It is long past the sunset hour, when monsters and demons emerge from their places of slumber to visit upon the human world. Now they are alert and active and wide awake. The Yokai watches in awe as they parade down the street, drumming and singing, leaping from rooftop to rooftop with the agility of gazelles, swinging from electric cables by their monkey-like tails, clawing up and down buildings, gleefully knocking over trash cans and prancing with the goodies they find inside: egg sandwich crusts, fish bones, umeboshi pits, and Ghana bar wrappers with bits of chocolate still stuck to them. There must be hundreds. Many demons the Yokai does not recognize; yet they all shout passing greetings to her as if to an old friend:
“Well, well, look who’s here!”
“Baku-sama, konbanwa!”
“Hisa-bisa, Baku-sama!”
“Good to see you again!”
“It’s been ages. Where have you been?”
“Welcome!”
The Yokai can stand here forever, counting the monsters, the creatures, and the human-looking characters that pass her: umbrellas hopping on single legs, people with shamisen-shaped heads walking koto dragons on leashes, giant spiders the size of vans, giant-back televisions with tiny legs, a seven-foot tall mountain goat with a cartoonish grin walking on its hind legs, a dog with a human face, electronic toilet seats scuttling along the ground like Roomba vacuums (the Yokai does her best to avoid stepping on those), an androgynous-looking woman with a long swan neck handing out hot spring eggs, a giant cloud of smoke drifting above her head … The Yokai could spend hours trying to count and describe them all.
A little boy and girl, no more than two years old in appearance, hair and clothes drenched with water, stop at her feet. “Look, sister,” says the boy. “It’s that girl.”
“Wait, brother. That’s no girl. We know you. You’re the one who wants Akki’s boy.”
The Yokai looks back and forth between the two children. They indeed appear to be children, but judging from the rest of the crowd, the Yokai deduces they are not. “I have to find him again, before it’s too late. Do you know where I can find him?”
“Sorry, Miss Baku. We don’t know where he is anymore.”
The boy cocks his head. “Aren’t you cold?”
“No,” the Yokai looks down at her body. She is barefoot on the snowy pavement, wearing nothing. “I don’t feel anything,” she adds, mystified.
“Well, we haven’t seen him in the woods for months. He hardly wanders around alone there, anyway. Certainly not anymore.”
The Yokai sighs. “Okay, thanks.” She watches them rejoin the procession, holding hands. Had she and the man ever held hands like that? She cannot remember. She watches them go with a longing that makes her stomach sink.
“You are jealous,” buzzes a voice behind her. She turns around to see a giant Japanese hornet floating by on a large velvet cushion, holding cigars in four of its appendages. The other two rest on the cushion for balance. “You wished for that, once. With Akki’s boy. Did you not?”
“I think I did — I mean, I do,” the Yokai says. “Have you seen him?”
“I am afraid not, child. I see nothing these days. It is my time to hibernate until the heat of summer returns that I may terrorize your fellow humans once again.”
“But I’m leaving, and I have to find him before I go.”
The suzumebachi takes a puff of one cigar, exhaling a cloud into her face. “I know. I have known for quite some time. I wish I could be of more help. You charmed me, more than most yokai. Perhaps it was our talk of cuisines and dreams that I found thought-provoking. I am glad we were able to meet, and I do not say that often. Take care on your journey, will you not?”
“I will. Thank you.”
The hornet floats its way above the procession and off into the distance. The Yokai half-wanders into the street to watch it go, oblivious of the congregation of kettles that stumble into her ankles. One, an electronic model, tilts up on its short legs to look at her. “Bless my wiring! I know that face and hair anywhere. Why, I made your green tea for six years!”
The Yokai kneels down to get a closer look. She squints. “Mr. Kettle?”
“We meet again, young baku-lady. Tell me, have they replaced me? You have a younger, better model, I’ll bet. One that lights up like a rainbow and sings when the water is ready?”
“Sorry. We’re not allowed to get another one.”
“Well, I’ll be. I’ve left a legacy. The last Nishibe-Zozo kettle. Hear that, everyone?” The congregation screams and steams. “Fancy a cup, miss?”
“No, thanks. I’m looking for my friend. Have you seen him?”
“’Fraid not, dearie. I don’t know much about things that don’t have to do with tea. Have you tried asking the air conditioners?”
“No. Thanks, anyway.”
And so it goes. The Yokai scans the heads and tails of the long line of demons careening toward and around her as they cavort and caper down the street. The friendly, more intoxicated ones try to lure her into the procession with a not-so-subtle wink or an overly long handshake that turns into a tug on her arm. She refuses each time. Find him, she must keep repeating to herself. Find him, find him, find him …
“Would you like a bowl, miss?”
A gentle voice at her shoulder makes the Yokai turn. It is someone with an udon cart. She recognizes the sly smile and eyes so sharp they can cut through her.
“Kitsune-ojisan? Is that you?”
“Ah, Baku-sama! It’s been a long time!” The fox man bows. “Huh. You’re smaller than I remember. Back for another bowl, eh?”
“Maybe later. Have you seen my friend? Black hair, grey eyes.” The words come to her before she can even register the image in her memory.
“Hmmm,” the Kitsune strokes his whiskers. “No. Not since you two came to my truck. Don’t tell me you two broke up?”
Heat floods her face. “I … I just have to find him.”
“Sorry, little one. Haven’t seen him.”
The Yokai sighs. “I wonder who I can ask for help.”
The Kitsune taps a long, pointy nail against his chin in thought. “When I’m stuck like that, I find it best to ask everyone I can. You never know who has the right information for you.”
