The Girl from the Well (10 page)

“That's a sad story,” the brunette murmurs.

“But true,” Callie says, so softly that no one else hears her. She knows that I have gone far beyond the boundaries of my well and have long since sought the greener pastures of other countries, wreaking my vengeance on men still within my reach, those who could serve in the cruel retainer's stead.

Her friend looks down the well and makes a face. “Well, it's too dark to see anything. Let's go take a peek inside the Suicide Tower instead.”

She moves away. Before she turns to follow, Callie looks into the well herself—

—and sees a lone woman lying at its bottom, her body twisted and broken from a fatal fall.

Someone
hurt
her
really, really badly, and they put her down someplace that was dark and smelly, like a big hole. Her head went in the hole first before her feet and she died like that, so she got used to seeing everything upside down.

But I am not the Okiku she is familiar with.

This Okiku is clawing at her own face, black bile bubbling up from the wounds scored into her skin. Her mouth is wide and black and hollow, and she is screaming soundlessly, horrid gurgles at the base of her mangled throat, where bone protrudes.

But the most frightening thing about this Okiku are her eyes, as they contain nothing but hollow sockets teeming with black leech-like maggots and look nothing at all like eyes.

It was this Okiku that drowned in this well three hundred years ago, the Okiku I was when I first began my existence as a dreadful spirit, as a nothing-more. This Okiku only remembered

pain

suffering

hate

vengeance.

Time had taught me to temper the malice within. But for a long,

long

time, I was a great and terrible thing. I was a creature that found pleasure in the ripping. In the tearing.

I am no longer that monster. But memories of that creature still lurk within this well. There are some things that never fully die.

And now, still gurgling, this Okiku begins to climb.

Limbs twisted, ragged strips of kimono fluttering behind her like broken wings, she climbs. She slithers up the wall, brittle bones snapping, she

climbs. Her skin stretches and breaks, hanging down at unnatural angles as her head tilts, loose flesh clinging to the folds of what remains of her neck, and she

climbs. Before Callie has time to react, this Okiku has climbed to the top of the well, reaching out for her with rotting hands, leaping for her with jaws agape.

The young woman turns to run and nearly crashes into her friend.

“Hey, hey, slow down!” The woman laughs. “What's the hurry? We've still got lots of time to sight-see!”

Callie cranes her neck to look behind her, but nothing comes out of the well.

“Mori-san says we're going to see the gardens next. ‘You've seen one garden, you've seen them all' is pretty much my motto, but since it's already been paid for, I don't see how we have much of a choice. You ready?”

“Y–yes, I'll be right with you.” This time Callie sees the Okiku she is more accustomed to, looking down into the depths of the well myself. Perhaps some of the sorrow and regret is evident on my face when I look back at her, my head bowed in apology.

I am sorry that she sees more than she ought.

I disappear from her view. Callie risks one last look inside the well but this time sees nothing but darkness and hears nothing but the sound of water and the clattering of small stones.

I drift from one to the other—first Callie in her small apartment in Kansai, then Tark at the apartment in Tokyo. Their surroundings could not be more different, for Callie lives simply, surrounded by her fellow students' conversation and tatami mats. Tark is more accustomed to luxury, and the rooms he shares with his father are filled with art and opulence.

Some days I watch Callie. I follow her as she attends lectures, plays, tours. I look on as she browses through heavy books, riffles through old pieces of parchment, watches television. Sometimes she knows I am there and lifts her head to stare fearfully at where I stand until I move to leave. There is a wariness to Callie still, a distrust she struggles to hide. I do not blame her.

But much of me remains with Tarquin. The malignance that often surrounds him has retreated, as if my presence alone deters it. I give the creature few chances to resurface. I follow him as he wanders the busy streets, leafing through magazines in quiet cafés, peering into store windows. Like Callie, he is quick to notice my presence, but his reaction is one of welcome. Before long, he makes his overtures to me, bold where Callie is cautious.

“You know what this is, Okiku?” he says, gesturing for me to stand by his side and ignoring the puzzled gazes of passersby. “It's called an arcade game. For a few yen you get to kill imaginary aliens or space monsters for fun. Except this is Japan, so in this game, you play an angry father instead, and you get bonus points for how many things in the room you can destroy by flipping a table up. Child protective services in the States are gonna
love
this game.”

“Do you ever get hungry, Kiku?” he might say on another occasion. “I mean, I could buy you a milkshake, too. People leave food in shrines here for all kinds of ghosts, so I'm assuming ghosts actually do get to eat… Does ghost food even exist?”

I do not often understand what he means, but it never seems to matter.

We visit clothing stores, restaurants, parks. He takes me to Tokyo Tower (“The best view in Japan to see modern capitalism hard at work!”), to Hachiko's statue (“Don't tell anyone, but the movie made me cry.”), to Harajuku Station (“I know a lot of people here set world fashion trends and all, but that guy looks like he's wearing every piece of clothing his mother owns.”).

