Episode 1 – [Friend’s sister]
Source
https://kakuyomu.jp/works/16817139558323866579/episodes/16817330669141420097
“This is a story I heard from a friend…”
When my neighbor tells ghost stories, she always starts with that phrase.
I know she doesn’t have any “friends,” but I never question her about it.
I just sit on my balcony, staring blankly at the scenery, listening to her through the partition.
In ghost stories, “a story I heard from a friend” is just as meaningless as “once upon a time”—it’s nothing more than an introduction.
“My friend has a younger sister—–“
It’s a story about when her friend’s sister was in second grade.
At some point, shoes started appearing on her desk.
They were soaking wet sneakers. The desks varied, and there was no particular pattern to it.
First, it was 25 centimeters.
Then 23.5 centimeters.
A month later, 27 centimeters.
A week later, 17 centimeters.
All of them were on one side only.
Either the left foot or the right foot. One of them was rolling around.
It was thought to be a prank, but even after searching around, the culprit couldn’t be found. There was nothing there when she checked on the way home, but it was there when she came in the morning.
The strangeness increased with each occurrence, and there were even times when it appeared the moment she looked away.
This was definitely strange. It didn’t seem like the work of humans.
The school, at a loss, called in someone who could “see things” through the principal’s connections.
A spiritual medium-like person said that this place had become a drifting site.
Only one foot drifts ashore. It had become such a place.
When someone drowns, the decomposing body can break apart at the joints, and the ankle can float due to the buoyancy of the shoe.
Such ankles are carried by the current and gather in one place—there was a similar case on a beach in Canada.
In this case, it’s the same thing; the severed ankles, which are a spiritual phenomenon, have somehow ended up here in the same way as in reality.
For some reason, this classroom has become a place where spiritual entities wash ashore.
Those are the shoes of the dead. They are severed spirits’ feet that have drifted here from somewhere.
The spiritual medium hesitantly explained the ritual for honoring the remaining shoes.
You may only see the shoes, but there is something inside them.
I will explain the method, so please dispose of them according to the procedure.
Leaving them alone or disposing of them improperly can cause harm.
The principal apparently asked for a fundamental solution, but the spiritual medium shook his head reluctantly.
It seems that no matter how much the building is purified, it won’t make a difference because it’s part of a larger flow.
The classroom was relocated and turned into a storage room.
To those who can’t see it, it’s just a pair of wet shoes lying around. It’s certainly creepy, but it can be cleaned up regularly.
The situation was temporarily resolved.
The ghost stories died down after half a year, and fewer people went to hang out in the classroom.
The students had long since lost interest, and everyone had forgotten that such a story had ever existed.
One day, the younger sister of a friend went missing after school.
They searched everywhere, but she was never found.
Half a year later, a single red sneaker was found lying on a broken desk in the classroom, which had become a storage room.
It was said to be the friend’s sister’s shoe. The shoe was still wet.
The school building had been relocated several years ago, and that classroom no longer existed.
After finishing the story, my friend asked cheerfully,
“—–Was it scary?”
To be honest, I was relieved that it was a lie.
It would be sad if the dead sister really existed.
Besides, if we’re talking about scariness, you’re the scariest.
Because you exist.
I thought that, but I didn’t say it out loud.
I just nodded casually, saying “uh-huh” or “yeah” trying to brush it off.
When I saw the six black, rotting fingers sticking out from the edge of the partition, I couldn’t bring myself to say what I really felt.
Well, even if I did say something, she probably wouldn’t get angry.
My friend is probably not human.
Probably, no, definitely not human.
But she’s not a bad guy. I don’t particularly care whether my friends are human or not.
So, as long as I met the conditions for moving in, she was my friend.
Compared to a rice cooker, she was a much better friend because she could talk to me.
My friend likes to tell ghost stories. She stretches out her tubular mouth, flicking her long tongue, and tells them in a fairly good voice.
She’s not very good at telling stories. Or rather, it’s distracting to hear a non-human tell ghost stories.
I want to tell her, “You’re in the ghost story, aren’t you?”
But she’s still an unknown supernatural being, so by definition, she’s not a ghost story yet.
I wonder how long she’s been living here. I’ve never asked.
The landlord just said awkwardly, “Twenty-three people ran away.”