“I’ll try that. Thanks.”
“See you again!” The Kitsune rolls his udon cart away. Ask everyone I can. The Yokai struggles to think. There are so many of them. Scores, hundreds even. Asking them one by one will take her eons. The Yokai clears her throat. “Excuse me, everyone,” she calls out.
The parade stops abruptly. The music pauses. Everyone stares at her.
“Sorry. I’m glad to see you all again, I really am, but I’m looking for my friend. Have any of you seen him?”
Everyone looks down at the ground, at their multitude of toes, up at the sky, at their arms as if they have watches. Everywhere but at the Yokai herself. A scaly blue demon eventually steps forward. “I’m sorry, dear Baku,” it says. “We haven’t seen him in months. Not since the Flight from 自分自身.”
“The Flight from what now?”
“自分自身. Jibun Jishin,” the creature repeats, slower. “Everyone says you were the cause. Don’t you remember?”
The Yokai does not understand. She shakes her head. “I wish I could. Never mind. It’s okay. Thanks, anyway.”
“Have you tried the mountains?” shouts someone in the back of the parade.
Mountains. Now that strikes a chord with her. “I haven’t. Thank you!”
“Be careful, Baku-sama,” the blue yokai tugs at her hand. “For if the King of Nightmares knows you’re coming, he’ll devour your life again and may even take your eyes. That’s what he’s been doing these days, ever since the disappearance of his boy.”
“He has more eyes than ever, now!” someone adds. “For months he’s been able to prey on any human he desires!”
“He’s more dangerous than ever!” another voice trembles.
“Built that moat from all those humans, he did!”
“Join us, Baku-sama,” begs the blue demon. “Don’t go! It’s the annual parade! We’ll have sake and tomorrow night we’ll sneak among the humans!”
“I have to. I’m sorry. It’ll be okay.” The Yokai is certain of it; this time, she thinks, things will go my way.
The demon reluctantly relinquishes her space. “Be careful. Have you had any peaches today?”
“Yes. And I had some tea.”
“Good. Then it will only take you a few minutes on those long legs of yours, with the power of peach running through your veins and all.” The procession giggles at this joke. “Good luck, Bakusama. We wish you nothing but.”
The Yokai drifts through many dreams on her way to the mountains. She runs through plains bombarded by red and blue lightning strikes. She wades through a crowded bubble tea shop called Jubilee Irwin, where she is offered a cold minty shake in a small milk chocolate bucket. She listens to the tale of an old piano abandoned in a forest (sadly, the piano tells her, not the forest she is looking for). She crawls through a tunnel of dripping honeycomb, where children no bigger than her thumb lick the walls and beg for her attention as they dance and somersault, high off the sugar. The Yokai traverses through them all. She walks through daylight, through darkness, into the wild, crossing highways, and feeling her way through poorly lit tunnels. She walks for a long time, until she finds herself at the end of the world. Thick white billowing clouds line the cliff before her and stretch into the darkness. When she turns around, she sees a forest.
This is the place. I’m back. Now her hunt truly begins.
She explores the maze-like woods: the oak and redwood trees, wide as miles and tall as the sky, the forest of bamboo stalks, the short little spruce and pine trees that look as if they have just been planted, and all the other trees she does not know by name. Then come the laughing ones: The ones with soft, fuzzy orbs hanging from their branches, bobbing in the silent wind. The peaches. The ones that laughed, even when she sank her teeth into their soft, pliable faces or ate them whole. Her stomach rumbles and her tongue tingles with the taste of fear. The trees are not laughing anymore.
She hears a rustle in the grass. “Who’s there?” she calls out.
They emerge from the bush: babies. Hoards of them, toddling on unstable chubby legs. Only one of them speaks. “Ah, the baku is back. Welcome, Baku-sama, welcome.”
“Hello, Mr. …”
“Please, no names. Konaki Jiji will do. So, you have returned to us, and to the forest. To seek your friend, no doubt?”
“Yeah. Have you seen him?”
“I am afraid not. No one has seen the boy since 自分自身. That was three full moons ago, I believe. Only the King of Nightmares can know his whereabouts now.”
“I have to find him. He needs help. Someone told me so the other day.”
“If the King has him, then yes, help him you must. You are probably the only one who cares about him that can.”
“Why me?”
“I wish I had the answer to that question. Perhaps it is your connection, or the red string of fate that brought you two together, and it compels you to search for him. Unfortunately, as old and as wise as I am, I can tell you little. Talk me through your thoughts, child. What do you remember?”
“I remember … peaches. Eating peaches, the first time I saw him. Walking with a girl to a house. A quaint little cottage. They went inside and I … I came close. It had a golden-brown kind of smell … and when I touched it, it was so warm from the sun. The house looked so delicious, like I could eat it. So, I took a bite. Then I wanted more. I want more. I want some more.” She grins. “Maybe I wanted s’mores?”
“I am afraid I do not know of these … ‘some mores,’” says the Konaki Jiji. “However, by my understanding, your consumption of the jinmenju fruit and your manipulation of the boar god’s house set off a series of reactions among the more prevalent yokai in these woods. Your ability to transform things to food, combined with your ability to consume nightmares — even demons, perhaps — is uncanny. Limited only to the baku of yore. Oh, fear not, child. These abilities are good things. They put you, and only you, in the best position to find the boar god’s man, for there are no other baku in these parts.”
“But how am I supposed to find him when no one knows where he is?”
