The Girl from the Well

She has been released from the hospital with her doctor’s permission, avoiding the well-wishes and well-intentioned worry of visitors and friends as she did. But she cannot rest, not just yet. There is something else she must do first.

The White Shirt is nervous, and understandably so. He has agreed with extreme reluctance to allow the young assistant visiting rights, despite Remney’s stern rules restricting this to immediate family members only. But because the tattooed boy’s father personally requests this, the White Shirt unlocks the door leading into the Japanese woman’s room and steps back to allow the young woman entry.

The shoji screens are gone, but the dolls are still in their wooden stands, and like many others before her, this sight makes the young woman very uncomfortable. The Japanese woman sits on a chair at the center of the room, staring at nothing. She makes no sound, gives no signal that she is aware of the young woman’s presence. Nervous, the young woman hovers uncertainly a few feet away, torn between advancing and retreating.

“Mrs. Halloway? Aunt Yoko?”

The woman rocks back and forth, eyes glued to the wall before her, staring at the large carpeted stand filled with imperial dolls.

The teacher’s assistant tries again. “Aunt Yoko? My name is Calliope Starr. I’m Doug Halloway’s niece. Tarquin’s cousin.”

A faint ghost of a smile curves along the older woman’s mouth. “Tarquin?”

“Yes,” the young woman says, encouraged. “Your son, Tarquin?”

“He’s a very lovely boy,” the woman says. “He was a beautiful baby. So sweet. So very innocent. That’s what’s wrong with him, you know. If there had been more cruelty in his nature, like normal boys have, he would not be suffering as he does now. Still—such a beautiful baby boy. Has something happened to him?” Alarm flickers in the woman’s eyes, and she attempts to stand. The White Shirt guarding the door stiffens, prepared to summon for assistance if necessary. “Has something happened to my Tarquin?”

“Nothing’s happened to him,” the teacher’s assistant says hurriedly. “Tarquin’s all right. He’s safe.”

“Liar!” The woman shakes her head. “Tarquin isn’t safe. And it’s all my fault. My fault, my fault…”

“Aunt Yoko, it isn’t your fault—”

“It’s all my fault! I had no choice!” The woman sinks back into her chair, but her rocking motions grow more frantic and agitated. “He had to be sacrificed! I had no choice! She would have killed more!”

“Aunt Yoko!” The teaching assistant takes hold of the woman’s shoulders, steadying her. Pain travels up her injured shoulder, but she does not let go until the woman ceases her violent thrashing, her voice now reduced to soft whimpers. The White Shirt relaxes, though still alert. “Aunt Yoko, who would have killed more?”

“I had to,” the woman whispers. “I had to stop her.”

“Who? The woman in black?”

A shudder racks the woman’s body, and she moans.

“I think that’s enough, Miss Starr,” the White Shirt says disapprovingly.

“No! No. She has to know. Do you have a mother, my dear?”

“Yes. Linda Starr, Uncle Doug’s sister.”

“I see it now. There is something of Douglas in your eyes. Tarquin was always too young to remember the mother I once was with him—the mother I should have been. How is it that you can see her? Why do you see the woman with the mask?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“I looked up to her, you know. She was the best of us all. Chiyo had always been perfect, could do no wrong. But even she could not prevent such hate from taking hold of her. I tried, but the sealing was incomplete. The ritual had not been performed in such a long time, and none of us knew how well it would work, if it even would. But we had to try. Poor, poor Chiyo. And my Tarquin…” Her face crumples, and she ducks her head, long hair streaming down her face.

“Did you send her as well?” she asks, head still lowered. “The white ghost?”

“The white ghost?” the teacher’s assistant repeats, taken aback.