Golden Week was ending and despite not being a student or someone with a nine to five job, Junna had developed a terrible case of May Sickness. May Sickness was really just a way to refer to the seasonal depression after the late May holidays when the excitement of a new school or job year in Japan had worn off and the burn out rolled in; Junna supposed they had technically started a new job. They’d moved back to Tokyo mid-April and immediately taken on whatever exorcisms they could get. Junna had even exorcized the ghost haunting their new apartment right after moving in, so while that was one less restless spirit, it resulted in an unnaturally quiet living space.
A night owl like Junna was most active at the times the rest of the Yanaka neighborhood was asleep. When the trains stopped running around midnight, their range of travel reduced significantly. They didn’t have any streaming services or game consoles; they’d never bothered holding on to books or DVDs because they moved so often. It was easier to use an internet cafe or a library.
Cooking, sports, late night anime… the last time Junna checked the clock it was 01:56 or somewhere close to it. Junna wasn’t used to having a television or cable. When they checked the time again by giving their smartphone a shake, it was 01:59. The middle of the hour of the ox, the favorite time for occult rituals all over the country! They dropped it back into the wide sleeve of their black kimono. Only about an hour before half the channels would temporarily go off air for maintenance until later in the morning. They were running out of channels and sleep wasn’t happening any time soon.
A sudden blast of music playing double the volume of anything else on air and flashing colors scattering the darkness around the room came dangerously close to giving Junna a small heart attack, but they took a deep breath and regained composure.
“What B-grade, low budget garbage is this?” they muttered. “Making up for bad quality with volume level?”
“HELLO, MY CRAZY NIGHT WALKERS!”
“Hi, hiii, HIIIII! Welcome back to—”
“ITSUMADEMO MIDNIGHT SESSION!”
The figures on the screen were downright uncanny. First, there was the guy on the right, a sleazy-looking bastard with slicked back bleached hair, square black sunglasses, and a practically neon green suit. The mic was way too close to his grinning mouth full of short, sharp teeth. Second, there was the girl on the left who had busted out into laughter that didn’t just resemble a seagull’s cry—it was definitely a seagull cry. Her white and gray hair was cut into a feathery bob. The black mark across her nose brought to mind the outline of a beak.
One glance was enough to discern neither of them were human. Junna instantly concluded this show was either haunted or cursed, maybe both.
“This is RYUUZAKI KENGO!” Was that guy even breathing?
“And this is your favorite idol, Nanami Minamiiii!” Could she sound any more desperate?
Ryuuzaki leaned close to the camera and winked over his sunglasses. His eyes were yellow with thin black vertical slits as pupils.
“Yōkai or shikigami.” Junna tilted their head and leaned closer to the screen. Shikigami would be a stretch if the two were human-sized, as they appeared on screen. There wasn’t a method that was worth making such a large, active familiar; it would take way too much time, spirit energy, and materials. To say nothing about the fact that they looked human, although uncomfortably uncanny, as supernatural entities often did. Movements too stilted, no blinking, mouths stretching slightly wider than necessary on certain vowels or lip movements that didn’t line up with the sounds they were producing…
“This week’s episode is the return of a favorite from our early episodes, the Late Night Horror Fight Labyrinth! Contestants will have forty-four minutes—” Ryuuzaki and Nanami babbled on about events from previous episodes, alluding cursed ritual-like games and the deaths of their participants. But by this point, Junna had decided that since they weren’t ghosts, this was best left to someone else. Junna’s specialty was spirits of the dead, not living spirits. “I’ll ask Nana about that later.” They leaned back and changed the channel with disinterest, preparing to give up and try to sleep once their options ran out. The screen went black. Not turned off: there was still that faint glow indicating the television was on, but the broadcast image was entirely black. The faded black of a blank screen grew darker, then textured, exactly like… Long, black hair. “Oh no,” Junna’s voice came out in a strained wheeze and they tried clicking off the TV with the remote about three times before giving up. “I forgot to put up a ward, dammit…” They tossed the remote. It bounced off the top of the TV, missing the head that was pushing its way out of the screen like the glass didn’t exist at all. That was how ghosts operated. Junna