Onikoroshi Read online

  “It’s summer, and it’s a beautiful night,” Alan thought aloud. “You’d think people would be sitting outside. Come on,” he said, taking Graham by the elbow, “that yakitori place is just over here.”

  Graham let Alan lead him down an alley, where he jumped when they disturbed a cat. He hated to admit it, but Graham felt spooked. Maybe it was all Alan’s talk of spirits returning to their ancestral homes, or crazy Harada and his demons, or just being in a foreign place where he didn’t understand the customs or even speak the language. Alan turned down another narrow lane, this one sloping up slightly. They passed more dark houses, and a market and pastry shop Graham recalled from their earlier explorations. He saw the hills that rose on the opposite side of the village from the inn, and a little flat, fenced-in patch halfway up one of them. It was the cemetery. That afternoon, he’d found it picturesque and charming, but now he wanted to turn and run from it.

  “Alan, let’s just go back,” Graham said. His voice shook, and it embarrassed him. He had no real reason to be frightened. Looking over, though, he saw Alan’s hand perched over the clasp on his messenger bag. Also, his walking slowed and he looked slowly back and forth. “These people are farmers,” Graham continued. “They probably have an early start in the morning, is all.”

  They passed a few more shops and houses, and Alan turned left again. “I thought it was just over here,” he said, taking another crooked path, then another. Graham looked around. The houses were smaller and farther apart. The forest reached right to their back doors. Many of the gardens looked overgrown. Mist hung thick around the untrimmed bushes and some bizarre statues that Graham’s frightened mind only made more disturbing. “I want to go back to the inn, Alan.”

  “Hang on,” Alan said. His pale face looked tight with nerves, hardly reassuring Graham. “I got turned around. I’m not sure where we are.”

  “Look for the inn,” Graham suggested. “We should be able to see the strings of lanterns from anywhere.”

  Both of them scanned around, but it was so dark. Graham saw nothing but the black silhouettes of the houses, the sprawling black expanse of the mountain wood rising toward a black sky. He could hardly even see the stars.

  “Alan—”

  A metallic clang made Graham leap off his feet, and Alan tore back the flap on his bag. He pushed Graham behind him reached his arm out to the side. Minutes passed and they heard nothing else. Finally Alan relaxed a little and said, “There are raccoons. Foxes.”

  “Right,” Graham said. He noticed about a dozen shapes moving several houses down: people. They staggered a bit, but it was a festival after all. Exhaling, he thanked God they’d found some one and could ask for directions. He felt foolish about his irrational terror now. “Sumimasen!” Graham called, glad he’d studied his phrase book a bit on the flight. The group of merry-makers stopped, looked toward his voice, and started toward him.

  “Oh, shit,” Alan said.

  “What’s wrong?” Graham wondered. “We’ll have them show us the way—”

  “Get behind me,” Alan said so urgently that Graham complied without argument.

  He watched Alan rifle through what he knew was the most chaotic, mismatched collection of junk he’d ever seen. Alan’s hand emerged from the bag just as Graham’s eyes began to perceive the approaching party. Clothes hung from emaciated bodies in tatters. Graham saw putrefied, greenish skin, rotting, exposed sinew. Bone. A cacophony of gargles, grunts, and moans rose from the things as they rushed toward the two men.

  Just in time, Alan located an old shampoo bottle, unscrewed the cap with his teeth, and poured some shimmering powder into his palm. The fingers of his other hand smoked and glowed orange. He closed his eyes in concentration, and flames danced from their tips. When that fire met the magical dust, it conjured a twelve-foot tunnel of flame. The heat scorched Graham’s face, but it also set alight the first four abominations. The others howled with rage and retreated a few feet.

  “Run!” Alan said.

  Graham didn’t need telling twice. He sprinted alongside Alan, their feet raising clouds of dust. They turned a corner, and another, and found themselves in a circle of dwellings surrounding a huge tree. White paper streamers around the massive trunk marked it as sacred. Graham looked about frantically for the lights of the inn, cold sweat stinging his eyes. Close by he heard shuffling feet and low, guttural groans. Too soon, the dark and twisted shapes of the creatures appeared, pouring out between the houses, dozens and dozens of them.

