“What’s going on?” Riley’s voice is rising.
“Stay calm, man!” I bark at him, spinning and trying to figure out if the voices are coming from the path before us or to our right. “Kagura, what kind of chants are they?”
“Nothing that I’ve ever heard before—I don’t even know what they’re saying. Let’s move out of their range if we can.” The miko strides down the forked path, and Riley and I follow. It isn’t until we’ve gone about a hundred yards that we finally find out what’s been making the racket.
A spectral arm shoots out from one of the walls and attempts to paw at Riley. The ghost hunter leaps to the side and strikes at the glowing limb with his stake, impaling it at the wrist. There’s a faint rumble of outrage, and then the arm fades to nothing.
I can’t help myself. “You still have some moves, old man.”
Riley grins weakly at me. “I may not look it right now, but I do know how to fight.”
I have no time for a comeback. More arms appear from the walls, some reaching so far into the corridor that they reveal their long robes and hats. I grunt when a hand snags my hair and drive my own sacred spike into the forehead of a phantom that’s lunging at me with bulging eyes and moaning piteously. Kagura uses her stake to cut through the forest of arms the way a woodcutter might use a hatchet to cut through a tangle of thorns, creating an opening. We rush through before any more arms can manifest.
“Did you see that?” She pants, still running.
“I didn’t see anything,” I huff behind her, not tired enough not to be sarcastic.
“I recognized some of their outfits. They’re ceremonial priests, Tark. In the emperor’s court, they were tasked with performing the most sacred of ceremonies. This must mean we’re getting close.”
“Close to what?” I grunt, but Kagura’s running faster, and Riley and I work to keep up.
Something lands a blow on my weak ankle, and I pitch forward, putting my hands up just in time to prevent my head from bouncing off the rocky ground. One of the damned old priest-ghosts has latched on to my foot, and it takes a couple more thrusts with the spike before he’s persuaded to let go. I hear the moans of his brethren not far behind, but Okiku is already there, claws ripping limbs from ghostly sockets and buying me enough time to scramble upright. When I’m back on my feet again, both Riley and Kagura have disappeared from view, and I redouble my efforts. I take another look behind me, and what I see nearly makes me trip again.
Not content with reaching for us from the walls, the men in robes are scrambling to free themselves from the rock. The overall effect is that of a mass of flailing arms and heads moving through the rocks at growing speed as they come after us. I tear down the tunnel, calling out for Kagura, though I receive no answer.
Then I come across another fork in the path. There’s no sign of Kagura or Riley on either path, and I swear loudly. Sounds of our pursuers draw closer. I have to make a decision—fast.
“Forward,” Okiku whispers.
Her instincts are better than mine, so I don’t question her and plunge on ahead. I keep hoping for a glimpse of my companions, but every time I swing my flashlight down the tunnel, all I can make out is more darkness. The narrow passage feels like it stretches for miles, though it can’t be more than a few hundred yards before the path widens without warning, and I stumble into a large cavern.
The sounds behind me are silenced; the priests have abandoned their pursuit. This part of the cave leads to a dead end, but it only takes one look for me to understand why Okiku wanted me to take this route.
The large silkworm tree I saw in the girls’ visions isn’t here, but this part of the caves has been witness to another kind of ritual altogether. A large stone statue, standing more than twenty feet high, has been carved into the wall. Looming over this stone edifice, also chiseled into its rocky surface, is the most horrifying face I’ve ever seen. It’s easily ten feet across and twice as tall.
Its eyes are sunken so deep that they resemble nothing more than hollows, and two horns rise, one on either side of its head. Its cheeks are gaunt, twin skeletal protrusions only heightened by the shadows. A mouth is stretched in the same distended curl as the ghost brides’ lips. How they were able to carve this using only rudimentary village tools, I don’t know. But I wish they hadn’t been so artistically talented.
I have seen Buddhist altars and offerings before but never one like this. It mocks the meaning of worship, twisting it until it is nothing short of a personal perversion.