The Girl from the Well

too, can be deadly.

Callie crawls away, now bruised and bleeding heavily, but I continue my attack, slashing at every part of the dead woman that I can reach. The well must have been purified by the other mikos, or was consecrated to kami at some time in the past, for the waters burn their way through the dead miko’s body flesh whenever my nails score; sizzling like acid, stripping away her physical flesh. It is then that I see the demons festering inside the dead miko’s body, the repugnance of creatures that have feasted on her mind and body for so long that not even a glimmer of who she was and what she could have been can be seen. I look in and I see

hate, creeping hate little sputters mad mad feed must feed will feed always feeding

hungry screamscreaming ripping twisted twisting never fear all fear hating hating

all always hating little corners little corners rip through quivering skin laugh

clawing fester sour little skin corpse quiet skin hate we hate hate die die die die

true madness.

I see now that even the dead miko’s face is a mask, her body a farce for the demons hiding within to play at human. It is a fate worse than even the one I have endured, but I have little time to feel pity. These demons of filth howl from beyond the miko’s undead husk and look out at me through the empty shells of her eyes.

Not even the severity of her wounds can distract Callie. Clutching at her side, where the cloth of her kimono is now stained a crimson red, she half staggers, half limps to the eighth doll, finding it and adding it to the line of dolls she has started. Now, she counts again.

“One sacrifice! Two, three, four, five!” She places her hand on every doll as she goes down the line. The dead miko is unaware of her intent, but I comprehend her purpose. The woman continues to struggle, unable to break free from my grip, but the water from the well has given me strength, and she is powerless to escape.

“Eight sacrifices!” And then Callie turns to us, locked in our dreadful battle. Perhaps we will spend the balance of our existence in this manner—one unable to break free, and the other holding on at the cost of everything else.

She points at the dead miko, and fear bursts through her voice. “Nine! Nine sacrifices!”

It is a truth that the other mikos, even the old woman, for all her wisdom, have overlooked.

Words in themselves have their own power. When Callie named the ninth sacrifice, the power in those words transferred itself to me.

And I

respond.

The small demons that feed around the dead miko, the shadows that call attention to her presence, are the

shivering whimper feed feeding hate hatred hating

creeping seek seeking flesh flee snapping hate

first to fall. I tear through them like shredded paper, my teeth ripping through. Then it is the larger demons’ turn, the ones that lurk behind her eyes, and I plunge my hands through those twin

whisper whispering screaming screaming mine mine

arms legs tear limbs fear hate hate mine flee mine

sockets, rending everything I find. Finally, I attack the mask herself. I rip through the husk, into centuries of forgotten filth and malice. I plunge my hands into the dead miko’s stomach, rending and rupturing

hate hate hate hate die why die die why die die die

die die die die die why die die die die die die die

all that I can until, against all odds, I see a faint shimmer of light, a whisper of innocence, a small, forgotten firefly trapped for years within that seething mass.

Somewhere within that malignant spirit, little bits of Chiyo Takeda still cling, waiting for the day she is free to finish the task she set out to do. Perhaps it is because of her close resemblance to her younger sister, Yoko, that I see a little of Tarquin on her sad, youthful face. She looks at me, and I know what she is asking.