The Girl from the Well (11 page)

It's easy to make, and that's good. I don't think we've had much time to cook lately. There are a lot of small affordable ramen shops near the apartment we're staying in, and we've been making use of them a lot. There's one shop in particular called the Oishiya that serves almost the most perfect-tasting ramen I have ever had. Allison says that Oishiya literally means “delicious store,” and I can see why.

Are you getting enough to eat, and are you taking some vitamins? (I know I sound old. Shut up.) I don't know much about Tokyo, but the air in the countryside is supposed to be good for your health. You should ask Uncle Doug to bring you around places that won't have as many cars or people, like somewhere outside of the city without all the congestion. From your descriptions of the people in Shibuya, I don't think large crowds make for the best medicine.

As for Okiku, don't worry too much about her. I'm sure she's been around long enough to know what she's doing, even if we don't.

And yeah—that is one disturbing child.

• • •

Tarquin's condition worsens as Callie's Kansai tours draw to a close. His father brings him to prestigious clinics, to medical experts. Tarquin is soon spending the night in hospitals, but little about his peculiar malady is known, and his health declines for no discernible reason that anyone can see. Even Tarquin can no longer pretend to himself that all is well.

I officially admit it: something is wrong with me. I keep falling asleep all the time, and I constantly have this feeling like I might not wake up again when I do. No more wandering around Shibuya for me, at least until I get better.

Had the weirdest dream last night. I saw some guy all dressed up like a samurai, throwing Okiku down a well. In my dream, Okiku wasn't the frighteningly dead specter in white we both know and love. She had on that kimono you described for me, the one with the paper lanterns, except it had glowing fireflies on it instead of butterflies. She looked really torn up. Bruises and cuts and worse, and I knew the guy did all those things before he pushed her inside. I remember being so mad at what he'd done to her, like I wanted to tear the guy to pieces with my bare hands, but I couldn't move or speak. And when the jerk looked my way, he suddenly transformed into the masked woman in black which, as you can imagine, freaked the absolute shit out of me. Thankfully, I woke up before I could wet the bed.

And you know something else that's odd? I slept twelve hours today, have been up for only about five minutes—and I'm already sleepy. Been hibernating close to fifteen hours a day now, and while I enjoy being unconscious as much as the next lazy bum, I gotta admit that this isn't natural. Got another doctor's appointment tomorrow for that. Woo-hoo.

Dad says next week should be okay to visit, if you can get away by then.

P.S. Managed a decent conversation with the apartment guard earlier today. I think something might have been lost in the translation, because he's claiming there's no little boy living in the apartment next door. There WAS some kid matching the description I gave who died several years ago, though.

PLEASE, for the love of molasses, get here soon.

• • •

A day before the rest of Callie's companions leave Japan to return to their respective countries, Tarquin's father sends her a letter.

Callie—Tarquin has told me about your plans to visit us in Tokyo, and I apologize for the delay in emailing you. Tark's been feeling a little under the weather all week—he's thinner and paler, and I'm worried that the strain of the past few months has finally caught up to him. I've taken him to several doctors, and they're currently running some tests.

I had initially planned to make the trip to Yagen Valley earlier this month, but Tark's illness kept forcing me to postpone. If the tests on Tark come back negative, we'll be heading to Yagen Valley with Yoko's ashes. I think the fresh air might do him a bit of good. We all could use a little rest.

As your exchange program will be ending tomorrow, will you be available to fly out by then? Tark and I can meet you at either the airport or the train station, whichever form of travel you prefer. I have booked two rooms for the three of us at a nearby hotel. (I insist on paying for any expenses for Yagen Valley as well. It's the least I can do, given everything that has happened. I feel that at this point you'll be much better for Tark's health than the doctors or I ever could be.)

Let me know when would be the most convenient time for you. All our love.

• • •

Callie's reply is both swift and brief.

Thank you for being so generous! Yes, I'll be available by next week. I'll be arriving at 4:30 p.m. tomorrow at Narita International Airport. Lots of love to you both.

The boys do not yet know that they are about to die.

