“Oimikado Hiroshi.” She touches the book, then returns to the loose sheaf. “Oimikado Hotoke.”
“They’re related? Like…father and daughter?” Did incomplete information mean that the girl managed to escape and the practice was discontinued? That didn’t sound likely. I know from firsthand experience that botched rituals can lead to hauntings and curses. And I’m beginning to think the ghosts who haunt the village are the sacrificed girls. Was that what the man’s ghost was trying to do? Show me how to break the curse somehow?
What had Kagura’s notes said again?
Should any of these rituals fail, then the sacrifices shall be released back into the world of men. Those who face their wrath are doomed.
Well, damn.
A cry splits the air from somewhere outside, all the more horrifying because I recognize it as a human sound. I spring for the door and edge it open, careful not to dislodge the ofuda and wary that this might somehow be a trap, though I think it would be hard for any ghost to mimic the absolute terror I hear in that voice.
A man is on the ground, his shirt caked in blood and grime. There are several cuts on his face, and one of his legs appears to be broken. His eyes widen when he sees me. “Help!” he gasps, turning to look over his shoulder in fright.
I don’t need to see why. The crawling ghost is back, and she is closing in. I know he will never make it into the house by himself.
I tear out the ofuda to open the door all the way and lunge forward to help. The man has thirty pounds or so on me, and lugging him inside is both exhausting and terrifying, because the ghost is gaining on us. For a brief moment, I’m tempted to leave this man to his fate and save myself. But the ghost makes a horrific clacking sound, and every muscle in my body screams at me to stop thinking and bring him in, goddamn it.
We make it inside, the ghost only a few yards away. I all but toss the poor man into the center of the room and slide the door shut, though the force makes the screen bounce open a couple of inches. I yank out another ofuda and slap it onto the screen, right in the gap between the two—just moments before the girl’s ghastly white face appears, clacking her teeth at me.
I freeze, ready to pee in my pants and expecting the ofuda not to work. We stare at each other, and the girl’s smile only widens, like she’s enjoying the game I’m letting her play. She lifts her hand and places it on the shoji screen. Her smile shrinks when Okiku looms up behind me, matching her stare for undead stare. The other ghost eventually retreats but only partly because of Okiku. Her filmy eyes flick to something to her left, and she emits a furious snarl before vanishing into the mist—but not before I get a better view of the bloodied green kimono she’s wearing.
My blood freezes at the sight. It’s a selection of cranes—how did that girl’s diary describe it?—“looking out through the bamboos and plums.”
Another ghost flits across the opening of the door, head tilted to one side, hair thankfully covering her face and sparing me the horrifying sight. Unlike the first, this one prefers to stand, passing me without so much as a glance. Her focus seems intent on the other ghost, and when she disappears, I am too glad to question her indifference.
Shaken, I sag to the floor before remembering I have a wounded guy with me. Up close, his injuries are more serious than I thought. There are angry red gashes across his chest, the tip of one extending all the way up to his cheek. As far as I can tell, his right leg is useless. I don’t need a medical degree to know he won’t be using it ever again. He’s making harsh sounds, nearly unintelligible in his agony.
At best, I can do something about the lacerations on his chest. I pour some of my water onto the wounds and wrap the deeper gashes with the strips of bandages from the medical kit. The man sinks into unconsciousness, still sobbing. From the ragged remains of his shirt, I can see the Ghost Haunts logo, and there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s one of the film crew. The knowledge brings me hope—because Kagura and the others might have survived too—but also fear that they all encountered the ghost that did a number on this guy.
Okiku is perched atop a small pile of rubble, eyeballing the man the way she might a poisonous snake. I shoo her away, because a competent nurse she is not.
“You’re not going to die,” I tell the man, trying not to sound too grim about that statement. I don’t really want another death on my conscience, and if I want to find his companions alive, that revolves around keeping him breathing so I can ferret out as much information as I can.
The man revives again after a few minutes, and I help him drink from the bottle. The thought crosses my mind that this place doesn’t look like it has access to clean drinking water, and with mine now more than halfway depleted, I’ll need to figure something out later on.