The Konaki Jiji produces a small, heavy-looking burlap sack. “Here. Take these. They were found next to a sleeping priest in a hut on the small island. They smell blessed. I think you can use them better than any of us can. Consider it a long-overdue gift for the time you successfully carried me without dying.”
The Yokai accepts the bag with a low bow of her own. She rolls it in her hand. It feels rough like burlap, and full of small oblong articles. She opens it and reaches inside. “Beans?”
“Close: soybeans. But in your hands, they are not just soybeans anymore, are they?”
She weighs the bag in her hand. “So, what are they?”
“You tell me. It is your dream.”
Are they protection? Weapons? The Yokai does not know what to say. “Thank you?” she finally decides.
“It is I who must thank you. You saved me. I would be passing through squid yokai bowels were it not for you and your bravery.”
The Yokai shrugs in the dark. “I wouldn’t call it bravery. I just, you know, do … whatever.”
“Exactly. And do again you must, to save your friend. I will leave you to it.”
“Wait a second! I still don’t know how to find him. Everyone says he’s with the King. The King of Nightmares. How do I find this King?”
“Would that I could escort you there, Baku-sama. But anyone who approaches the King’s domain now suffers terrible consequences, human and demon alike. He has fortified his residence since the Flight. All I can do is offer directions. First you must find the winding path that curves eastward, not westward, through the woods with many names and no names at all. Then you must turn south-wise four times, light incense — I assume you have nothing else for protection — then let the smoke demons guide you through the Rock Treasury Mountain. It is the long route, but the safest.”
The Yokai groans. “I can’t follow all that! I barely know where I am now. There must be a way to — hang on. Do you smell that? Smells yummy.”
The Konaki Jiji looks over its shoulder. “A nightmare. Get down. Down!”
About to inform the creature she cannot kneel down any farther, the Yokai gasps as she feels the sharpest of tugs on her arm. The Konaki Jiji pins her to the earth, shushing in her ear. “’Tis the blood-drinker,” he whispers.
There is something moving in the dark. A light, bouncing along in the darkness twenty feet away. It bobs one way, then the other, as if dangling from a wire, coming ever closer. A humanoid figure follows it. A girl. A tall, long-haired girl, thin as a rake, dressed in a schoolgirl’s uniform.
“What does he want?” says the girl.
“To talk to you, Hino-chan! He’s been worried.”
“Then he should not tarry any longer. He should take the man’s eyes and be done with it.”
The light and the girl figure pass close to the ditch, illuminating the Yokai’s bare legs by mere inches, then turn and continue down the path. They do not speak again. The Konaki Jiji and the Yokai hold their breath until the light fades away.
“Forget the directions; follow the nightmare,” the Konaki Jiji whispers. “Follow the nightmare and the blood-drinker to the King. But beware, Baku-sama. Do not let the nightmares spot you, or they will devour you, too. I could not bear that happen.”
With a kiss farewell on the Konaki Jiji’s tiny hand, the Yokai rises to her feet. Like a leopard, she springs from her feet and scrambles up the nearest tree. She runs and leaps across the treetop branches over the path, keeping the girl and the bobbing light in her sights. At some point she loses them around a bend but looks up and sees the house just ahead. She continues toward it, confident in her noiseless feet carrying her above the path, confident that she will not be spotted. “I can do this … I am invisible. I am invisible.”
A sudden flash of light shines overhead, illuminating the barren treetops of a multitudinous forest. There it is. The house on the small hill surrounded by brambles and dying gardens and what appears to be a lake. The house that was once a Japanese ryokan, a love hotel, an alley behind a shop, the emperor’s palace, the top of a Ferris wheel, an infinite number of other places, and once even had the most decadent chocolate and baked confections for walls and roofing. The house was all of these rooms and places at one point in time or another. Now it is simply a house of wood and tile, ancient but built to stand strong against the elements of time and weather, maintained by some unknown supernatural force to serve its owner. Just above the roof, with its demon- and spike-shaped monuments, several hundred lights like stars hover in the air. Nightmares. The Yokai can smell them over the dead-fish stench of the moat, like a breeze of fresh air, but heady and fruitier and delicious. She can feel the urge to grow up to the height of the house, reach out a hand and scoop them into her palm all at once, cupping them to her mouth, feeling the chewy sensations as their flavourful essences burst out of their delicate skins …
The front door of the house kicks open. “What the HELL? Turn that shit off!” Akki storms down his steps. “What are you idiots doin’? Tryin’ to light up the whole mountain?!”
“Sorry, Akki-sama!” his nightmares squeal. They dim. It was enough. The Yokai can tell where she must go.
She sidles down the ridge toward the moat surrounding the house. Upon closer inspection, it appears to be blood. Potentially harmless to the touch, the Yokai tiptoes around its edges regardless, careful not to dip a single toe in it. Crouching in the darkness, she notices a light bobbing closer toward where Akki stands. It is the nightmare from before, accompanied by the girl.
“Hino-chan! Good to see ya, as always! How’s my kid?”
Hino steps over the bridge, over the moat, into Akki’s dying garden. “Your ‘kid’ is fine. But I must tell you — my word, Akki, what happened to you?”
“What? Oh, this?” Akki chuckles, grazing a large knuckle over the deep gouge across one eye. “Guess it has been a while since you’ve seen me on two feet. Ah, ain’t nothin’ to cry over, Hinochan. It’ll heal, give or take a century. But I kinda like it. Shows I’ve been through some shit. Really adds to the look.” He waves a hand through the air. “‘The scarred samurai.’ Pretty sexy, eh?”
Hino ignores his jest. “Akki, I cannot do this anymore.”