  Graham looked at Alan, trying to comfort himself with the idea that Alan had an understanding of things like this. Alan would know what to do. To his horror, though, Alan stood looking up into the tree branches, his palms turned toward the dim, dark sky.

  “Alan!” Graham shrieked. The hideous monsters closed in. Some were little but skeletons. Some were red and moist and caked with dirt. Some of them, their legs long since rotted away, dragged their torsos along the ground.

  “Alan! What do we do?”

  “There’s a spirit in this tree,” Alan said, his calm disturbing. “I’ll need a minute.”

  “We don’t have a bleeding minute!” A creature with empty eye sockets and patchy white hair swiped a bony hand at Graham. He stepped back, barely avoiding it. Another grey-skinned corpse grabbed for his ankle, and he kicked, dislodging its skull from its spine and sending it to bounce off a nearby fencepost. Without thinking, Graham yanked up a bamboo stake that supported some eggplants in a garden. He hadn’t played a game of cricket in over a decade, but, thankfully, he still had his swing. He shattered the ribs of one of the dead, and the ancient lungs exploded in a puff of dust. Swiping at the knees of another, he knocked its legs away and stamped down on its head, bursting it.

  Stealing a quick glance over his shoulder, Graham saw Alan circling the tree, sprinkling something around the trunk. His lips moved, but the cries of the undead drowned out his chant. Graham swung again and again, felling creatures until they piled up in front of him. No matter how many he defeated, though, more shambled toward them from the mountainside. Twenty or more encircled Graham. He struck out with his stake, knocking three of them back. Their companions trampled them before they could rise. Muscles screaming with exertion, Graham swung again, but a hand covered in flaking skin closed around his throat from behind. He tried to yell for help, but the desiccated fingers squeezed his windpipe and stopped his voice.

  Thickening fuzz poured like water from the edge of Graham’s vision. He felt his knees going weak and then hitting the ground. Dead flesh surrounded him. He gagged at the stench and threw up down his chest. Rotting bodies piled upon him, driving him flat on his back. He flailed his limbs, but the weight was too much. He couldn’t breathe. Old teeth bit his skin. Stumps pummeled him, and long-dead fingers clawed at him from every direction.

  He wondered if Alan was all right, if he’d escaped. Graham realized he’d be leaving Alan and the idea summoned a last burst of strength. Graham tried to scream. He thrashed with all his might, but the pile of corpses above him kept him pinned to the ground.

  Graham heard a hum, like the song of cicadas but more musical. He sensed, rather than saw, a golden light like afternoon sun. There was a whiz, like an arrow. He felt pressure over him, something striking the corpses at the top of the heap. They began to fall away; the weight lessened. In time Graham could claw his way free. He gulped the night air and, as soon as he could, he screamed, tears pouring down his cheeks. Nothing reached for him, though, and after some time he regained the presence of mind to look around.

  Most of the undead had been impaled by wooden stakes still possessed of bark and leaves. Quite a few still writhed and moaned, pinned to the ground. Others thrashed within wooden restraints that had shot up from the earth: the roots of the sacred tree. Alan stood near the trunk, his eyes rolled back in his head and his lips moving soundlessly. The veins in Alan’s calves, every tiny capillary, glowed greenish-gold. They extended to the soles of his feet and beyond, into the soi
l, into the roots of the tree. Graham could see, beneath the earth, the places where his lover’s life-force connected with that of the tree. He shuddered. Ever since his brush with death, Alan had possessed a connection with plants that Graham couldn’t even begin to understand. Pumpkins the size of beach balls filled their backyard.

  The horde of zombies stood at the edge of the light. If one dared to enter, a branch immediately pierced it. The spell held them at bay, though Alan looked wan. Graham saw his energy flowing into the tree, fueling it, and worried what might happen if his supply depleted.

