tells me the names of the young girls on the list, and I scribble them down before I steal out of the house. I’m trying to commit them to memory.
The precious map is in one pocket and my tape recorder is in the other because I know I’ve got a long night ahead, and I’d rather keep my hands occupied with things I can use to stab or exorcise.
The mist is thicker now, and it makes my skin crawl. But Okiku forges on, floating into the fog like we’re strolling through Disneyland. I follow her lead, trusting she’ll spot anything untoward long before I can.
According to Kagura’s map, the Hirano residence is the nearest to where we’re standing, so we make for that. I’m hoping to take a clockwise route through the village, both to systematically search out Kagura and the other men and also so I won’t need to retrace my route back to the shrine. When I loop back, hopefully it will be with all the possessed dolls in tow so I can figure out a way to burn them all at once.
I’ve noted that Yukiko Uchiyama was prowling the area near her family residence, so I presume these ghosts don’t wander too far from where they lived during their lifetime. Most of the ghosts anyway, I correct myself, remembering the ghoul who chased Yukiko away.
One-man tag takes on a whole new meaning here. I won’t need much preparation to lure in the ghosts. I can’t scrub down the walls and floors with herbs or holy water for protection. I can’t mark small circles on the floor with salt. But the dolls should be enough to attract the ghosts, which is a good thing.
But I won’t have any kind of personal protection either, which is a bad thing.
“There,” Okiku whispers as we enter. The house is worse off than the previous two. Parts of the roof have already caved in, and there’s debris and dust everywhere. I’m pretty sure I would never have found the doll by myself, but Okiku, ever the trusty metaphorical bloodhound, leads me to a large pile of rotten wood and torn fabric at the center of the room. I wish I’d brought some kind of hazmat suit, because if the ghosts won’t kill me, the mold probably will.
I grab my shirt’s neck collar and lift it over my nose, trying not to choke on the dust. Everything here is so deteriorated that I’m surprised anything is left standing. But I see a dusty mirror, the glass still intact; a smattering of broken crockery and dented cookware; and the remains of what appears to be a tea set.
My ghost walks around the heap of rubble, which is almost as tall as I am. She keeps her distance. Technically, Ki is made from the same stuff as these other spirits, distinguished from them by only a conscience and willpower the size of Tokyo. She never touches the dolls I’ve used before, because they could be used against her too and because I suspect doing so would be like touching your own grave.
I set to work dismantling the mound, clearing away the bigger rocks and wood before digging my way toward its center. Fifteen minutes later, I’ve made some progress, though my hands are bruised and cut in a few places from the occasional unexpected splinter.
“Nothing out there yet, Ki?” I grunt, manhandling a three-foot plank out of my way. The way Okiku has been staring at
the woodpile, I’m surprised it hasn’t spontaneously burst into flames.
The reason for her intense scrutiny soon becomes obvious. I pull out one last piece of timber, take a look at what I’ve uncovered, and nearly drop the whole damn thing on my foot.
There’s a corpse at the center of the heap, more skeleton than flesh. It’s a woman, because scraps of kimono are still clinging to what’s left of her frame and strands of black hair are spread out around the bits where her head used to be.
Nestled within its shrunken arms is the doll I’d been looking for. It’s grimy, with parts of its kimono frayed at the edges, but compared to its owner, it’s well preserved. A little too well preserved, in fact, for something that has been decomposing for years. I remember from Kagura’s notes that most girls in small villages played with paper dolls, because most wouldn’t have been able to afford any other kind. Villagers didn’t buy these ceremonial-looking dolls as a hobby.
This has to be the hanayome ningyō. It looks like it could easily have come out of the expensive doll collection my mother used to have.
The corpse’s arms are wrapped tightly around the doll, like it was never letting it go. Eye sockets gaze up at me, daring me to approach.
“This,” I say because I really don’t want to do this, “sucks.”
I draw as close to the remains as I can and, with shaking hands, reach for the doll. I don’t want to touch the corpse. I could be infected with all sorts of bacteria and disease and madness. As a compromise, I snag a kimono sleeve, gently lifting it and the bony hand inside it up and away from the doll. Then I do the same to the other arm.
“I’m sorry.”
The corpse’s hand springs up and catches mine just as I am lifting the doll away from its chest.
I am not ashamed of shrieking. My arm whips back, and the doll follows its momentum, landing on its head a couple of yards away. I sit hard on my ass as the skeleton tries to rise to its feet, bones rattling. The rotting body twists its head in my direction and groans.
“Ki!” I scramble for the doll, my fingers finding it just as something finds my ankle. I’m dragged a few feet but retain my grip on the doll. A bad time to choose the stake for my primary weapon, considering there isn’t much flesh to stab anymore. “Ki! What are you waiting for?”
Okiku hovers beside me, a concerned look on her face as another fierce tug drags me toward the creature. I kick at its arm, and it shatters, but the corpse is beginning to crawl.
“I promised.”
“What?”
“I promised not to attack without first speaking to you.”
There’s a skeleton clinging to my ass, and Okiku chooses this moment to quibble over semantics. “Okiku, I take back whatever I said! You have my permission to kill it!”
“Is this what you truly—”
“Okiku, kill it.”
She stomps down hard on the skeleton’s wrist. There’s a sickening crunch, and the whole hand dissolves into fine black sand. The rest of its body twists and then collapses onto the floor. Okiku hovers over it, waiting for it to rise again.
A rustle of cloth behind me. A low, moaning sound. A sudden movement catches my eye.
I turn and spot the dirty mirror again, my own face barely recognizable underneath all the cobwebs and grime.
But I see enough to realize there’s something behind me with wide, dark eyes staring out of its head.
