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  “Totally! I get that too,” another chimed in.

  “Well, did you think to check whether there really was someone who committed suicide on the shrine grounds?” Wataru asked. “Did you ask the priest or something?”

  Their faces went red.

  “Don’t be stupid!”

  “You can’t just ask something like that!”

  “I don’t even want to go near the place.”

  Wataru continued, doggedly. “But then you’ll never know the facts, will you?”

  The first girl pursed her lips in a pout. “Look, the place is haunted, all right? And that means there’s a bound spirit there. Those should be facts enough for you. You know, this is why everyone says you’re so lame, Mitani! Why do you always have to argue about everything?”

  “Yeah! Make fun of ghosts, and one of them will end up cursing you!”

  “You deserve it too, creep!”

  Satisfied, the girls went back to their desks, laughing as they went. Wataru sat quietly in his chair. He was in shock. He was right, he knew he was. What they were saying made no sense. But how could he hope to win when his mind went blank whenever they called him things like “lame” and “creep.” The words stuck into him like sharp knives.

  On the walk home, Katchan couldn’t stop talking about how the Japanese soccer team had given the Iranian team a run for their money the night before. Wataru didn’t feel like talking. The trouble at recess was still fresh in his mind. Blissfully unaware, Katchan waxed poetic about his favorite players and gave a blow-by-blow description, waving his fist in the air to mark every kick, pass, and goal. Even if Wataru hadn’t seen the match, Katchan’s reenactments were always vivid enough to make him feel like he had been there, on the field, watching every moment of the action.

  They neared the haunted building. Usually, Katchan would turn right at the corner just before and say goodbye, but today he was so wrapped up in his soccer replay that he seemed to have entirely forgotten about going home.

  “Hey, Katchan.”

  Katchan paused, one leg raised high in mid-reenactment of a critical kick thirty-two minutes into the first half. He looked back over his shoulder at Wataru. “You say something?”

  “We’re here…”

  Wataru stood and looked up at the building. It was a tall, empty box of steel and looked pitiful dressed in its shoddy blue tarps. It was a clear day in May, and the pure blue of the afternoon sky made the grimy plastic tarps look even more miserable. The building was abandoned, lonely.

  “What’s with the serious face?” Katchan brought down his foot and straightened up, looking at his friend.

  “I want to find out. I want to see if there really is a ghost. And, if one shows up, I wanna see whose ghost it is.”

  Katchan blinked. “How?”

  “I’ll sneak in at night,” Wataru replied, beginning to walk faster. “You’ve got a big flashlight at your house, right? Lend it to me.”

  Katchan stood silent for a moment, then came to his senses and ran to catch up to his friend. “Hey! Sure, no problem, but it’s kind of hard to get that thing out of the house. Dad says it’s for emergencies, and he gets mad when we use it for playing.”

  Katchan’s father had been born in Kobe, in southern Japan. He had lived in Tokyo for years now, since before Katchan was born, but even still, the Kobe earthquake in 1995 had come as quite a shock. To hear Katchan tell it, the level of disaster preparation in the Komura household rivaled that of the metropolitan government offices downtown.

  “I’m not playing, I’m serious.” Wataru began to walk faster, calling back over his shoulder, “Don’t worry about it, I’ll make do.”

  “Wait,” Katchan said, hurrying to keep up. “It’s fine, really, I’ll get it.” It was only just dawning on him that Wataru meant every word he was saying. “Why the sudden interest anyway? I thought you didn’t care about ghosts.”

  That’s right, he didn’t care about the ghost. He was hurt when the girls had called him “lame.” Was it so bad being argumentative, even if he had a point? He wasn’t trying to be difficult; it was just that the girls’ story was so ridiculous. Wataru’s mind filled with questions. Was it wrong to say something no one believed, even if it was right? Did he have to just sit there and take it when no one agreed with him? Was he doomed to an existence of being hated, shunned by every girl in the fifth grade?

  Of course, he couldn’t tell Katchan that. Wataru’s face twisted into a scowl.