He tells me to sit by a bench overlooking a small park full of colorful flowers. I am, I feel, understandably reluctant to do so, but he persists. “It won't take very long. I work fast.” He sits across from me, takes out his pen and paper, and begins to sketch.

A short time later, he shows me the finished portrait. It is that of a lovely woman gazing wistfully off to one side, admiring the roses in bloom.

I cannot do it justice.

“For a ghost,” Tarquin says, teasingly, “you sure do have a ridiculously low opinion of yourself.”

I find these short, spontaneous trips with Tarquin

pleasant.

Tarquin and Callie talk frequently in what Tarquin calls
email
exchanges—odd, invisible letters that reach out and bridge the miles that keep them apart. Often, I look over their shoulder as they write, wondering. I had few family members during my lifetime, and delving into Callie and Tarquin's words and thoughts this way, their obvious concern for the other, makes me yearn for something that is no longer my privilege to feel. I do not know why.

Heya, Callie,
Tarquin writes,

Japan is officially the most dysfunctional place I have ever set foot in, and I have been inside a mental hospital. Did you know they've actually got a vending machine here that sells used girls' underwear? The Japanese government declared them illegal or something, but I guess that's never stopped a bunch of entrepreneurs from leaving them around. Dad says he's seen others that sell umbrellas, eggs, and for some strange reason, batteries. I'm hoping there's a machine here where you can buy your very own giant robot.

So I almost tried this underwear machine out—just to, you know, see if the thing actually works—but my acute sense of shame finally won out. There are so many other fun ways to dishonor the family name that buying girls' underwear shouldn't be one of them.

Just the other day, I found a salon that specializes in giving girls crooked teeth. And this is considered adorable if, uh, Japanese girls who look like a vampire needing braces are supposed to turn men on. Also, there's a holistic care spa specializing in dogs. I think in my next life I'd like to come back as some rich Japanese lady's labradoodle and enjoy all these spoils. Kinda ironic that most hot spring resorts allow for dogs, but not for people with tattoos. So I guess in this current Japanese social hierarchy we've got Japanese > pets > me.

(Not that I mind too much. I'm not so sure I like the idea of bathing in public, anyway. I know people say communal bathing is a test of how comfortable you are with your manhood and all that other crap, but manhoods should be heard and not seen, thank you very much.)

That didn't sound right. I might have mixed my metaphors up, but I'm sure you know what I mean.

You told me to send you an email as soon as we've settled in Tokyo, and right now we're doing most of our settling in a swanky apartment high-rise at Shibuya that looks like it's been designed by an architect who'd had one too many shots of bourbon.

Tark pauses to glare at the walls of his room, which are covered in seven expensive paintings, each with its own alarming splashes of color.

There's lots of bulging concave art and intricate metalwork that contribute absolutely nothing to functionality except to sit there and look intricate, and there's a table here that can defy the laws of physics to also become a makeshift lounge chair and bookcase. I'm still expecting some metallic female voice to come popping out of the woodwork to welcome me into the future. Also, everything's too polished. I can see my reflection on the toilet bowl lid. (Said toilet bowl also has a bidet. And a seat warmer for the tush. These people think of everything.)

I was expecting to grab some tatami mats, roll out the futons, and pretend it's possible to camp out in Tokyo. As it is, I'm afraid to touch anything because everything looks expensive and breakable, though admittedly this is just the way Dad likes it. The only greenery I've seen so far in this glass dome of technological awesome is a potted plant in one corner, and I'm pretty sure that's about as artificial as everything else in here.

Nobody we've talked to speaks much English, so it looks like I'm going to have to learn a new language soon. Dad says there are more than three thousand letters in the Japanese alphabet, which could pose a problem. There are only twenty-six letters in the English alphabet, and I get into enough trouble with them as it is.

I haven't seen
her
since arriving here, which is always good. But I've been seeing a lot of Okiku…

At this point, Tarquin lifts his head and smiles at me. “Having fun so far?” he asks lightly. I shoot him a puzzled look, but he only laughs and turns back to his laptop.

…and as strange as this might sound, she's usually the highlight of my days. Do you think that's a bad sign?

We have this one creepy little kid for a neighbor who looked like he could be the poster boy for every scary movie involving dead children, ever. He went up to me once and asked why “shitai-chan” was following me around. I asked Dad later what “shitai” meant, and he said it meant “dead body.”

Like I said, creepy little kid. His parents probably had a blast with that one.

I guess that means something's still
following
me around. I'd have more peace of mind if I knew what it is.

You in Japan already?

• • •

Educational tours and school visits make up the better part of Callie's days, and she only finds time to respond when everyone is sleeping at the apartment she shares.
Your emails always amuse me
,
she says first, smiling as she rereads his letter.