“Why the fuck not?!”
“I am a demon of night. This is not in my nature. I cannot keep it up.”
“Aw, come on, Hino-chan. You’re the only one I can count on! All my nightmares can do is watch him, and the restaurant trick don’t work no more. I need someone who can get their hands on human food for him, and you’re the most human-lookin’ yokai I know!”
“I am the only human-looking yokai you know.”
“You know what I mean, man. You know I’m not like you. You said so yourself! You can touch whatever you want, but I only got one day when I can go out in the real world and have earthly form. And it ain’t like I can transform leaves into money, or control humans’ minds and get them to buy me shit — no offence. And how’s it gonna look phasin’ through people in downtown Osaka? They’re gonna think I’m a fuckin’ ghost!” He takes out his topknot and ruffles his hair in frustration. “You gotta do this for me. Pleeease? You’ve been doin’ it for this long already!”
“And had I known it would be three months I never would have started. I am not spending the next year looking after your pet, Akki. He needs food and maintenance every day.”
“Aw,” Akki whines. “Come on! Not even for one more night?”
Hino sighs. “You need to make a choice. Take his eyes or release him, before …”
“Before what? It’s not like anyone’s gonna come and get him. I made sure of that.”
“What do you mean?”
Akki sports his fangs. “I mean, I took care of that dreameatin’ bitch. That’s right. You didn’t see it, but it was pretty fuckin’ awesome. Ate a good couple of chunks out of her. An arm and a leg. She won’t be back.”
The nightmares in the sky above them snicker. “Yeah, you should’ve seen it, Hino-sama! Akki nii-chan ate her good. Worst nightmare of her life!”
“Hmm,” says Hino. “I suppose that would explain why she has not ventured into these parts for all this time. And it has not gone unnoticed the manipulations have ceased. Are you sure there are no consequences to your actions, Akki? It is not in your nature to think far ahead. And besides, we know nothing of gaikokujin baku. This foreign one, her power … it rivalled even yours.”
“Heh. Shows what you know, Hino. Why you think she ain’t been stickin’ her nose around here? Why you think she hasn’t come for the kid? She’s scared shitless, that’s why. What? What’s with that pouty look?”
“Nothing. You have successfully dashed all my hopes of her staging a rescue is all.”
Akki puts his hands on his hips. “Oh, she ain’t rescuin’ shit. Ain’t no more ‘stamipulatin’ from her anymore, now that she knows what I can do.”
The Yokai narrows her eyes at the haughty figure. “‘What you can do,’ eh? We’ll see about that, Nightmare King.”
While Akki and Hino continue their conversation and the nightmares are distracted, the Yokai takes a running leap over the moat, right into the scaffolding. She lands noiselessly and shimmies up the bamboo poles as though she has done it a million times. It only takes seconds to reach the banister and swing herself over. Once on the other side she peers over the railing. All is quiet, save the yokai arguing at the front door. The Yokai notices the ground is higher on this side of the house. She can see a town or two below, and beyond that, the rest of the dream forest under the moonlight. She rests her head against the cool bamboo railing. No turning back now.
The Yokai creeps along on her hands and knees and climbs through a dimly lit window. A long hallway stretches before her. She vaguely remembers this place, now. The Yokai fled from red-haired, red-faced women down this hall. The only identifiable difference is the floor. Almost every inch of the once-golden tatami is now splattered with blood varying in degrees of degeneration. Some patches are covered with the thin yet tawny substance, while the rest is soaked in a black inky ooze that still looks wet. The Yokai steels herself and rises to her feet. She has a feeling she is already standing in blood. Reluctantly, she takes long strides over the floor, attempting to make as little noise as possible while making the nearly impossible hops to the cleanest parts of the floor. More than once, she comes close to losing her footing and bringing her face close to the lumpy pools before her. After what feels like ages, she reaches the end of the hallway.
This must be the banquet room, she muses. She can recall it now: the long table buckling under the weight of so much food and so many dishes. Is this the room she wants? If I were a nightmare king, where would I hide my human? she asks herself. A silly question, perhaps, but the Yokai is out of ideas. She is still puzzling over this when she hears voices approaching:
“Lost little Yokai
Looking for a friend …”
“Remember that? That was fun.”
“Uh-oh.” The singing. The Yokai remembers that song. And the bites. The blood, the needles. “Nightmares.”
She scampers along the wall until her hands find the edges of a sliding door. Without hesitation, she slips into the room and gently slides it closed. The tiny voices grow louder and quieter as they pass. The Yokai releases a breath she did not realize she was holding.
She finds herself in a dark massive room in which she can somehow see despite the absence of light. Down pillows are scattered all over the floor, mingled with torn mesh drapery and filthy plates. Hundreds of unlit taper candles line the room, extending for what seems like miles. At her feet lies a crumpled paper lantern covered in a thick layer of dust. The Yokai looks up at the walls. She finds herself surrounded by eyes. Eyes everywhere. They are watching her, noiseless, thoughtless. They all have brown irises and they are all focused on her. The Yokai waits for some kind of alarm. Hearing none, she stands upright. The eyes belong to no one. They are part of the room, etched into the fabric of the door and the walls themselves. The eyes bear varying degrees of coloured sclera: many are freshly white, others are quite yellow, some practically brown with age. All of them are filled with pain and loss.
“What happened to you? Who did this to you?”