Twenty-three people must have settled in here and had enough time to prepare to escape.
Well, I suppose it’s just that twenty-three people managed to escape.
I try not to think too much about the human-shaped stain stuck to the bathroom wall. I’m the type who wants to take a bath every day.
“Goodnight, Takahiro. See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, see you tomorrow.”
My neighbor, who extends her tubular mouth to greet me politely, stays standing on the other side of the partition until I return to my room from the balcony. It’s as if she’s watching to make sure I don’t escape.
Every time I sense that watchful presence, I feel like laughing a little.
It seems she hasn’t realized that this is where she ended up after running around so much.
I guess she’s just a bit absent-minded, after all.
With that thought in mind, I said “good night” as if to chase her away and closed the window.
This happened six months ago.
The money I had finally saved up disappeared after being used to pay off my mother’s debts.
Staring at my empty bankbook, I sat alone in my room, vaguely remembering my mother’s tearful face.
Whenever she took something from me, she always cried, as if she were the one who had been hurt.
When facing my crying mother, I felt a burning sensation in the back of my throat and smiled slightly. I had no choice but to smile.
Anger and frustration don’t affect her at all. The more I get angry, the more she plays victim, and the conversation ends without any resolution.
I’ve never believed the promise that “This time I’ll really do it.” Whether I believe it or not, the result will be the same either way. At least I’m not giving money because I believe it. But I’ve never managed to avoid giving it either.
The other bank account I’d been secretly keeping had about 50,000 yen left. Payday was two weeks away, rent was due in three days, and since I’d already missed a payment once before, there was no way they’d forgive me this time. Plus, with that person following me…..this place would be ruined in no time, so the only option left was to “disappear.”
Or maybe buy a cheap rope with the remaining money and leave it in the room as an apology.
I didn’t have the courage to tie myself up in the room. My search history was filled with videos of special cleaning services, and I knew how difficult that job was, so I had to find a place where I wouldn’t cause any trouble.
When I fled with almost nothing, I felt no sense of crisis at all.
I walked aimlessly through the streets, passing countless people who seemed to be walking with a purpose, thinking, “This is how humans die.”
I thought, “I should die right now.” It wasn’t a concrete plan. I just thought I had to end my physical existence no matter what.
My mind was filled with words I didn’t want to hear, and I had to somehow silence them.
The useless thoughts were loud and annoying, and since I couldn’t stop them by sleeping, I thought I had to find a better way to silence this screaming thing.
I had to die.
If I didn’t die now, it was clear that even greater pain would come, so I had to die before suffering any more.
Choosing a painful method to escape pain is a ridiculous idea.
But unfortunately, I’m an idiot, so that was the only method I could think of. If I could think of a proper solution to survive, I wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.
For now, I bought a rope with the little money I had.
To be honest, I had a completely unrealistic fantasy about physical pain.
I’ve always been somewhat physically robust, and the only health issues I’ve ever experienced are occasional migraines a couple of times a month. I suppose I had a rather naive view of pain.
It’ll be okay, it’ll be over in an instant. I had that unfounded confidence.
Well, maybe I had to think that way to get through it.
Anyway, the pain of dying is something you only think about when you fail to die. In other words, it’s useless to think about it because it won’t help me in the future.
No one can leave behind an account of their experience after death, and those who survive write about their regrets.
Two out of three people fail at suicide. You can’t die the way you want to. Don’t make the wrong decision.
I don’t remember when I first read the experiences of volunteers. I would read them two or three times a month, like some kind of ritual.
As long as you’re alive, there’s hope. I’m glad I survived. I’m carrying deeper pain because of my failure. You should stop. You should stop. You should stop.
I tried to use the regrets of others who shared the same impulses and pain, along with the sliver of hope they found, as a deterrent for myself.
But. That ritual to hold me back was eventually overshadowed by days spent endlessly thinking of a way to ensure absolute success.
I must somehow manage to handle this properly. I don’t want to die. I just want to stop the life functions of this body and then dispose of the corpse myself.
When I sought to resolve the matter, death simply came along as a result.
I absolutely wanted to do it properly. Even though my life hasn’t been going well to begin with.
It’s cruel that even death has its own degree of skill, when I’m here to pay the price for a life that didn’t go well.
