Reiko Read online

  Reiko - A Japanese Ghost Story

  by

  James Avonleigh

  Copyright © 2013 James Avonleigh

  All rights reserved.

  1. MEMORY OF A JOURNEY

  ‘Japanese ghosts are different. Your ghosts would not feel at home here.’

  I remember little else Professor Atami said that day, but these words stayed with me. They nagged at me through the first sunlit hours and on into the days that followed, challenging me to understand them, until at last I did.

  I had come to Japan as a 23 year-old, armed with the arrogance of youth and an unshakeable belief in my own destiny. I was immortal. I was blessed. Nothing and no one could touch me.

  How soon the order of things changes. How quickly the shadows creep up and fear finds a foothold. How helplessly I watched as that youthful arrogance crumbled and all hope of some great destiny vanished.

  Now I’m afraid of everything.

  I’m afraid of the ticking of clocks, static on a television, the ringing of a telephone in a quiet house. I’m afraid of the distant sound of sirens, footsteps that pass in the street outside, muffled voices heard through walls.

  I’m afraid of mirrors, afraid of what I might see standing at my shoulder or emerging into the room behind me.

  And there is nothing I can do.

  People know me as easy-going and sociable. They invite me to parties, introduce me to friends, seek me out for advice in times of need. I enjoy outdoor and recreational activities, swimming after work, football at the weekends, camping in the holidays. I cling to life as a drowning man clings to the listing hull of his boat.

  Everyone has secrets. Things they keep close to their chests. Things they don’t talk about at dinner parties. I have more than most. No one would guess from my outward demeanour that I am haunted. No one sees the sudden shortness of breath, the trembling of hands, the terrible conviction that although no one is with me, I am not alone.

  Some nights, between the hours of two and three, I will wake with a start. I will hear a door opening in the depths of the house, a light footfall on the stair, the sound of breathing in the hallway. And I will close my eyes and wait.

  My name is James and I am still alive. Against the odds, I am still alive.

  2. THE ARRIVAL

  The sun was setting as my plane touched down at Kansai International Airport. I’d noticed it first on the descent – a blood-red orb, like the national flag being ceremoniously lowered into the hills around Osaka. There was a pleasing irony in arriving in the Land of the Rising Sun just as the sun was setting. As my guidebook repeated with monotonous regularity, Japan was a country of contradictions, and here was my first taste of that thesis.

  I wished there were someone with whom I could share this thought, but my first interaction on Japanese soil was with a standard-issue immigration official and he didn’t seem the chatty type. He studied my visa with suspicion, long enough to convince me he’d spotted some administrative irregularity. For a few tense moments I had a vision of airport security leading me away for immediate deportation, my new life cut short in its infancy. Then, showing no sign that he was satisfied, he seized his stamp and validated my passport with a practiced flourish. I was in.

  I stood in the arrivals lobby, watching through the cathedral-like windows as the sun disappeared behind the hills. All the roads of my life led to this juncture and an overwhelming sense of well-being came over me.

  I boarded the shuttle for Central Osaka and settled back in the cool air-conditioned carriage for the adventure to begin. The train set off so soundlessly that it took a moment for me to realize we were moving. A helium-voiced announcer accompanied us as we slid gracefully out of the airport complex and across the Sky Gate Bridge and the Bay of Osaka. I had hoped to see signs of the old Japan – paddy fields and pine-clad hills – but the moment we hit dry land we plunged into the heart of a concrete metropolis.

  Here were all the contradictions my guidebook had spoken about. As the shuttle slid silently along its metal rails, the city unfolded before me. A group of schoolgirls in pristine white sailor uniforms, with blue collars and red ribbons, loitered at a crossing waiting for the train to pass. Next to them stood a hunched old lady in the overalls of another era, silhouetted against the bright neon sign of a pachinko parlour. Businessmen in regulation white shirts streamed from their offices in search of after-hours refreshment. Overhead a giant LCD screen broadcast an advertisement for Suntory whisky.

  Then there was the dizzying mishmash of old and new: ramshackle hundred year-old houses nestling amidst hi-tech office blocks, Shinto shrines squeezed between vending machines and newspaper kiosks. And everywhere power lines, crisscrossing the sky above.

  These images registered as they do in dreams, with comprehension trailing in their wake. It was too much for my weary brain to process and I sat back in the comfortable seat and closed my eyes.

  At Namba Station my feet finally touched down on Japanese soil and I followed the signs through a maze of bright, clean corridors. It was a far cry from the dingy London Tube stations I was accustomed to. I found myself enjoying being swept along by the busy commuter surge – in a strange country even rush hour can be a beautiful thing.

  I found a taxi rank, where a courteous driver wearing spotless white gloves ushered me into his cab. On a backseat covered with a white sheet I settled down for the last leg of my exhilarating journey.

  After a while we left the city behind and journeyed into the suburbs of Osaka, past manicured gardens and the well-to-do dwellings of the sprawling middle-class.

  Then, as the suburbs thinned out and the hills loomed large in front of me, I caught sight of the imposing iron archway I remembered from the brochure.