  The tree-spirit, unwilling to destroy him, broke the bond with Alan first. Alan fell unconscious. The light faded, and the corpses swarmed. Graham rushed over and knelt down, slapping Alan’s cheek. The pale young man never stirred. Graham tried his best to shield Alan’s head with his arms, though he had little hope of either of them surviving.

  Then he heard a voice: a child’s voice calling out to him. Something about it sounded vaguely familiar. Looking around, he found a shaft of light spilling from an open door. Grabbing Alan underneath the arms, he hauled his prone body toward it, elbowing corpses and trampling the falling ranks as he went.

  Finally they reached the house, and a boy of about ten let them inside and closed the door. Graham doubted the thin wood would hold against the monsters, but they never tried to enter. A single lantern burned on a table, and an elderly woman in a kimono sat propped against the wall. There was little else in the room but an old record player, a shelf of books, and a stand—rather an altar—containing a photograph of a man and woman, flowers, fruit, sake and incense. A sketch of a dog hung thumb-tacked to a support beam.

  “M-mizu,” Graham managed, his throat as dry as a tomb. The boy disappeared behind a printed curtain and returned with a glass of water. After drinking deeply, Graham asked, “What in the hell is going on here?”

  The boy spoke quickly, and Graham couldn’t understand. Alan’s eyes fluttered opened, and he smiled weakly when he saw his partner. Their savior pointed out the window, his tongue flying. Now and then the old woman interjected. Graham comprehended a word here and there: death, night, blood and evil. It did little to reassure him. He was exhausted beyond anything he’d ever felt, but far too traumatized for rest, even when the boy brought them a cushion and a worn quilt. He slumped against the wooden wall with Alan beside him.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you,” Alan said, stroking Graham’s face. “I swear it.” He positioned himself so he could keep watch out the window, and Graham slumped against his chest, where he submitted, eventually, to sleep.

  * * * *

  At first light, Graham awoke with a jolt. Alan had watched him sleep fitfully, certainly plagued by nightmares. He hurried to cradle Graham’s face and shush him. “It’s okay, baby. I’m here.”

  “Oh, God,” Graham whimpered. “It wasn’t a dream, was it?”

  “I’m taking you home,” Alan said quickly. “We’ll get our things and get a taxi to Kyoto.”

  “What about this village?” Graham said. “These people?”

  “What can we do?”

  Scowling, Graham said, “I’m not going anywhere until we get some answers from that crazy old man down by the river.” He looked with disgust at the dried vomit on his shirt and stripped it off.

  Alan really didn’t think going back to Harada could yield anything positive, and he said so. While he couldn’t deny this occurrence fascinated him, and that he’d love to stay and study the phenomenon, he felt terrible for the danger he’d put Graham in already. Cuts and bruises covered Graham’s face, chest, and arms. His khaki trousers were torn in several places, their hems caked with dirt and worse. “All of this is my fault,” Alan mumbled, hanging his head. “I’m so sorry.”

  “None of this is your fault!” Graham said, standing. “You came here to do an interview. I don’t know what that old codger is playing at, but it’s too much of a coincidence. He tells us that cock and bull story about the dead rising up, and then we’re attacked by the risen dead! God, even telling us not to go out at night! I can’t believe we fell for it! It’s like telling a child not to look in the cookie jar! He made sure we’d be out, and then, somehow, he sent those things after us!”

  “I’m sure he didn’t,” Alan said. He hadn’t known what to expect when he’d been invited to witness Dr. Harada’s research, but it wasn’t this.

  “I’m going down there whether you come with me or not,” Graham said. “That man nearly got us killed, and he’s not getting away with it. He’s going to tell me once and for all why he lured us here and then attacked us.”

  The small boy who’d rescued them the night before watched from a cleft in the curtain as Graham left the house. Alan followed, still hoping he might deter Graham from this course. Housewives hoeing vegetable patches, children playing in the streets, and old men reading newspapers stared at the blond, white man stomping shirtless through their town. Alan noticed that the sacred tree and the area around it showed no signs of the pervious night’s struggle. What had happened to all of those speared corpses?