Some look away with guilty glances. Others leak fresh tears. None answer. The Yokai feels close to tears herself. This is a room of desolation and suffering. These were once human eyes. Now, the walls have taken a life of their own, comprised of centuries of inconsolable souls. Enmeshed into the walls, the eyes are now resigned to watch over one thing: the young man dozing in the middle of the room, entombed in thick plastic sheets. The young man who never saw them with his own sad, piercing eyes but had felt their presence since his first visit.
“Zaniel!” the Yokai cries. Forgetting all about stealth and silence, she runs to him, throwing herself on the bed, shaking him by the shoulders to rouse him. She calls out his name, over and over again, as if to make up for all the time she has forgotten it. Nothing wakes him. She presses her head to his chest: an audible heartbeat through the layers of plastic. The sound of it seems to reverberate in the room as the Yokai begins to claw and tear at the thick sheets of saran wrap that encase him. Her sharp fingers make quick work of it. Zaniel begins to stir.
“Baku kurae … baku … Akki? Please … let me go … Akki …”
“No, it’s me. I’ve got to get you out of here. Can you walk?”
Zaniel groans as the Yokai forces him to sit upright. She throws one of his arms around her shoulders and hoists him to his feet. He is heavier than lead. “Damn it …” The Yokai pulls at his lethargic body. That is when she looks down and sees it. His left leg, stuck to the bed, living plastic slowly but loudly shrink-wrapping around it. The sound of it is deafening.
“Shh, stop it! Get off of him!”
She reaches to pull it off. Zaniel pushes her, hard. She hits the floor. “Stay back!” He stops her with a guarded hand when she tries to get back to his side. “Get away from me!”
“Zan—” his name dies in her mouth. The plastic takes hold of him. It drags him back to the bed, pinning him to the mattress as it slides up his body. “No, no … I came to save you …”
“You can’t. Not here. You have to go back to the World.”
“But I don’t know where to look!” Tears start to well up in the Yokai’s eyes.
“Yes, you do. Yourself.”
“What?!”
“Believe … in …” He struggles to say something more, but the plastic squeezes out his last gasp of air.
“Okay,” the Yokai nods, sniffling. “It’ll be okay. I’ll find you. I promise.”
With a final scrunch the plastic wrap takes hold of him. He is wrapped even more tightly and in many more layers than he was before — it must be a trap that reinforces itself every time he tries to escape. Just watching the process is painful for the Yokai to witness. There is no way she can rescue him. Crying now, the Yokai stumbles back from the bed and goes to the door, oblivious to the now-bewildered eyes blinking in warning at her. Too late — she opens the door. Right in her face is a dragon, tattooed on a broad muscular chest. Its yellow eyes widen, its hackles rise, and it hisses like a threatened cat. She looks up and recognizes the thick black locks of hair, the blazing green eye, and the strong jaw barking at someone unseen. She screams and slams the door on him, leaving Akki confused on the other side.
“The fuck?” Akki tries to open the door but cannot. He realizes the door has become a Western-style swinging door that is now locked. Someone is manipulating his house. Again.
“No, it can’t be! It’s not possible!” Akki throws his head back with a roar and lunges at the door, plowing right through it. Several pairs of eyes fall to the floor, rolling back and forth, crushed under the weight of his feet as he storms around the room. Zaniel appears to be untouched but the room is completely different, filled with furniture that has been thrown around as if to hinder his progress. Strange new cupboards and dressers and tables that were not there before and have never been in this room. Angered, Akki overturns tables and kicks in the doors of the cupboards. He finds no one. The intruder is gone.
“The Dream Eater,” Akki growls. “It can’t be anyone else.”
He must think. Where would she go, where would she hide? He must think like her. She would not stay in the room; she would have created her own method of escape. There are no windows in this room. Aside from the door she transformed, there is no way out. He sinks his fingers into the tatami and rips it up. Flowing in waves, the mats spring up from the floor. “Aha!” He sees it. A trap door that never existed in his true home. He pounces on it, rips it open. She has manipulated his house to her liking once again, and once again it heeded to her. We’ll fuckin’ see about that.
Akki leaps down the hole beneath the trap door, plummeting soundlessly through the air. He lands with a thunk on the ground below, one knee bent. He is below the house now, out in the open air, surrounded by bamboo scaffolding and, beyond that, the lake of blood. He sees her. The Yokai is sprinting across the garden, over the bridge, and into the woods. She is fast; powerful, even. Akki lets his tusks grow forth. But she ain’t fast and powerful enough.
He takes one step forward. His straw-sandalled foot sinks into the earth. It remains stuck there. “What the fu—?”
As if to answer him, the scaffolding buckles in on itself. Then comes the splitting of a thousand bamboo sticks. The groan of heavy infrastructure. A sound like a thousand bowling pins raining overhead. And then the house above his head implodes in a torrent of wood, plaster, and smoky dust. A moment later, Akki’s head emerges from the destruction with a cartoonish pop. He struggles to pull himself out of the wreckage; even in a pile of cinnamon-and-ginger-scented rubble, the house does not obey him.
Okay, that does it. You’ve asked for it, bitch.
Hatred courses through his veins, and a hum stirs in his throat. Akki closes his eye and starts to sing.
“Ho, ho, hotaru koi …”
The Yokai runs and runs and runs. Ignoring the path completely, she hurtles through the trees as fast as her legs will take her. Her bare feet stumble more than once on sharp rock and upraised tree roots, but they do not stop her.
“Ho, ho, hotaru koi …”
The deep voice booms all around her, shaking the dead trees. She recognizes the voice immediately. Her arms and legs pump faster in a fresh burst of speed. Akki’s song stirs the air around her, and with his song comes the sound of rustling paper. Paper? Yes. A thousand papers being rustled and rumpled and crushed all at once, all around the Yokai. Ahead of her, behind her, all around her, they come. Tiny little lights stir as if from slumber.