Still in their high school uniforms, they watch television. They laugh and tell tall tales and trade stories as the night wears on. They pass around bottles of beer (twenty-seven) that they pour and drink from small glasses (six), and empty instant noodle packages (seven) litter the floor. The room is none too clean, a small and rundown Tokyo apartment no bigger than an average American walk-in closet, but the boys feel comfortable here.

Every now and then, one will excuse himself and leave to use the bathroom at the end of the narrow corridor leading out the room. While the boisterous laughter from his companions continues, he enters the washroom, pushes the dead girl's body away from the entrance with a foot, and uses the urinal, too drunk for the moment to care about the rancid smell and the stink of burnt flesh beginning to permeate through the air, or about the blood splashed against the walls, the red liquid circling the drain, dripping, dripping down the girl's naked body. He zips up, washes his hands like the good boy he's supposed to be, and slides out, rejoining his fellows and leaving her alone in the darkness.

The corpse's arms and legs are severely burnt in several places, her breasts and genitals mutilated. One lifeless eye stares up at the door. The other is swollen shut.

The sixteen-year-old girl is their first kill and still freshly dead. To the boys, she was nothing more than an experiment, a small price to pay for the thrill of taking a life.

The night wears on, and I bide my time. My experiences with Tarquin and Callie do not

crush
them
take
them
break
them

still the hungers, the malice that bubbles within.

I am who I am.

“What are we going to do with
her
, Hiroshi?” One of the boys, an emaciated-looking teen with acne scars, asks after some time has passed, when they can no longer pretend that the smell does not bother them. “The stench's making me lose my appetite, and she's gonna stink up the house for days.”

A tall boy with a shaved head shrugs. “Well, we gotta get rid of her soon, anyway. Get your old man to clean up the mess once we're done, Jo, but we gotta figure out a way to dispose of the body without anyone else noticing.”

“There's a small concrete factory just down the block, right?” Another one of the boys speak ups, this time a silver-haired youth with a tiger tattoo on his neck. “We could dump her into one of those cement barrels.”

“Get some garbage bags, Shinji,” says the Shaved Head, who is in charge. “Tetsuo, Koichi—you guys help him. Jo, go to the kitchen and get some sharp knives. A saw, if you got one. Ya-chan, help him look.”

The boys disperse. The acne-scarred teenager and his companion, a boy with a bright purple Mohawk, head downstairs, where an old man and a frail woman sit quietly before a small table, their tea lying untouched before them and slowly growing cold.

“Hey, you,” Acne Scars tells his father. “Go find us a saw or something. We need to get rid of the girl.”

“Jo-chan. You can't…” his mother begins, pleading, but she is interrupted by the Mohawk. He slams a hand down onto the table, causing the cups to rattle, tea slopping out onto the wood.

“Didn't I say you are not to disagree with us?” he spits out. “Do I have to keep reminding you old fags who I am every fucking time? I'm good friends with people from the yakuza, bitch. One word from me, and they'll slit your throats. Hey, maybe the next time you speak up I might just kill you myself! Fucking old crone!”

Shaking, the father leaves the room and returns with a large circular saw. The mother begins to cry. Their son says nothing.

The boys return to the second-floor landing, where the others are waiting. “Better lend me some old clothes to wear while I cut her up, Jo,” Shaved Head says. “I don't want to wash no fucking blood off my shirt.”

Acne Scars flips the light switch as they enter the bathroom. The bulb overhead sputters and dies out.

Shaved Head swears. “What the fuck is wrong with the light? Jo, go get a new one.”

“Mom only changed it yesterday,” Acne Scars whines, but he obediently trots off to look for a replacement. One of the other boys, with unkempt hair and a scraggly beard, turns on a penlight, splaying the beam across the bathroom walls.

“Hey, Hiroshi,” he says hesitantly. “I can't find the body.”

“What?” Shaved Head grabs the light and shines it around. The girl's corpse is nowhere to be seen. He swears again.

“Who the fuck do you think you guys are, playing pranks on me? Whose fucking idea was it to hide the body?”