  “Hey, what time?” his friend called out to him. “Hey, I’m talking back here!”

  Wataru stopped and turned around. “What time…?”

  Katchan swung out his right leg as though to kick an imaginary soccer ball floating in the air before him. “What time you going in? I’ll go with you.”

  Wataru was so happy he almost laughed out loud. “Twelve o’clock.”

  “Midnight, eh?” Katchan laughed. “Good time for ghosts. My dad works at night so I can be there, no problem…but how are you getting out?”

  Now that he mentioned it, Wataru realized it would be nearly impossible to sneak out of his house that late at night. Officially, Wataru lived with his mother and father, but for most of the year, it was more like he and his mother lived alone. Akira came home late as a rule, and, even on holidays, he always found something to do out of the house. Since he had been transferred to his company’s resort development department, he was often gone on long-distance business trips, and they were lucky to see him for two weeks out of any given month.

  Akira had not once attended parents’ day or the annual sports competition at Wataru’s school. He would always promise to go, and then something would inevitably come up at the last moment. He wasn’t the kind of father who kept promises.

  Wataru didn’t mind. Who cared about parents’ day anyway? He knew his dad was busy, and it was more important keeping appointments for work. He had a bigger concern right now. His dad would most certainly be getting home after midnight tonight, and that meant his mother would also be up late, waiting for him to come home. She would knit, read a magazine, or flip through the TV channels to see if anything good was on. Sometimes, she would rent a movie and watch that. No matter how late his father was, she would never go to sleep before drawing him a bath, making him dinner, and cleaning up when he was finished. How could Wataru possibly hope to sneak out under her watchful eye?

  As he ate dinner, Wataru prayed for a miracle. Maybe his dad would get home early for a change. He’d eat and, saying he was exhausted, both of his parents would go to bed early. Once they were sound asleep, he could sneak out quietly. And, just in case they happened to look into his room, he would hide his stuffed bear under the blankets as a decoy. Akira had won the toy at a company party raffle the year before and given it to him. Wataru didn’t care for stuffed animals, but he was glad to finally be able to put it to use.

  Miracles were one thing, but reality was reality. He ate dinner with his mother as usual. Later, she told him to do his homework, and she checked over the writing assignment his teacher had returned to him, pointing out the spelling mistakes without even knowing what the assignment was about. Consequently, Wataru was chained to his desk doing schoolwork for an hour or so. Afterward, it was bath time. When he was done, his mother told him there had been a phone call from Katchan.

  “It didn’t sound like it was all that urgent, so I told him he could talk to you tomorrow at school. I believe I’ve mentioned before that elementary school students shouldn’t be phoning each other after nine o’clock.” His mom put her hands on her hips. “Katchan’s parents run a bar, so they may see it differently, but this is my house.”

  It always irritated Wataru when she said this—like she was pinching the thinnest patch of skin on his body with the tips of her fingernails. She didn’t have to get all snippy for him to know that she didn’t think much of Katchan. He knew she didn’t like his parents. All because the Komuras ran a bar, which, as anyone could tell you, attracted the “wron
g sort of people,” according to his mother.

  But Katchan was Wataru’s friend. His best friend.

  Maybe his father was a bit seedy. Once, he had come to a school function having drunk too much, his face bright red. Wataru had heard the teacher telling him off. And Katchan’s mother often wore so much perfume you could tell when she was out shopping by the pungent trail she left—even when she was on the other side of the supermarket. He even said that everyone at the local cosmetics shop knew her by name. Still, none of that made Wataru hate Katchan’s parents. At sporting events they would cheer for both Katchan and Wataru, and during spring parents’ day in third grade, when Wataru had solved a difficult math problem at the math bee, Katchan’s father had shouted out “Way to go!” Even if everyone had sniggered, it made Wataru happy. He had never been praised like that in public before. Even now, years later, that day stood out in his memory like a shining piece of colored glass in a sea of mud.