had remembered to ward their mirrors and never left any standing water around, but they hadn’t owned a TV in such a long time, they’d forgotten it could also serve as a portal for the dead. Long black hair spilled out of the TV’s frame and pooled out on the floor as two gray-white hands gripped the side. Junna knew this visitor well, and was already scrambling back from the TV, about to clamor to their feet and run. In their panic, they had abandoned all coordination in favor of speed and it was not looking like a winning strategy. No going back now, though. In a heart-pounding, skin-crawling, ear-ringing state of fear humans in modern day developed nations were rarely exposed to, all they could think to do was escape. The need to run took over. A curse that lasted seven days would have been merciful. Junna had been running for the past two years. Running and hiding in obscure shrines with powerful spiritual protections until they wore out their welcome, hunting every ghost but the one in their apartment right now. “Junna,” said the quiet, raspy voice of the ghost hanging her lowered head out of the modestly sized flatscreen TV. “Ibuki—Ibuki, please, just this once, please listen to me—” Pleading in such a way was useless. Junna knew this, and yet they couldn’t help but speak to the ghost as if she had never died. Like Junna hadn’t tried to bring her back and hadn’t failed miserably. The idea that Ibuki would grant them any request was laughable. Maybe that was why they asked: to make it out to be a joke. As if Ibuki would say “Tricked you! How was my Sadako impression?” Ibuki’s neck snapped up at an angle not unnatural, but surely uncomfortable for a normal human and glared at Junna with glassy grayish-white eyes ringed in red. I wish I had just closed your eyes and let you rest, Junna thought, though wishing it wouldn’t make it so. “You’re the reason I’m like this.” The spirits of the dead always moved in a manner that confused human perception. Junna sometimes wondered if the person who had suggested Yamamura Sadako or Saeki Kayako’s jerky, creeping movements had encountered a real ghost themselves at some point. Ibuki’s hands were both on the edge of the TV one second, and then one was around Junna’s ankle before another had passed, almost like stop motion animation with frames missing. “This is your fault.” She didn’t yell or scream or even raise her voice. Junna wished she would. She did, sometimes, when her rage at existing finally overflowed. The low, clear hiss was worse, the hoarseness a reminder of when Junna had discovered her, dangling from the ceiling of her own bedroom in her family home, dead like the rest of the Isshiki clan despite being the only one free of wounds or curses. “I know, I know—” Junna resisted apologizing. It had never worked, and why would Ibuki even believe them? Because they’d done it for love? What did the reason matter when Ibuki’s current existence amounted to nothing but torment? Ibuki’s skin felt like ice and her grip was so tight Junna felt like their ankle might snap. Panic stole their breath as they remembered the same grip around their throat. The marks on Ibuki’s neck were bruises and a hint of burn from the cloth or whatever she’d used to hang herself. The marks on Junna’s neck were from Ibuki’s hands. They wanted to joke: “Can’t we call it even?” Instead, they yanked their leg back as hard as they could and pulled Ibuki halfway out of the TV so that she lost her balance and was laid out across the low table. After rolling onto all fours, they sprinted to the front door, twisted the lock, shoved the door open, and escaped into the night. They flew down the stairs to their second floor apartment and dashed two blocks away before daring to look back. Nothing. Just a dark street, lights on in distant windows, and a warm spring breeze. It was May, so the nights were still pleasant and not heavy with humidity. Ghosts of almost all types could travel through reflective surfaces, but many times they weren’t strong enough to haul themselves all the way out. The modern flatscreen TVs were probably even worse doors than the older box models, especially with all the added interference: cable channels, wifi, radiation, and who knew what else? Junna had yet to see a ghost—an actual spirit of the dead—travel through a smartphone or laptop, although there were plenty of other nasty things that could. Of course Ibuki would be an exceptional case… For now, they were alone again. Safe. Ibuki would probably retreat back into the TV while they were out, but without a proper ward, she could easily return any time during the night. Or day, if she had grown powerful enough. Either way, it would be safer to return and set up some kind of ward in the morning, maybe with help. They could ask Nana. Nana would understand. Nana wouldn’t ask annoying questions like “what are you going to do about