“We didn't do it, Hiroshi!” a boy with glasses protests. “We were with you this whole time.”

“And we were downstairs looking for the saw,” Mohawk adds hastily, for Shaved Head is known for his foul temper. “I swear, Hiro, we never moved the body!”

“Well, I want you all to start looking for it soon, because I'm losing my patience. Where the hell is Jo with the light?” Shaved Head flips the light switch on and off again, then punches his fist into the wall, his frustration apparent.

“Go look for Jo,” he barks out. “And see if the old farts downstairs had anything to do with this.”

His companions rush to carry out his orders, leaving him scowling at the small, smudged mirror in the bathroom. “Idiots,” he mutters, smoothing out his rumpled shirt collar.

And stops. A peculiar dark spot in the mirror is growing slowly in size as he looks on, though the darkness makes it difficult for him to see clearly. Frowning, he scrunches up his eyes and draws closer to the mirror, trying to determine what this is.

The black spot increases, spreading across the mirror's surface like an ugly paint splotch, until Shaved Head can barely see his own reflection.

“What the hell?”

Two discolored arms shoot out from the mirror, and it is only from reflex that Shaved Head is able to throw himself away from their reach, hitting the wall behind him hard instead. He gapes at the mirror, where a long-haired woman's head begins to push itself out. From underneath her hair, eyes like twin black holes bore into the now-terrified boy's face, and from her wide, scarred mouth she gurgles low.

“Shit!” Shaved Head bursts out of the bathroom, skidding across the narrow hallway. “Jo!” he yells. “Shinji, Tetsuo! Where the fuck is everybody?” He runs toward where he last saw the boys, halting beside the room they previously occupied. The room is empty, though the TV still plays. A strange screeching noise makes him stop in his tracks.

A variety show program is on: Japanese comedians on a game show. But the television screen occasionally flickers into a different image—barely more than a few tenths of a second at first, but growing longer each time, until Shaved Head finds himself looking into the face of the murdered girl. Her skin has been warped from burn marks and stretched over her horrific skull.

Blood begins to spill in rivulets down the walls of the room, soaking through the curtains. At the same time, something drops from the ceiling behind him and hits the floor.

They are Purple Mohawk and Tiger Tattoo, both unrecognizable if not for their brightly colored hair. Their legs are twisted behind them, like all bone had been leached from their limbs. Tiger Tattoo is obviously dead. His features are an ashen gray, tongue lolling out. But Mohawk is still dying. Half of his face is bloated and swollen, and he flops helplessly across the wooden carpet, a gutted fish out of water.

“Hlllp,” he croaks. “Hiroshhhhhhi.”

Something

gurgles

by his side. Shaved Head sees me standing on the ceiling for the first time, watching him with my pupil-less eyes and my hollow, open mouth.

Shaved Head flees, ignoring his dying friend's garbled pleas. He races through the hall. “Tetsuo!” he screams. “Koichi, where the hell are you guys? Fuck!” He shoves open the door leading into a small storage room but steps back, frightened, when two of the other boys come tumbling out.

Both are also dead. Scraggly Beard's eyes are rolled so far into his head that only the whites are showing, and Glasses suffers from deep claw marks that rake across his face and tear through his clothes. Like the Mohawk, both their faces are putrefied, decomposing.

“Hiroshi!” Acne Scars is running toward him, and Shaved Head is relieved to find him still alive, though every inch as terrified as he. “What's going on, Hiro?” he wails. “Yasushi-chan's dead! I…” His voice trails off as he stares down, shocked, at the two other dead boys at his feet.

“There's nothing we can do for them now! We gotta get out of here!” Shaved Head dashes down the stairs, Acne Scars tripping and stumbling behind him. The old man and woman are still sitting by the table, though they are now clinging to each other, terrified by the commotion.

“Did you do this to fuck around with us, you old prick?” Shaved Head grabs the old man's shoulders and shakes him hard. Acne Scars loses his balance, landing noisily on his rear by the small wardrobe. The old woman shrinks back, covering her eyes with her withered hands. “Answer me!”