“Acchi no mizu wa nigaizo, kocchi no mizu wa amaizo …”
The lights fire into the air, screaming like small rockets. They join the crowd of lights already in pursuit of the Yokai.
“What’s going on? Who woke me up?”
“Look, down there! It’s her.”
“After her! Akki-sama wants us to eat her!”
“Really? Doesn’t he want any for himself?”
“‘Eat around the eyes,’ Akki-sama says!”
The paper sound crescendos into a riotous noise. The Yokai claps her hands over her ears and runs even harder. The nightmares. They are coming, faster and faster. The sound of them racing through the air becomes deafening. The Yokai trips over a tree root; she cries out but does not stop running.
A nightmare dive-bombs on her and nips at her head. She ducks just in time, but she can feel the sting of its teeth. She smacks it. It cries out in terror as it careens into a tree trunk and splatters. The tantalizing scent of it makes the Yokai dizzy, but she refuses to stop.
The Yokai reaches the edge of the forest, where the sky meets the land. Still, she does not stop. She barrels through the last remaining trees, out onto the winding path, and straight off the cliff. The clouds under her bare feet are like sand. They cause her to slip and stumble a little, but she keeps running. She must not stop.
“Ho, ho, hotaru koi …”
The sky lightens. Yes. I’m almost there. I’m almost free! She is wrong, she realizes. It is not the impending arrival of sunlight that is dimming out the stars and turning the sky from deep violet to a warm, burning orange. It is the nightmares, growing in number and proximity. There must be thousands of them. How many nightmares can there be in the world? Whatever the number, it seems they are all after her, now.
It is your dream, the Konaki Jiji had said. I’m dreaming. I gotta wake up. The clouds cause too much traction under her feet. The Yokai stumbles one last time and falls. All around her the horizon of clouds turns the colour of nightmare. The Yokai squeezes her eyes shut. She wraps her arms around her head and curls up into a ball. Wake up, she admonishes herself. Wake up, wake up, wake up …
“Acchi no mizu wa nigaizo, kocchi no mizu wa amaizo …”
“There! She’s stopped! GET HER.”
Wake up, wake up …
“I call dibs on her eyes!”
“Ho, ho, hotaru koi …”
“No way! I want her eyes!”
“We’re supposed to eat AROUND them.”
Wake up, wake up …
“It doesn’t matter who gets her eyes, just GET HER!”
“HOTARU KOI.”
Wake up …!
The world is a deep, dark orange hue. I open my eyes. The living-room light is still on, bright as midday sunlight. I crawl out from under my kotatsu and stand up. My heart is racing like I’ve just run a marathon. Weird-ass dream. Probably stemmed from this movie, which is still playing on the TV and now feels all too familiar. I should just forget about it and go back to sleep. No — better yet, I need to calm down first. Get all those images out of my head.
The television lands on NHK. The screen also shows the time: 23:48. That’s when it hits me. I know exactly what I must do. And I only have twelve minutes to do it.
The universe is on my side. My speedy biking skills got me on the last eastbound train. I have my choice of seats. The entire train ride, I feel giddy. Even after the train passes Amagasaki and the bay, the adrenalin doesn’t subside. Trains always used to make me feel calm. This one doesn’t. It feels like it’s taking me to a point of no return. Or maybe I’m just still thinking about Spirited Away. I wait for the train to rock me to sleep, but sleep does not come. I wonder how much I’ll get before work tomorrow. It all depends on how this little urban adventure goes.
“Tsugi wa Osaka-Namba. Osaka-Namba. Shuuten desu.”
There’s no turning back home, now. It’s okay, I tell myself. It’s not the way back I need to worry about. It’s the way forward.
Everything is closing up for the night here. The last remaining people on the train all seem to have briefcases or suitcases or are wearing suits of some kind: salarymen, office workers, even the train station attendants are carrying something. I’m the only one empty-handed. I’m the only one wearing pyjamas, too. No one seems to care. Everyone rushes past me, set on their respective destinations, as the station shops close up for the night. It’s as if, for the first time in Japan, I’m invisible.
Tourists still taking pictures with the Glico Man, teens dancing to hip hop on boom boxes in front of the closed shops and their reflective windows, some girls in club outfits jogging to get out of the cold. No one gives me a second glance. Maybe I am invisible.
A group of breakdancers’ heads turn from their mirrors as I walk past. They invite me to dance: “Ne, ne! Come on!” When I wave in refusal, one young man shouts, “WHY NOT?”
Nope, never mind. I’m not invisible after all.
As I venture farther south there are fewer and fewer people. I also notice the increase in wheelie carts full of garbage bags, ragged clothes, toes poking out of shoes, and the distinct smells of cheap sake mingled with pee. Something in the back of my mind tells me I won’t have to go past Shin-Imamiya station, and when I see the signs for it, I breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t have to go farther than this; I remember telling myself I wouldn’t when we went out after Zozo that night.
Don’t worry, you’ll be perfectly safe. Think of me as your “bodyguard.”
I walk down the next wide street for a minute or two, stopping at a Family Mart to pretend I’m shopping for food. I do end up buying two cans of hot corn chowder and a bottle of peach water after ten minutes of loitering. Now, if anything happens to me, someone can report to the police that yes, they did see a gaijin in pyjamas and a white winter coat tonight. I chug down the peach water and slip the soup into my pockets. They’re small enough to fit next to my wallet and pocket Wi-Fi, and they make nice hand warmers.
