This story was originally published in White Enso Volume 7
Ghostwater had crept up from the river during the night packing itself thick between every rock and tree. Screams, my sister’s, had roused me from a fitful sleep, setting me to wander, torch in hand through the moonless night. The ghostwater mocked the light – my feet barely visible as I descended the path, deeper into the ghostwater’s grasp.
It filled my lungs, a turbid, humid vapor seeking to possess me. Its talons wrapped my chest and head tightening with every step. What was that? I spun, torch fire whooshing.
In fear’s grip, I longed for a screech from that feisty purple jay or the “thunk” of the woodpecker’s beak on a log – anything normal, anything clear, anything daylight.
I knew these bottoms well. They lay flat and wide along the Chikugo river(1), welcoming and friendly during daylight. On a clear night, under a full moon and a salted sky, danger lurked here in the hunting ground. But the moon’s time of month had come; it had fled.
“Sister, is that you?” The ghostwater swallowed my voice. I stood stalk still. Listening. No response. The river gurgled. The ghostwater swirled and ungulated, beckoning.
In blindness, I inched forward in the false comfort that the big cats and wolves, who hunted by other senses, could not see me. With every step the ghostwater thickened, pressing in, clawing the skins that I clutched tightly against the night air. I heard the heavy pad of ghost paws on the ground. I froze in place.
A husky, yet high-pitched scream rang out, stones clattered down toward the river. I broke into a trot abandoning all fear of phantoms and hunters in the night. “Izanami!”.(2)
Rushing river sounds filled my ears, mildew assaulted my nose, the preternatural ghostwater thickened, its clammy swirls pawing my face.
The new day began to dawn; the ghostwater filled my vision like an odorless smoke.
A fading whimper.
I moved along the slippery stones careful not to fall into the unseen torrent not three feet away. I held the torch low to the ground. Blood. “Izanami!”
I rushed forward.
A red fox lay bleeding; its neck snapped its innards pulled out.
Confused, I stepped backward into the ghostwater – my only refuge. But it belonged to them – the ghosts. She had come to play, enticing my pursuit. Izanami died long ago. Her ghost had lured me.
The ghostwater roiled and churned. Heavy pads galloped, closing swift and sure upon me.
Then maybe seven feet in the air I saw it. Those eyes. Descending toward me. Those kawatora(3) eyes. Those kawatora teeth. Eyes and teeth surrounded by buckskin fur.
Never again will I hear the jay squawk or the woodpecker peck.
The roar. The bite. The tearing of flesh. The ghostwater hid them all as the kappa(4) feasted upon my organs.
I am now become a ghost – one with my guilt – one with my sister.
1 A river in Japan that flows from Mount Aso and empties into the Ariake Sea.
2 Female deity of both creation & death, the Shinto mother goddess
3 Kawatora means river tiger
4 Literally river child, a Japanese legendary creature