I scramble forward on my hands and knees. I feel a swipe at the back of my neck, a harsh snarl. The bride ghost reaches for me again, all hair and groping hands. It lifts its head, and I see that we have not yet met. From what I can see of her torn face, she’s younger and slighter in form—but with the same distorted grin, the same ink-black brows as the other brides.
Okiku reacts. Her fingernails bite into the ghost’s yellow kimono, but the ghost shrugs off the grasp and leaps to attack. Okiku slides out of the way, barely. The ghost attempts to strike back, her rotten teeth snapping.
I fish out the tape recorder and hit Play. The sonorous chants that fill the room have never sounded so good.
“Hirano Ran,” I croak. “Hirano Ran. Hirano Ran.”
The ghost bride pauses and turns to me with a low hiss. Okiku takes advantage of her distraction to score another hit across the face, and the ghost staggers back. I hold the hanayome ningyō out, repeating the ghost’s name.
Ran.
The whisper does not come from me or Okiku. I swallow, turning to the skeleton at the center of the room.
It has lifted itself but makes no move to harm us. Its eyeless sockets are trained on the Hirano ghost.
Ran. The name rattles from between fleshless jaws.
For a second, the ghost bride wavers, and another face emerges from behind its hair—not another creature of blood and squick but that of a young girl.
Okaasan. She draws the word out, as if she’s no longer used to speech.
The emotion in her voice transports me back to Washington, DC. I’m at the old motel on First and Third, watching a little girl cry for her scumbag father.
“Hirano Ran,” I say again, my voice raw.
She looks at me. There is nothing gruesome about her appearance. The horror is gone. Now she seems unsure, almost fearful.
Ran—the skeleton clatters—follow him.
I’m not going to argue, so I hold out the doll to her, the recorded mantras still playing, and gulp. I wait for her to sprout teeth and claws, but she doesn’t. Her feet begin to slip and slide across the floor, the chants pulling her toward the doll in my hand. For a moment, she resists, and her face darkens again. But then her eyes close, allowing the chants to wash her away—
There are eighteen dolls in the room, all seated around a small altar. Candles burn in every corner, throwing heavy shadows on the dolls’ expressionless faces. She sets her doll down to complete the circle and takes a step back, unable to tear her eyes away from the strange sight.
“It’s okay,” her mother says from behind her, a faint tremor in her voice. “Come here now, Ran-chan. Let us leave the gods to decide.” The words are followed by a queer, hacking cough.
She takes in the room one last time before returning to her mother. The door closes behind her.
In the morning, she hovers by the doorway with the other children. The gods decided. Seventeen dolls are strewn across the room, no longer in their perfect circle. Only her doll remains untouched.
Behind her, her mother begins to cry.
The gods have chosen her—
—and I double over, hacking and sputtering. I stagger back and cling to the wall, hoping the dizziness passes. The look on Okiku’s face tells me she’s seen the vision too. Nothing gets past my brain that she doesn’t see. The doll pulses in my hands, its eyes a familiar, wretched shade of black. I position the spike. It only takes a second to ensure the ghost won’t be going anywhere.
There’s still one more unauthorized ghost in the room, and I raise the recorder again, clawing behind me for one of the dolls I’d brought along.
“Wait.”
I pause.
“Wait,” Okiku says again, this time with more urgency.
With great reluctance, I switch off the recorder. The skeleton remains immobile. Then the skeleton bends and kneels in the formal seiza-style, her legs tucked underneath her. As she does, she takes on a flimsy, transparent appearance—the figure of an elderly matron wrapped around her bones.
It’s an unnerving sight. I see how she would have looked when she was alive, yet it is like seeing her through an X-ray. Her eyes, however, are on Okiku, who has assumed a similar sitting position beside me. I remain where I am, my heart hammering, because I don’t know what the hell is going on.
The old-woman skeleton is weeping. The threat of battle is in the air but with all the outward formalities of a tea ceremony.
Cozy.
Okiku speaks first. “She was incomplete. Her soul remains in this village still.”
The response comes, dull and
hollow, as the ghost continues to weep. “Yes.”
“Why was this so?”
“The kannushi chose the path for her.”
“It is a perilous path.”
“Yes.”
“Your daughter is different from the others.”
“She is not completely aragami. She is not completely corrupted. I am not like the other mothers. But it made little difference.” The grief is evident in that worn, hopeless voice. “I stay for her. She is a good daughter, dutiful and obedient.
“I wrapped her in spells and charms before her sacrifice to help her on her journey. I did not know that the kannushi lied when he took her. When the last ritual failed, she and the chosen brides were caught in the chaos, and I died with the rest of the village. I cannot leave while she is here. She cannot leave while I am here.”
“You can leave now.”
The ghost turns to look at the doll, which I’m still holding in a death grip.
“Yes.” Some animation enters her voice, pathetic with longing, as her gaze meets mine. “He is different.”
“Yes,” Okiku agrees.
“The kannushi will seek him out.”
“Yes.”
I interrupt with “I’m sitting right here, you know,” but they don’t listen.
“Do not let the kannushi take him. There is great risk.”
Okiku’s reply brings an ache to my chest: “I risk all for him.”
“Good. Please—you must free the villagers. The girls. They are trapped by the silkworms. Give us peace.”
The old woman says nothing more, only gestures at me to continue my ritual. I oblige, and the chants resume. The ghost stands and bows low to Okiku and then to me before closing her eyes. Her surrender is easy—
She sits in the darkness, cradling the hanayome ningyō in her arms. She is calm.
Outside, the world is ending. Insanity hurtles through the small house, rattling the screen doors. Peal after peal of wild laughter echoes, interspersed with the screams of those still living, still running. The force is enough to knock over her meager possessions: vases break, wood splinters, and the ceiling comes down around her. Still she sits. Still she waits. She knows there is nowhere else to go.