  Graham gave him little time to wonder. He found his way to the river and Harada’s shack so fast Alan could barely keep up with him. Pushing cats out of his way, Graham went to the door and pounded it with the side of his fist. “Open up you son of a bitch!”

  “Graham, please try to settle down,” Alan said. He put his hand on Graham’s shoulder even though Graham looked so angry Alan feared he’d strike him. “I’m certain Professor Harada meant us no harm.”

  “How the hell do you know that, Alan?” Graham said, looking over his shoulder with his eyelids stretched so far back that he looked a little insane. “Don’t defend him just because you think he agrees with your crazy theories!”

  “Now my theories are crazy again?” Alan yelled, getting angry himself. “How many times do you need to see me do magic before you believe it? I’m sick of that being the first thing you attack whenever you get annoyed!”

  “You’re defending a man who tried to kill us!”

  “I’m just not sure he did,” Alan said. “I’m sure he didn’t, actually.”

  “How?” Graham’s eyes narrowed. “Alan, how did it happen that you had all that enchanted stuff with you anyway?”

  Graham’s words hit Alan like a boot to the stomach. “I, I always have my bag. Just like you have your art things!”

  “Oh, really? Seems awfully convenient.”

  “Just what—”

  The door opened, cutting Alan off. Harada stood in the same clothes he’d worn the day before, smoking a pipe. “Yes?” he asked.

  Graham pushed his way past Harada and into the room. Alan tried to apologize as he followed. He’d have to be very careful about what the following conversation would reveal. If only he’d had a few minutes alone with Harada. Hopefully the old man would be able to read his eyes.

  “You have a lot to explain, Dr. Harada,” Graham said, fists balled at his sides.

  “Do I?” the old man asked. “What would you like explained, young man?”

  “What did either of us ever do to you?”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know how you did it, but you sent those creatures to kill Alan and me. I just want to know what we did to you.”

  “You think I sent the dead after you?” Harada said. “Why would you believe that?”

  “Who else would have done it?” Graham asked.

  “It was the demon.”

  “Oh, honestly!” Graham said, throwing his hands in the air. “You expect us to believe there’s an actual demon?”

  “Of course! That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Harada paused, looking back and forth between Graham and Alan. Understanding broke like dawn across his face, and he said, “You didn’t tell him.”

  “Tell me what? Alan?”

  “Graham, just calm down—”

  “You came here for a demon?” Graham asked. “You knew it was her
e?”

  “Not knew.” Fuck, this was bad. “I mean, he said he’d seen it, and, I admit, I was a little curious. I mean, a real demon. How could I pass that up?”

  “I should have known that all of your nonsense about a romantic trip to celebrate our anniversary was just that. Just another lie.”

  “Would you have come if I’d told you the truth?”

  “Hell, no! Nor will I stay here with you. I can’t believe you did this to me again! You’re never going to change, are you? I’ll never be able to believe anything you say.”

  “It’s not like that,” Alan said. “I really did want to take a vacation with you. I know how much you don’t like the supernatural stuff, and I didn’t think there would be any harm in me peeking at the demon. I was afraid if I told you, it would cast a shadow over our whole trip. I had no idea any of this was going to happen! I would never, ever put you in danger.” He turned on Harada. “You! You told me you had it captive!”

  “I had to,” Harada said. “I needed you to come here.”

  “Me?” Alan asked. “Why?”

  Harada sunk to his knees in front of his table and helped himself to sake. He looked up at Alan and said, “You know how it feels to be mocked! Made a laughing stock because you say what is true! When I found the account of the ritual to summon the demon, I had to try it! If I had proof, I could clear my name. All of my colleagues who ridiculed me would have to admit I was right! Look at this place! Look what I’ve been reduced to!”

  “So, you summoned the demon?” Graham asked.