The Girl from the Well

Callie swallows. “The legend says she broke one of ten plates entrusted to her for safekeeping.”


“That’s all the nobleman’s fault, too. He broke it deliberately without her knowing to guilt her into being his mistress. Men, right? Bastards, no matter the time or place. After her death, they say her ghost still climbed out of the well to count the nine plates and would go nuts whenever she can’t find the tenth, which was—I don’t know, about every freaking time. Someone supposedly figured out how to lift the haunting. Some samurai hid and waited ’til she appeared. As soon as she counted up to nine, he jumped up and yelled ‘Ten!’ and her ghost disappeared after that. I always thought that was kind of ridiculous. Not to mention it’s a horrible trick to play, even on a ghost.”

“Was the man ever punished?”

“I don’t think so. Japanese ghost stories aren’t all that fond of punishing male murderers, for some reason. Double standard, I guess.”

“Do you know of any other ghost story where the number nine serves as an integral part of the story?”

“None that I know of. There could be some local stories floating around that never got a lot of international interest. I know for a fact that several are way out of whack. Like there’s this little girl who haunts toilets, of all things. And some women wandering around the countryside without faces. Why are you so curious about Japanese ghosts all of a sudden, anyway?”

“It’s nothing.” Callie blushes again under her friend’s scrutiny. “I’m just trying to immerse myself in the culture, and the old stories sound like the easiest place to start.”

“Huh. Well, I hope you’re still as enthusiastic about it once we get there. There’s nothing fun about waiting seven hours for the next connecting flight out of Chicago.”

The plane ride is of no consequence to the young woman. While her friend takes quick naps, waking every now and then to grumble about the bad food and the uncomfortable seats (of which the plane has two hundred and seventy-five), Callie wonders about this sudden decision to involve herself in things she has no business in. But at the back of her mind she is aware that she has come too far to back out now. Her cousin is in danger, she tells herself, and so is she.

When the plane finally touches down at Kansai International Airport, the students duly present their passports and visas, and are soon bowing to a genial, round-faced man who introduces himself as Fukuyama Mori-san, their guide for the duration of their stay in Japan.

“We have a small rental bus waiting.” His English is impeccable, though his heavy Kansai accent gives him away. “We will take you to the apartments where you will be staying, so you can unpack and make yourselves comfortable for our first educational tour the next day.

“It is quite fortunate,” he continues, as their bus makes its way out of the terminal and onto the main express road, “that the Japanese government and His Majesty, the Emperor, are more than eager to fund grants for students such as yourselves. The earthquake has done very little to improve our tourist industry, though I am happy to say the numbers are increasing again. We will naturally avoid all the places that have been hit by the radiation, but there are so many more sights to see here. From the National Bunraku Theatre to the Municipal Museum of Art in Kobe—”

“Himeji Castle, too?” the girl’s friend asks, with a sly grin in her direction.

Mori-san beams. “Himeji Castle, most definitely! It is one of the most magnificent examples of our architecture—we call it the White Heron for the way the whole fortress seems to alight on the mountaintop, just like that magnificent bird. In fact, we will be taking a tour of Himeji Castle tomorrow. If there is anything you would like to ask in the meantime, do not hesitate to do so. I shall answer any questions to the best of my ability.”