  When his mother looked askance at the Komuras, he always wanted to tell her how good they were, and how nice they had been to him, but somehow the words caught in his throat until they dissolved away into nothing. That he couldn’t stand up for them made him feel like he was somehow betraying Katchan and his parents. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to contradict his mother on this point. Maybe because he saw the logic in what she was saying. Wataru didn’t know much about people who went to bars, but judging from Katchan’s comments they weren’t the same class of people that, say, worked at his father’s company. Once he had asked Katchan if he wanted to take over his family’s business when he grew up, and he shook his head, and muttered something about doing some research at a university, or maybe becoming a lawyer. Regardless, the long and the short of the situation was that relations weren’t exactly great between the Mitani and Komura households. That much was painfully clear.

  Katchan had probably called to see if Wataru really could make it out of the house that night. The only phone in their house was out in the living room, so it was impossible to sneak a call. Wataru felt suddenly guilty.

  What if I’m the “wrong sort of people” too?

  He sat with his chin in his hands, his elbows propped up on the desk, staring blankly at the chart of class periods he had stuck on the wall above. The first hour tomorrow was Japanese class. They would probably have to write another essay. Katchan was particularly bad at writing, and he was always asking Wataru for help. Of course, if Wataru stood him up tonight, he probably wouldn’t bother him tomorrow at all. He’d be too angry.

  “Of course he won’t be, silly.”

  The voice was high and sweet—a girl’s voice, coming from right behind him.

  Every muscle in Wataru’s body tensed. He jumped out of his chair, the four casters creaking loudly beneath him. He whirled around. There was no one in his tiny room. He glanced down at his television, a fourteen-inch his parents had bought him after much wheedling and begging last summer. It was turned off.

  He looked around some more, then looked back at the desk and sat down. He must have dozed off while he was looking at his class chart. He remembered a scientist on television once saying that the dreams you have when you doze off unexpectedly could be very vivid. Sometimes, so vivid they are impossible to separate from reality.

  Then the voice spoke again.

  “You will be able to leave tonight. Rest up while you can.”

  Wataru scanned the room. Everything seemed to be in its right place: the bed with its blue-checked comforter, his bookcase filled with reference books and comic books, and his video game console next to the television set. The carpet was depressed where the casters on his chair had sunk in, and the slippers he had been wearing were tossed haphazardly on the floor behind his desk.

  There was no one else in the room. Wataru was alone.

  “You can’t find me by looking, you know.” The girl’s voice rang in his head. “Not yet.”

  His heart raced. He felt his blood pumping. He imagined his heart throbbing like Pac-Man, gobbling his way through his maze.

  “Wh-who’s there?” Wataru stammered. Here he was in his familiar room with its familiar, slightly dusty smell, talking to no one. His voice sounded like a whisper. This was ridiculous. It was stupid to hear voices in his head, and even stupider to try to talk to them. Still, it felt less embarrassing somehow if he talked really quietly.

  “Who could it be, I wonder?” the voice said mischievously. “Never mind that now, you should go to bed. If you’re going out to play tonight, you’ll need your rest. You’ll be late for school tomorrow!”

  Several possible courses of action occurred to Wataru in an instant. He chose the most childlsh of them all. He ran out of the room.

  “Wataru? Is something the matter?” Kuniko looked up from where she sat peeling an apple at the kitchen table. “Want a slice? Here, have one, brush your teeth, and then it’s bedtime.”

  Wataru suddenly felt weak. He leaned back against the wall.

  “My, you don’t look well at all,” Kuniko said, putting down the knife, then she tilted her head to one side and looked at him closely. “That reminds me, you had a cough this morning, didn’t you? Have you caught a cold?”

  Wataru didn’t answer, so his mother stood up and walked over to him. The skin of her hand was cold and soft on his forehead.

  “You don’t seem to have a fever…have you been sweating? Do you feel ill?”

  Coming to his senses at last, Wataru muttered something about it being a fine and good night. Still floating, he went back into his room, shut the door and leaned against it. He heard the sound of knocking.