your dead girlfriend” or “why haven’t you exorcized her” and “when are you going to move on, Junna?” That was probably why, out of all the people Junna could call friends or connections, Nana was the one they had messaged most often in the past two years. “Well… can’t go back there for another few hours.” One thing about Tokyo, compared to the small villages and remote temples and shrines Junna had traveled through the past two years, was that there was always something open. Someone was always awake, someone was always nearby—whether alive, or dead. After being chased out of their apartment by a ghost, they weren’t exactly in the mood to hang out with another. They pointedly turned their back to the closest cemetery, despite most of their drinking buddies occupying the place. The closest available safe spot would be a convenience store. One benefit of wearing kimono instead of more modern clothes was they could keep their phone in their sleeve and have it on hand more often than not, as they thankfully did before evacuating their apartment. The average Tokyoite wouldn’t necessarily know this particular kimono was one they only wore around the house, and their neighbors had mostly gotten used to the stranger who wandered the neighborhood in the twilight hours wearing traditional clothing no matter the time of year. They had scared a few drunken salarymen who thought Junna was an actual ghost on their walk back home after drinking with coworkers. Their skin wasn’t quite as lifeless as a ghost, though staying out of the sun and sleepless nights had kept them as pale as a sheet of printer paper. The eyebags didn’t help. The long, loose black hair was a ghost signature, but putting it up was more of a pain than keeping it down. And of course, the wafuku made them look straight out of another time period if they didn’t accessorize properly. Thinking about this, Junna looked down at their feet. They'd been wearing socks, but in their dash to escape Ibuki’s vise-grip, they hadn’t bothered to put on shoes. They not only looked like a ghost to the untrained eye, but the ghost of someone who had committed suicide. “Nailed it,” they muttered as they rounded the corner and the convenience store came into view. As far as they knew, it wasn’t illegal to go into a store without shoes. Incredibly strange and probably rude, but legal. Before entering, they sent a quick message to Nana on LINE, assuming she was probably sleeping. Her last message to Junna had come around 10pm and hinted at it being her bedtime. >you got any protection charms laying around? to ward my TV? >Help me ghost-proof my new place for real tomorrow if you got time They considered their message before adding: >coffee or lunch on me Satisfied, they walked into the 7-Eleven like it was normal to be there after 2:00 am without shoes and nothing on their person but their phone. The fluorescent lights and automated bell filled them with instant comfort, as if they’d just sat down in the shade after running full speed for a kilometer or two. “Irasshaimase~” the nasally, pitched-up greeting of the cashier welcomed them as they squinted and examined the limited aisles. The 7-Eleven in this part of Yanaka was a hole in the wall, narrow and compact, but with the promise of quality snacks and bottled beverages no matter what time of day or night it was. Junna shifted their eyes to the cashier, who was staring with wide eyes over his crinkled disposable face mask. They didn’t recognize him. Well, it wasn’t like they knew every staff member. They bowed their head in the briefest of nods and dragged themselves to the refrigerated displays stocked with bento, sushi, and rice balls. Convenience stores weren’t something they associated with Ibuki, although the two of them had met in Tokyo. The Isshiki family’s real home was a more remote village in Gifu prefecture. Junna was born and raised in Tokyo. Everything about the city was beyond nostalgic to them—it was foundational, something that shaped their identity before they realized they had one. They watched their reflection in the glass doors of one of the drink-filled refrigerators. A career exorcist who looked more like a ghost, a city child that used to fancy themselves as someone who walked on the borders of the spirit realm in untouched corners of the wilderness of Japan… they inhaled deeply through their nose and huffed out an exhale that actually blew their bangs sideways enough to reveal the right half of their face. “I wish I could climb into this fridge and stay there.” “Um… can I help you with anything?” Shouldn’t have said that out loud. Took him long enough, though. The cashier had finally worked up enough courage to address them. Good on him. “Pardon the intrusion, I’ll only be a minute.” That might be a lie, but it would placate him and buy them some time to browse aimlessly. They weren’t hungry. They weren’t