But the old man does not look at him. He is looking over his shoulder at something that drains all the blood from his face.

Slowly, Shaved Head releases the old man and turns.

The wardrobe door has opened, and another pair of arms encircle Acne Scars' neck. Half my body leans out, my hair brushing against the boy's cringing face.

Acne Scars' gaze is locked onto Shaved Head's, realization dawning alongside terror on his ugly, pockmarked face.

“Hiroshi,” he whimpers. It is the last thing he will ever say.

I

dr

ag

him into the confines of the wardrobe, the door sliding shut behind us.

Shaved Head sinks to his knees. The tiny wardrobe rocks hard against the wall as terrible screams ring out from within. For some minutes these continue, until they finally cut off abruptly.

For a long moment there is silence.

Then from inside the closet the scratchings start up again. So do the low, gurgling sounds.

Shaved Head runs past the frightened couple and snatches a metal baseball bat.

“I'm not afraid of you!” he shouts. “I'm gonna kill you! I'm gonna kill you!” Crazed, he brings the bat down on the sides of the wardrobe with a strength that belies his lanky build. “I'm gonna kill you! I'm gonna kill you!” Over and over again he attacks it, and the cheap wood slowly gives way.

He smashes the doors, battering at the wardrobe until the frame shatters from the repetitive blows, until the hinges break free and the plywood splinters to reveal that there is nothing inside the wardrobe but clothes—not Acne Scars, not anything else. But the boy does not stop. He grabs at the sides of the wardrobe and pulls it down onto the floor, destroying it completely.

Shaved Head pauses, panting heavily from his exertions. “Did I kill it?” He wheezes and then starts laughing hysterically. “Hahahaha! I killed it, didn't I? I killed it! Sonofabitch!”

He levels a kick at what remains of the wardrobe, still giggling maniacally. “You're not going to get me, bitch,” he crows. “You're not going to get me!”

But his laughter falters when he hears the scratching again despite everything to the contrary—a scratching coming from underneath the broken planks of wood.

Frenzied, like a man possessed, he begins to pull the heavy pieces of timber away from the floor. When most of the wood scraps have been discarded, he burrows into the pile of clothes, pawing through them until something snags his foot, forcing him to land on a

body.

It is the body of the dead girl, arms folded across her naked chest.

Her eyes open. Her bloodied hands reach up to cup either side of the boy's cringing face, almost caressingly. She even smiles.

But those same bloody hands tighten inexorably around him, and Shaved Head is yanked forward into her waiting mouth.

It is hours before either of the old couple can be persuaded to leave their table. But when the aging man sweeps the strewn clothes away with a trembling hand, there is no trace of either the boy or the dead girl.

• • •

It is her decision.

Unlike other souls that I have saved, this girl does not glow, does not rise up to the sky. Unlike with other souls, the prolonged violence of her death has warped her into the creature of malice standing before me.

Unlike other souls, she is much like me.

She has not changed. Her skin still bears the marks of the torture she went through in the moments before her death. This is clear in the lacerations on her body, in the ruins of her face. Like me, she has exacted her revenge against her tormentors, but her loss of innocence from such actions ensures that she cannot cross into the light. Like me, she cannot leave and is instead doomed to wait forever on dark shores, straining for glimpses of stars.

She understands this. Still, a smile curves along what is left of her mouth. She bows to me, for even spirits can understand gratitude, and turns to leave, the night soon swallowing her up.

I should not feel sorrow that she chose of her own volition to take the same path I now walk. But I do. I am beginning to understand that there are better things than retribution.

I, too, leave this terrible place, this little apartment of bodies. There are no souls to save here. Anything worth redeeming left this place many, many years ago.

Instead, I wait for the break of dawn. I find an empty shed washed clean from the stink of the living and slip back into hibernation. Briefly, I contemplate returning to Tarquin's apartment instead, but I do not. For the first time in as long as I can remember I feel unclean. Impure.

Uneasy.

So it is in this little shed in Tokyo that I wait for Callie to arrive.