Now, where did we go from here?
My instincts guide me toward a smaller shoutengai. I can hear guitars playing medieval-sounding rock music. It’s quite beautiful. Lyrical. Now I feel like I’m truly on some kind of adventure. The music is leading me in the right direction, it has to be. Maybe it’s a group of buskers or students playing; maybe they can guide me the right way.
The shops here are all closed. I can’t tell where the music is coming from. I keep walking. The music is coming from all around me, mostly over my head. Wait. I’ve been down this shoutengai before, once, when everything was open. I vaguely remember this one sells jewellery and watches, and in that one a man had a pig on a leash. There wasn’t any music playing at the time, or maybe there were just too many people to hear. And I remember now; I wasn’t alone. I was with him.
Right on cue, the music changes. The light guitar becomes heavy and guttural, cut through with a deep growl and foreboding lyrics. Is that “One” playing? It is. “Great. Now I’m scared.” This better not be some kind of foreshadowing.
The shoutengai turns out to be very short. I’m more than happy to get back out in the open, away from whoever is playing Metallica at one in the morning. Out here, people huddle against the cold. In the backdrop of cityscape, Tsutenkaku Tower glows neon bright. I follow the main streets in the tower’s direction. As a woman living anywhere, I always make sure to get my bearings. I never know when I’ll have to make a run for the nearest police box. That’s why I remember the tower: Tsutenkaku was my landmark when we got out of the subway station. We walked down this main street — Sakaisuji, according to the signs — for a few minutes. I remember thinking I could go to Spa World if I missed my last train or if he had turned out to be a real creep. If I’m wrong about all this, I can spend the night there and hightail it back to Nishibe first thing in the morning so I’m not late for work. But if I’m right … if I’m right …
Then what?
I shake my head and pick up the pace. I’m not going to think that far ahead right now.
I come out of the alleyway and immediately recognize the pharmacy we must have passed on the way. Hard to forget a name like “Love Drug.” I hurry past its neon glow, farther down the street. There’s a small shrine on the corner. I remember this, too. As I step over several knocked-down trash cans covered in snow, the sound of bamboo knocking against bamboo and trickling water reaches my ears. The noise makes me feel less alone, more courageous, and confident that, when I turn this corner, I’ll find what I’m looking for.
And there it is. The torii gate. But there’s no one here. Why does it feel like someone should be here?
Because I’m about to do something stupid, that’s why.
I walk up to the gate thrown up in the alley between the two squat buildings. I wonder how it even got here. It’s covered in black graffiti, as is every inch of the brick walls on either side. To my left, I try to read the colourful gang symbols and kanji. Everything is scribbles to me except for four white spray-painted characters that I instantly recognize:
自 分 自 身
“Jibun Jishin,” I read. “Myself.” Yourself.
Snow begins to fall now, silent as can be. This is the place. I don’t feel scared at all. Silence means I’m alone.
I approach the gate with caution and stick my hand into the darkness between the legs of the gate. There’s a thick black tarp there. Darkness lies on the other side. This is stupid. This is dangerous. And at the same time, it’s exciting. What would my co-workers say? I exhale a blast of white air. Time to manoeuvre my phone out from my pocket and turn on the flashlight. The flight of steps isn’t that long. If I run into government ninjas or giant raccoon monsters, I can run back out quick. So down I go, looking back over my shoulder, seeing nothing but snow falling from the night sky.
There is snow down here, too. It looks like some of the roof has been ripped out, or maybe it caved in. Either way, there is enough moonlight for me to see a little bit better. I walk forward a little more, my feet finding their way as naturally as walking around my own apartment without turning on the lights. There’s a tree here. It’s dead, by the look of the white streaks running through its bark. It must be a sakura tree. There is a slight buildup of snow already collecting on its long, thin branches. Past the tree is a doorway, where a rice-paper door lies ripped and broken. It’s brighter on the other side. The dim light pulls at me. I put my phone down and head on through.
A giant room with a giant stage. Storeys high. No ceiling, just falling snowflakes and a starless sky illuminated tawny violet by all the city lights nearby. I don’t feel so scared anymore. Just sad. This place … we came here together, and it was packed with people. Now it’s abandoned. Like everyone just got up and left in the middle of their meals. The tables are covered with plates and glasses thick with dust. Chairs and tables are knocked over. The entire place smells like age. I’m standing on a small bridge that leads to the heart of the room. Underneath there must have been water running through. Now it’s just brick and tile, evaporated dry and white with calcium. The only footprints here belong to me. I walk around the room, past the bar, past a lobster tank now clouded thick with mould. A flight of stairs leads down past the stage.
Ready or not, here I come …
My cellphone is my saviour again. I turn on the flashlight. The shaking beacon leads me down each landing. At the bottom of the staircase is a short, narrow hallway. It’s warmer down here, cramped with huge broken sake casks, long bamboo sticks, a washing machine so big I can probably fit inside and sit upright, microphone stands, broken tambourines, and lots of other old junk. There’s a thick tatami smell down here, too. And something else I can’t put my finger on. Thankfully, it’s not a bad smell. Last thing I need is to discover a dead body. I’m already afraid of what I might be stepping on in here. In fact, it smells … delicious …
There’s a room at the end of this cluttered hallway — or at least, a door. I can see it just beyond the edge of the light from my phone. I step over the detritus and garbage, fumbling along the walls. It’s another sliding rice-paper door, but still intact. The squares almost feel warm. I stroke the gold handle of the door, about to slide it open, when I hear a crash above my head. It almost sounds like thunder, except for the sound of screeching metal accompanying it.