often hungry in the first place. Maybe their stomach was growling, but it was hard to muster up the desire to actually put something in their mouth, chew, and swallow it. Eating had too many damn steps sometimes. Even so, a living human body demanded food. They wouldn’t win this battle. Nothing looked appealing but they’d never gone wrong with onigiri and they definitely wanted some cold tea. Maybe oolong. What were they going to do if this 7-Eleven didn’t use phone payments? They almost always had some cash on them when they went out, but they usually weren’t evacuating because of a visit by their dead ex-girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend, huh… It wasn’t like they’d broken up. Did you call someone your ex because they had died? Trying to prevent themselves from staying on that train of thought, they instead remembered the strange variety show that had been on right before Ibuki’s appearance. It was hard to say from the other side of the TV screen. Originally, Junna was leaning towards the hosts being yōkai, some kind of living apparition. Who could make shikigami that human-like? Junna had never been a fan of strictly labeling anomalies. They could deal with any type but their specialty was spirits of the dead. Yōkai were alive for the most part. They messaged Nana’s younger brother as a tip in case he and his business partner wanted to take care of the problem. >saw a weird cursed game show on TV, hosts might be yōkai, maybe >you and Takuto might want to look into it Hachikuji Shigoro hadn’t ever started working at Benihime Inari Shrine like his sister, despite it being a family venture. Instead, he’d taken a different route and studied Shingon Buddhism and onmyōdō alongside Takara Takuto, the oldest of the Takara triplets. Ever since they came back to Tokyo, the Hachikuji siblings and the Takara triplets had returned to being recurring characters in Junna’s life, for better or worse. Shigoro and Takuto were definitely worse. The status of the message changed to “seen” but after two whole minutes, no sign of a reply. Whether Shigoro wasn’t interested or was doing his own research didn’t matter. Junna had passed on the lead like they intended. Those two weren’t the only ones that handled living supernatural entities in Tokyo or even the current special ward they lived in (was it Shinjuku or Shibuya, Junna had never been to Shigoro and Takuto’s place and didn’t intend to go in the future). The weight of the cashier’s gaze grew heavier. “You know, one thing I love about Tokyo is that people here mind their own business. Everyone just lets you go about your life without asking invasive questions or trying to give you advice you didn’t ask for. It’s great, I missed it when I was traveling.” Junna opened one of the refrigerators and pulled out three bottles of oolong tea as they spoke, let the door slam shut and grabbed one rice ball. Tuna mayo would do. “Every auntie wants to know what you’re up to out in the inaka. A city kid like me had a hard time with that kind of country living. Seemed pretty rude to me. Did they even actually care about what was going on in the lives of others, or were they just being nosy as hell?” With an exaggerated sigh, they put the four items they’d picked up on the counter, realized four was an unlucky number in their line of business, and added a pack of fruit-flavored Calorie Mate to make five. It was then they remembered that not only was their appearance ghostly in general, they had the marks on their neck. It would be better if this guy thought they were a ghost because otherwise he probably assumed they were mentally ill and had failed an attempt to hang themselves. They suddenly felt sympathy for this convenience store worker stuck on the night shift. “You really got this job down, working at a conbini late at night and only reciting the usual script. I appreciate that.” Seeing the cashier (whose name tag read “Satō” in kanji and romaji) had not made a move to pick up and scan any of their items, Junna flatly added. “My girlfriend kicked me out of the house.” Sato looked towards the ceiling for less than a second, seemed to find that reasonable, and replied with a mumbled “soudesuka” before scanning everything and neatly bagging it. It took Junna a whole minute to figure out how to use their phone to pay. “I’m going to sew a thousand yen into every one of my kimono,” they promised themselves after leaving. Once back outside with the bright interior lighting behind them, they realized it would still be at least another three hours before Nana would even think to check her phone. They were about to go back inside and buy some extra food and drink to use as offerings so they could hang out in the cemetery when a chill swept through the air and they caught a whiff of rot in the breeze. The distinct drop in temperature and scent of decay that followed the dead.