  Faithful to its name, the Osaka University for Foreign Studies specialized in languages and culture. Whilst not in the Japanese Ivy League bracket, it was well enough respected in its area of expertise. According to the promotional material I had read so exhaustively in the preceding weeks, it was founded in the late 19th century to spread the light of foreign civilization to a country just emerging from centuries of feudalism. It also accepted a large number of foreign research students each year, which was where I fitted in.

  The foreigners’ dormitory stood at the far edge of the campus, effectively where the campus ended and the hills began. Seven floors high, it was officially the university’s tallest building and the literature they’d sent me affectionately referred to it as ‘the Tower’.

  To the front was a gravel football pitch and running track, whilst to the back the pine-clad hills rose up steeply. Seen from a distance the Tower seemed to merge into the hills behind and it stood oddly separate from the rest of the campus. A cynic might say it was positioned to keep the foreigners a safe distance from the rest of the university. Certainly its architect hadn’t lingered over the design, delivering a functional seven-storey box with windows. But it could have been built of wattle and daub for all I cared. I hadn’t come to Japan to study aesthetics or architecture.

  My cases set down inside the foyer, I took in my surroundings. I stood in a spacious area with an impressive row of drink vending machines down one wall and a series of notice boards down the other.

  I poked my head round the door of the concierge’s office and a wiry old man in a smart blue uniform jumped up and greeted me warmly. Though many decades my senior, he wrestled the heaviest bag from my grasp and marched it to the lift. I was still protesting as the lift opened on the fifth floor and he started off down the corridor. I followed him meekly, our footsteps echoing on the hard floor, to the door of my room. He turned the key in the lock, pushed the door open and ushered me inside. After twenty hours on the move, I had reached my destination.

  I didn’t move for several minut
es after the concierge had gone, letting the enormity of the experience sink in. It had started in my bedroom on the other side of the world, packing my bags, bidding my parents farewell. From the plane I had watched the sun set on Europe, then appear again over the icy wastes of Siberia, and finally rise to its zenith over the Japan Sea. Then to this place, this room, and a balmy evening in the suburbs of Osaka.

  I groped for the chair and sat down, overwhelmed. The room was small and functional, dominated by a window which spanned the full width of the room. A narrow bed ran the length of one wall, while a desk and chair occupied the other. The only other features were a cupboard and small basin by the door. It was compact and comfortable and sufficient for my needs.

  For most of that first evening I sat in the dark gazing out over the gravel football pitch at the long shadows cast by the occasional passer-by. The official academic year had ended a few days earlier and it looked as if most people had already packed up and left.

  I’d come early partly to acclimatize and partly because there was nothing for me back in England. I had taken a course in Japanese for the past year as part of my degree and spent most of that year looking for funding for postgraduate study in Japan. Success came at the eleventh hour with a bizarre proposal to an even more bizarre foundation. I would be coming to Japan to study differences in perceptions of supernatural phenomena between the Eastern Buddhist tradition and the Western Christian tradition. In layman’s terms my remit was to find out if ghosts were different in Japan. It would be an understatement to say I’d never given the subject much thought, but my tutor had been tipped off that the Ayukawa foundation would be receptive to such a proposal and I wasn’t going to let the subject matter deter me.

  Initially my only motivation had been to live in Japan, but to my surprise I’d found interest in my chosen subject start to grow. I was assigned to Professor Atami, a former lecturer in Social Anthropology at a prominent American university and a leading authority on Japanese folklore. He’d also taught the man in whose footsteps I was following, a brilliant scholar of Japanese called Charlie Whitehurst.

  And sitting there in that dark dormitory room, my mind turned to Charlie, my ill-fated predecessor. He too had come to the university on an Ayukawa scholarship and he too had come to study differences in perceptions of supernatural phenomena. An Oxford graduate, he had impressed everyone with his application and enthusiasm. It was six months into his research when he travelled north to the village of Izumi in Fukushima Prefecture, an infamous haunting spot. No one knew whether it was the nature of his research or an increasing sense of isolation that unbalanced him. But he cut his visit to Izumi short, made the long journey back to the dormitory and hung himself from the window frame with the cord of his dressing-gown.

  3. PROFESSOR ATAMI

  ‘Japanese ghosts are different. Your ghosts would not feel at home here.’

  Professor Atami’s English was precise and elegant, with the faintest hint of an American accent. He sat huddled behind his desk, every bit the eccentric academic: tweed jacket, unkempt beard, ever so slight facial tic.

  ‘In fact, the usual translation for ghost is yurei, but this refers to a very specific concept.’

  He trailed off, seeming to lose the train of his thoughts. There was a monastic quality to the room, with the small window in the corner and the walls packed floor to ceiling with learned books. If he owned a computer or any other gadgetry, they were safely hidden from view. It was somehow comforting to see that in a country of technological marvel, here was a man time had left behind.

  ‘Your ghosts come in all shapes and sizes. Some are male, some are female, some are animals. They can be young or old, full of purpose or confused. They dress as they dressed in life or they wear their funeral garments. They can appear at any time of the day or night and have any number of motivations. Maybe they’re revisiting their loved ones. Maybe they’re reliving some scene from their lives. Or maybe they’re lost and need help. Anyway, Japanese ghosts are different.’