“What the hell?” I whisper. Then I hear another sound. A repetitive tapping sound. It’s fast.
Footsteps.
“Shit.”
A homeless person who’s been squatting here. A cop. Someone else entirely. I don’t want to find out. I have to hide. I kick my way through the garbage, trying to be quiet, and reach the stairs. The sound is getting louder. The footsteps are coming this way.
Double shit.
I stagger, bumping into the giant washing machine. The footsteps are definitely coming this way. It’s almost like whoever’s up there knows I’m here and is heading straight for me. There’s nothing for it. I pry open the washing machine and hop in, closing the door as best as I can without shutting it completely. It’s surprisingly warm inside and smells clean enough. And I can sit upright in here. I hug my phone against my body, covering the flashlight with my hand, there’s no time to click it off. My boots squeak against the metal a little, and I can feel a little pool of snow melting against my ass. Well, I hope it’s snow.
It’s too dark to see anything outside of the little drum window. I can only hear sounds. The footsteps come down the stairs, little pitter-patters that slow when the person reaches a landing. They stop at the bottom, just in front of the washing machine. My eyes widen despite the dark. My body tightens every muscle. I brace myself for the machine door to be pulled open from the outside. I can’t breathe. For a moment, all I hear is my own heartbeat, and I’m certain whoever’s on the other side of this door can hear it, too.
The footsteps crunch through the same garbage I walked over, past the machine. They stop far away. A door slides open. I hear a deep voice. Only one voice, though. No reply. The door closes. The footsteps go past me and the machine again, back up the stairs, on a landing, up the next flight of stairs, another landing, and up the next. After that I don’t hear anything. I wait a long time, leaning against the metal drum, curled up to stay warm. It’s so comfortable in here. My eyelids get heavy after a while, and I startle awake. I peek at my phone, shielding the light from the window. It’s almost two. Surely Jibun Jishin’s second intruder has left by now.
Heart in my throat, I push the door inch by inch until it opens all the way. Nothing leaps out from the shadows, nothing attacks. I stick my head out of the drum and use the flashlight app. No one is here. It’s like nothing happened; I know I didn’t imagine those footsteps, though. I am not losing it. I grimace in the darkness — okay, so what I’m doing now isn’t exactly normal. But I know I didn’t imagine anything. And I’m not imagining things now, as I climb out of the machine, trudge back to the door, and carefully slide it open.
Several voices gasp.
I stumble back from the door and whirl around. “The fuck was that?” I shine my flashlight around the hall. No one else is here, but I know what I heard. “Who’s there?!” Silence. I step toward the room again. I let out a gasp myself.
The room is lit up by a single light in the ceiling. In the room lies a man. He’s curled up on his side in a tiny cot in the room, which is empty except for him, a bedside table next to him cluttered with plastic bags, and a bucket in a corner. Takeout cartons litter the floor beside the bed. The room smells like a subway station washroom. This whole set-up is very strange. But the more I look at the man, the more I recognize him.
“Zaniel!” I run to him, shake him. He’s warm, thank God. I shake him harder. “Zaniel. What the hell are you doing here? Come on, get up. Get up.”
He rolls over, onto his back. Something flutters onto the floor from his hand. A postcard? I pick it up off my boot. “What is this …? Lake Biwa?”
“Baku,” he murmurs. “Baku … kurae …”
I shake myself to attention and kneel over Zaniel. “I don’t understand. What …?”
“Akumu … akumu …”
I know that word. Hitomu’s word. Nightmares. “Don’t worry. I’m getting help.” I turn to my phone and start to dial 119.
“No,” Zaniel grabs my arm. His eyes are still closed. “No police … Cybelle … the akumu …”
“What?” I don’t get it. “Ugh. Forget it, then. I’ll get you out myself.” Again, I thank God for this phone. According to Google Maps there’s a hospital nearby, less than ten minutes away on foot. I need to get him there, but how?
Something catches the corner of my eye. I look at the bedside table again. There’s a conbini bag with more takeout containers and a bottle of what looks like Pocari Sweat. Has he been living down here? Why? And for how long? And why? I poke at the bag. There are some things behind it. I move the handles of the plastic bag away. An iPhone, a silver watch, a burlap sack, two bracelets, and a box. The air shudders a little. It’s a box of mochi, bright yellow balls. Almost shiny. Five of them in a container meant for six. They look delicious.
Oh my GOSH, Cybelle, why are you thinking about food at a time like this?
“Okay, Zaniel. Let’s get you out of here.” I roll Zaniel over, take one of his arms and wrap it around my shoulder. With my other arm I lift him up. He moans a little but doesn’t wake up. He’s heavy as hell.
“Shit.” I lie him back down. There’s no way I can get him out of here on my own. Not that I have a choice. I look at the box of mochi again. Why are they so yellow? Are they lemon-flavoured or something? What could be inside it? It can’t be ice cream. Red bean, maybe? “You don’t look like ice cream …”
Something whimpers above me. My head snaps up. The only thing there is the ceiling light. It’s flickering. Triple. Shit. If it goes out, I don’t know how I’m going to manoeuvre this guy out of here in the dark. I can’t sit here thinking about food. I need to summon enough strength to carry him out of here. Preferably now.
But I am hungry.
I pick one up. It’s so soft, and strangely warm between my fingers. Smells like lemon to me. It almost feels wrong to do this … like I’m about to eat a living thing …
Cybelle. Mochi is vegan. Everyone knows that.
I eat one. And another. And another. And the last two.
Delicious.