  “Wataru? What is it? Are you sure you’re okay? Wataru!”

  “I-I’m fine, Mom. I feel fine,” Wataru said, slowly regaining his composure. Thinking of a way to explain what was happening to his mother made him feel even more lost and confused. Finally, the knocking stopped. He moved away from the door and flopped down on his bed. His breathing was shallow, his pulse was racing, and his eyes spun in his head.

  “You poor thing,” the girl’s voice said. “I’m awfully sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Wataru slapped both hands over his ears and screwed his eyes shut. He willed his mind to go blank, to slip into unconsciousness. And, though he hadn’t imagined he would be capable, he fell asleep. When he woke it felt like he was leaping out of darkness. The alarm clock next to his bed said it was ten minutes to midnight. Wataru shot up in bed, wide awake. He had been sweating when he fell asleep in his clothes, and now they felt itchy and cold.

  Quietly, he opened the door to his room, and peered out into the kitchen. The television was on, tuned to some late-night news program his mother often watched. But tonight, she was asleep, her arms sprawled on the kitchen table, lightly snoring.

  Katchan was first to arrive at the meeting place, the entrance to a park just south of the haunted building. Katchan always tended to be early, probably a habit he picked up from helping out at the bar.

  “S-sorry, I’m l-late,” Wataru said, panting to catch his breath. Normally a little running wouldn’t make him breathe this hard, but he was still excited by the events of the evening.

  “Your mom sounded pretty fierce on the phone. I’m surprised you made it out.” Katchan jumped up onto the park’s chain link fence and swung from it like a monkey.

  “Sorry.”

  “No biggie. Your mom is always like that to me.”

  His friend said it like he really didn’t care, but it made Wataru a little sad to realize Katchan had noticed his mother’s judgmental attitude.

  “Did she fall asleep or something? Hey, doesn’t she wait up for your father to get home? How did you get out?”

  Wataru realized again how odd it had been for his mother to fall asleep.

  He glanced back in the direction of his apartment.

  “She…she fell asleep.”

  “She sick or something?”

  Wataru silently shook his head. Several questions rose in his th
roat, but none of them made the least bit of sense, so he swallowed them down like a bitter pill. Katchan, have you ever had everything go black, and pass out, but you didn’t fall asleep? Have you ever heard someone talking to you when no one was there? Is that strange? Would it be stranger if it were a girl talking? And has your mother or father ever fallen asleep sprawled on the kitchen table like that? Sleep so deep you could push them and pull them and they wouldn’t budge? Or shout in their ear and they wouldn’t wake up? It was almost like a mage from one of his fantasy games had cast a sleeping spell on her. He was afraid.

  “Whatever, you made it. Let’s get going!” Katchan sprang from the top of the fence. With those words, all of Wataru’s questions went swirling away. He nodded and ran.

  Chapter 2

  The Silent Princess

  At night, the flat light of the street lamps shining off the blue tarps of the haunted building made it look even cheaper and shabbier than it did by day. The houses in the surrounding neighborhood were quiet. All the porch lights were off, the windows dark. The Mihashi Shrine sat silently in a ring of dark trees, making the gaudy light on the building seem intended to accentuate its miserable appearance.

  It felt good to run in his sneakers, even for a short distance, and now Wataru had finally remembered the night’s true objective: they were going to see for themselves once and for all whether there really was a ghost haunting the half-built building.

  They were past the shrine and nearing the building when Katchan stopped abruptly.

  “Someone’s there,” he whispered, pressing his back up against the wall surrounding the shrine. Wataru reflexively followed suit. He could see no one.

  “Where?”

  Katchan pointed. “On the other side of the building. See that light down the road?”

  “Where? It’s just a street lamp.”

  “Nuh-uh, there’s a car.”

  Wataru squinted his eyes but he still couldn’t see anything. He moved away from the shrine wall and began to walk again. “Let’s go check it out. We’re just walking down the road, anyway—it’s not like we’re doing anything bad.”