  I leaned forward, eager to pick up the thread. ‘That’s what I’m interested in. The differences. The differences between ghosts in Japan and ghosts in the West. My thesis is very straightforward: that supernatural manifestations are culture-specific. They’re inseparable from the belief systems and folklore traditions of a particular country. Every account of the supernatural is informed by cultural references. I don’t believe in ghosts and I’ve never had a supernatural experience, but if there really was something out there, there’d be a uniform standard. There isn’t. As you said, ghosts in Japan are different.’

  Professor Atami digested this in silence. It was a relief to get some of these things off my chest. I’d been pondering the subject for months, without ever having an audience. It wasn’t something you discussed over a drink with friends. This was an occasion when an eccentric academic came in handy.

  ‘I see.’ He looked up at the ceiling and scratched his beard.

  For a moment nothing was said. Then Professor Atami furrowed his brow and fixed me with a stern expression.

  ‘You’re not the first English student to come to me with this subject. Maybe you know that.’

  ‘I did hear something.’

  ‘Charlie. Charlie Whitehurst. He was here three years ago. He was a strong student, serious about his studies and eager to learn all about Japanese language and culture. I was very impressed…’ He broke off and shook his head slowly.

  ‘So he had the same thesis as me?’

  ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘No. In fact, he had precisely the opposite thesis. From what you’ve told me, you’re interested in the differences between cultural perceptions. Charlie was different. Charlie wanted to emphasize the similarities. Charlie believed very strongly in the existence of a spirit world.’

  Professor Atami looked at me intently as he told me this. In a way it was a comfort. It provided a clue as to why Charlie might have lost his grip. He was clearly far too wrapped up in his research.

  ‘He saw visions.’ Professor Atami continued to stare at me, watching for a reaction, and it occurred to me that he might be looking for signs of instability on my part. This made sense. He didn’t want a second paranormal researcher dying on him.

  ‘Did he see ghosts?’ I asked, a little clumsily.

  ‘I don’t know what he saw. He never told me.’

  Professor Atami looked away and I wondered if I’d passed the test. He got up from his chair and stepped over to a large filing cabinet in the corner. He opened the door then crouched down and began scrabbling around in the bottom. With a satisfied grunt he pulled out a smart black file and brought it back to the desk.

  ‘This belonged to Charlie. It contains some of his research and notes. After he died his parents came to collect his belongings, but they didn’t want this. I suppose I should have thrown it away, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Maybe it could be helpful to you.’

  I looked at the file sitting in front of me with a sense of unease. It wasn’t really surprising that his parents hadn’t wanted it and I didn’t feel I had any business reading the private notes of a dead student. The Professor was right. He should have thrown it away.

  Professor Atami sensed my reluctance. ‘It’s all right. I knew Charlie. I think he would have wanted me to pass this on.’

  I didn’t want to offend the Professor on our first meeting so I pulled the file towards me, thinking I could always just stick it at the bottom of my drawer and return it at the end of the year. I had my own research agenda and I didn’t need help from Charlie.

  ‘Poor Charlie. Such a waste of human life,’ Professor Atami said with emotion.

  I nodded my head, feeling awkward. Sitting there, Charlie’s file in front of me, an image of him hanging from his window frame flashed before my eyes and I felt a wave of nausea.

  With an effort Professor Atami collected himself and changed the subject. ‘The term has ended now, so it’ll be quiet for the next couple of weeks. Do you plan t
o do any sightseeing? Kyoto is very beautiful at this time of year. The cherry blossoms will soon be out in the temple gardens.’

  ‘Actually, I was thinking of visiting Izumi.’

  This seemed to take him by surprise and he looked at me for a few moments, disapproving. ‘Why? Why Izumi? There’s nothing in Izumi. It’s a small village. It’s a long journey and there’s nothing to see.’

  I was anticipating this reaction given that Charlie had made his last tragic journey there. But I’d decided early on that if I was serious about my thesis, then I’d have to visit Izumi. The Japanese Mecca for ghost tourists, it had a history of haunting going back to feudal times. Kyoto would have been lovely, but hardly relevant to my studies. And though Charlie had allegedly lost his mind during his time there, the trip had happened six months into his research, not right at the beginning. Better to go early on, filled with enthusiasm, before pressure of work and culture shock could take their toll.

  Professor Atami continued to look unhappy. ‘Izumi has a long history. But really there’s nothing to see.’

  ‘Why did Charlie Whitehurst go?’

  This wasn’t a subject he was comfortable with and his face twitched nervously. ‘There was an incident a few years ago. Maybe the year before Charlie arrived.’

  ‘The one involving the local high school students?’

  ‘Yes. Five high school students died in very strange circumstances. It became a very notorious incident in Japan, maybe because it took place in Izumi. But that’s all it is: a sensational story. It wasn’t relevant to Charlie’s research and neither is it to yours.’

  ‘This story interested Charlie then?’

  ‘It was more than an interest. It became an obsession. I don’t know why. But that is the reason he went to Izumi.’