I've been in Japan for three whole days! Except we're in an area called Kansai, which is a part of Japan that's south of Tokyo, and I don't think it's as busy or as populated as I would imagine Tokyo to be. There aren't as many shopping malls and restaurants (so no vending machines with used underwear or doggie spas, thankfully), but there are a lot of other things I bet you won't get to see in Shibuya.

I saw a geisha the other day, maybe only a couple of years older than I am. She had on the most gorgeous kimono I've ever seen, all butterflies and paper lantern lights, and her face was made up in white powder and rouge. She said she just got back from entertaining a client who's an executive at one of the biggest companies here in Japan. Mostly just playing shamisen, which my friend says is a Japanese instrument that's like a guitar, and she and a group of other geisha sang and danced for a bit. Though I imagine their singing and dancing would be much different from what you and I are used to.

I'm helping a friend here named Allison to put together a thesis paper for when she returns to Canada. She'll be majoring in Japanese studies this fall, and her paper's called “The Development of Traditional Performance Arts in Response to Japanese Modernization” with a specialization in bunraku theater. Bunraku, I have since discovered, means “Japanese puppet shows.” We've been traveling to a lot of places, including a small island off Honshu, where we watched a few people put on some very elaborate bunraku performances. Some of the puppets cost as much as $2,000! Their clothes probably cost more than all of mine put together.

As for the boy you mentioned, he reminds me one of this one girl I taught back in Perry Hills Elementary. Her name is Sandra. She's probably not as creepy as your neighbor—she's actually quite adorable when she wants to be—but sometimes she worries me.

Just the other day, we went to Himeji Castle. We visited a place called Okiku's Well, which they say a ghost haunts every night when the castle closes to visitors. I'm not quite sure how Okiku was able to leave Japan or wind up in Applegate, but I just had the oddest experience involving her at the well.

It
is
because
spirits
do
not
often
choose
to
linger
in
their
places
of
death.

Callie starts visibly when she hears, then sees me, nearly upsetting a cup of tea by her elbow. I realize my mistake and, not wishing to cause her more worry, drift past her sleeping companions and fade from view. When she is assured that I will not return, she resumes her typing, though her hands still shake.

I'll tell you more once I get to visit you and Uncle Doug. In the meantime, let's not talk about odd kids and ghosts! How have you been feeling? The program won't end for another couple of weeks, but I've already made arrangements with the Japanese representative to travel to Tokyo instead of leaving with the rest of the students. I'll see you guys then!

• • •

The days pass slowly, and a profound change comes over Tarquin. He begins to lose weight. Dark circles form under the hollows of his eyes, and he becomes more exhausted, taking to sleeping more frequently. There is very little that I can do.

Sorry for not replying sooner. I'm feeling tired lately, and I've been sleeping a lot. I haven't been doing much while Dad's at work, just walking around all day and taking in whatever sights I can find. I've been to the Shibuya shopping district, which has an insane number of people at any given time of day, even at night. It reminds me a bit of an organized stampede, like a sea of people rising up to do battle at Prada armed with nothing but shopping bags and a credit card, or something.

I think that's what's been getting me tired. Dad's worried. I can tell because he just canceled two meetings he had to attend so we could go to three doctors who ran a lot of tests but couldn't find anything wrong with me, anyway. They think it's a form of culture shock, trying to get used to being in Japan. I mean, I'm pretty shocked no one seems to know what ketchup is every time I set foot in a McDonald's, because that must be the only reason they don't serve it, but I don't think that's necessarily the deal breaker here.

I even had sushi for the first time today. It tastes a little funny, but it's not too bad. Finding any reason to eat food raw and skip cooking altogether sounds good in my book.

So in summary—no one really knows what's wrong with me, if you exclude the fact that I can see dead people.

Nice to know a little more about Okiku. If I was a ghost I'd be bored haunting the same spot for hundreds of years. I'd try getting into Disneyland since I could get on all those rides for free. Or Las Vegas. Would an underage ghost still be allowed inside a casino, hypothetically?

One other thing. This morning there was a small earthquake around Shibuya—nothing worrying, just strong enough to be noticed. And apparently the seismologists they spoke to for the evening news are puzzled. Japan has an earthquake warning system to let them know about these things in advance, but this earthquake never even triggered it. Only people within a three-mile radius of the apartment actually felt the shocks, which doesn't seem to be normal earthquake behavior. I'm hoping I have nothing to do with this, but it doesn't seem likely.

Neighbor kid was just at the door. He wanted to know why we wouldn't let the woman into the apartment. I asked him what woman this was, but he just shrugged and wandered away.

What is the deal with all these weird, creepy ghost-seeing kids? Exempting yours truly, of course.

Gonna head off to sleep.

• • •

He downplays his condition, his humor masking his own worry, and Callie thinks little of it at first.
Been eating lots of ramen
since getting here
, she writes instead.