I must die. It’s not that I want to die. It’s not a death wish, but an obsession. If I don’t die now, if I don’t dispose of myself, it will be irreversible.
My body felt unbearably heavy, but my footsteps remained leisurely as I walked, searching for a place to die.
I walked and walked and walked, and as the sun began to set, I veered off the national highway and stopped near an old bus stop on a narrow path surrounded by trees.
I watched the passing cars. I never considered jumping in front of one. There’s no way someone like me should ruin someone else’s life by getting them to kill me.
A train was out of the question. Every time I saw passengers cursing after a fatal accident, I felt like I was being blamed, and the nausea wouldn’t stop.
Jumping off a building wasn’t good either. At least in the vicinity, there was no place high enough to die instantly, and even if there was, it wouldn’t fit me.
The places that could fit me were too crowded with people. Just thinking about someone walking below getting caught up in it made my feet stop.
I heard that freezing to death is good. Unfortunately, it was summer now. I couldn’t wait until winter.
I thought, “I should have died last winter.” But this time, I was sure I could escape.
I looked for a place where I wouldn’t bother anyone, but by the time I became a corpse, it would already be a bother, so there’s no such place, I thought. I thought that, and I vomited.
What people say or think after I’m dead doesn’t matter.
That’s right. It definitely is.
If you care about such things, you shouldn’t have died in the first place. I understand.
It’s contradictory.
It’s been contradictory forever.
My head is always noisy. I have to escape quickly.
As I stood there, lost in the sunset, following the distorted view in my eyes, I noticed a tattered chair placed on the side of the road.
Next to a worn-out timetable, there was a chair with bent legs.
A rusty, cheap-looking chair had a frayed sign tied to it with worn-out vinyl string.
On the half-rotted chair, the following words were written in paint:
“Jack of all trades. If you have any problems, please consult us. 0**-****-6688”
Above it, an A4-sized piece of paper was roughly taped on with duct tape.
[Looking for people who don’t care if their life falls apart right now ! Monthly salary: 150,000 yen~ ※Live-in required]
This seemed to have been recently posted, with only slight water damage and wrinkles.
Drawn to it, I picked up the edge of the paper and read it slowly five times before finally understanding the content.
What is this? This is perfect for me.
I thought so honestly.
The door that was perfect for me—someone who doesn’t care if their life falls apart right now—had just appeared before my eyes.
And now.
Thanks to having lost even the ability to make decisions, I’m living in a corner room of this relatively clean apartment building.
A ten-story apartment building painted mouse gray. It’s close to the station, convenient, quiet, and easy to live in. It even has an automatic lock and an elevator.
This is the seventh floor, and all the other rooms except mine and my neighbor’s have been vacant. They should be vacant.
Sometimes the door to room 705 is left open, but the inside is so dark that I can’t see anything, so when I encounter it, I pretend not to see it and return to my room.
This apartment building is in a strange state because of my neighbor.
For example, the fifth floor is completely dark at night with no lights on, the elevator sometimes sounds a weight alarm even when only one person is inside, and the intercom occasionally rings for no reason. Instead of flyers, hair sometimes ends up in the mailbox.
Additionally, the stairs are unusable. Well, you could use them, but I don’t. At least not when passing through the sixth floor.
I think all the residents will eventually move out, but it’s a convenient location for short-term residents, so in that sense, it’s a property that meets the demand.
Below the fifth floor, it’s still safe.
Another good point is that the rent is surprisingly cheap considering the location.
There are almost no noisy residents, so there are no noise issues. It’s eerily quiet.
The reviews on the short-term rental site only have positive things to say, so the satisfaction rate must be high. It might be fake, but occasionally there’s a [Thank you] written, so it must have been really good.
There are also three supermarkets nearby, a delicious bakery, a coffee shop with great coffee, and a relatively affordable gym.
Hmm, maybe it’s not so bad after all.
As I lay down on the bed, thinking, “Home is where the heart is” I noticed the blanket was clearly bulging in a human shape, so I changed my destination to the desk and spent some time scrolling through social media and watching carefully selected funny videos.
A few hours later, the blanket was flat again, as if someone had sat on it.
Well, it wasn’t a problem for sleeping. Probably.
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