The Gateway

Emma Chant

You can hear your own heartbeat in Tokyo.





No matter what they say about the crowds and the push and pull of people in the streets, it’s a sound you carry as you walk along, whether it be spring, summer, fall, or winter.





This story begins in fall. Fall isn’t traditionally the time of ghouls and demons for the Japanese, but the inevitable waves of Western influence brought Hallowtide to the formerly isolated island of culture. In Japan, the time for ghost stories that send creeping chills spreading down your spine is in summer. When the heat starts to sink into the body and warp the mind until it can see the second mouth peeping out of a starving woman’s head, demanding food or the soul of a fox behind their wives’ eyes, a little refreshing scare is enough to cool down the heart and skin, leaving just the scent of sweat behind. For generations it has always been so, and the natural order demands it. Always what is given and received must equal and be done so on time, no more and no less.



Yet our story begins in fall.





The muted tones of Japanese girls walking the streets, nothing but cream, grey, black and every shade in between fill the street’s palate. The point is not to stand out, not to catch the eye. Foreign girls don’t know that and so in between this neutral world are flashes of color. One auburn haired and in stark white linen, another of lacquered gold locks and red lace, the last a pile of white pine, star magnolia, and full moon maple curls; wearing a golden rod silk dress that flutters in the wind and ties in a bow in the front.





I am drained of color.





These girls are constantly watched, wherever they go. Riding their bikes, drinking at the cafes, or riding the train; eyes follow them everywhere. Some don’t notice, some do, and the most foolish of them relish the attention. They can’t see what is wrong and they can’t understand why they should be afraid.





I could not see.





So they continue to make eyes at the men they pass by, inviting in their innocence and ignorance.





Yet behind the mild eyes of these businessmen you are their next meal.







She was my friend, you know. She was always with me. We had so many adventures together, so many memories made together. We kept each other sane in that place, where we were so different it came out in the shape of our bodies and the color of our hair. We were both redheads, and you know, there that’s considered unlucky. Like we were white demons wandering around the streets, invading shops with our chatter and towering over little old ladies at the crosswalks.





“Come on dear, you’ll be late,” she said to me as we ran along towards the station. I was much slower than my friend, as usual. Whether we were at the school we both taught English at, or simply on errands around the city together, I was always one step behind, always following.





“Wait Dama!” I pleaded, knowing full well that Miss Damara White would not stop for me. She said “Dama” was a nickname she had from childhood. I think it was an attempt to fit in with a more Japanese-esque name.





“Nope, you have to just keep up with me!” she said, laughing. We were going to Kiichijoji Kouen, the park we visited every Saturday. Or rather the park entrance where I waited for her every Saturday for her from nine in the morning to three in the afternoon. She had met a man she said, the man she dreamed about every night ever since she had come here. The man that was presented in every drama and every commercial, the one that guaranteed a perfect existence in this so-called perfect land.





“I can’t tell you his name or anything about him,” she had said to me, over a month ago.





“Why?” I prompted, more worried than anything else.





“That’s the rules, silly! I think he might be married to one of the mothers of our students. It will look odd enough for him to be meeting one foreign women, and even stranger for two! What if someone he knows sees him? What if someone I know sees me? You can’t even meet him till I say so, or everything will be ruined,” said Damara, cherry pink lips forming a pout.





“You can’t date a man who is already married, it’s not right—”I started to say, but she interrupted with her firm grace.





“Don’t you worry, I’ll make sure you meet him eventually, once he is properly divorced and I am sure he has a friend just as beautiful as he is! We’ll be married within the year, living in the place of our childhood dreams!”





“Dama, what about his wife and children?” I said.





I saw her face then, the set of her lips challenging me to continue on with my support of this hypothetical family. One part of my mind saw a soft eyed female in dove gray, her eyes following her husband’s movements with unfulfilled love, her arms holding her child who also looked after his father with that same hunger for attention. The other, cynical part saw a harpy, a sparrow woman, iron pan in hand and knife in the other; ready to attack her husband after a long day at work or find and cook up my friend for dinner. Maybe she would serve her to her husband in an eyeball-and guts stew. At least I supposed that’s what a sparrow wife would do.



Whatever the wife was truly like, Damara had always been there for me, always helped me and comforted me when I was so homesick or fed up with my own relationship issues. I couldn’t stop her from doing something that made her happy, even when it could hurt many more people. I could only hope he didn’t have children and that his wife was a nightmare to be with – or the best case scenario of all; that he was a single, good man.





So I shut my mouth then, and meekly agreed to come to the park with her.







On the train, a month later she had me holding up a mirror while she puckered her lips and did her eyes. “Hold still!” she demanded, laughing.





“It’s a moving train Dama. I dare you to find anyone who would do half as a decent job.”





“You know, I haven’t eaten, do you think you could pull some of that food I bought at the convenience store out of my bag? I was going to share it with him, but he can just buy me something instead. I can’t show up starving and my stomach grumbling.”





I sighed, and adjusted my bag so that I could reach in hers and pass her the rice ball she had squished in there. Good thing she was eating it – didn’t she know this was the country of fastidiously presented food? More importantly than how it tasted was how it looked, right?





“Why didn’t you eat before we left?” I asked, knowing already why.





She just snapped her compact shut and stuffed it into the place her rice ball had been. She had not eaten because she was so desperately trying to reduce her size to that rail-thin look that was so unhealthily popular here. She wore a wine colored lace dress that rode up her thighs and hugged her body. The only thing that could be said for her modesty was the high collar that contoured her throat.





I suppose I couldn’t say anything about that either, my skirt was beautifully bright with golden embroidery and not exactly to knee-length. I had bought it on my last trip home, and I had run my fingers over the flowers again and again, missing my family every time I wore it.





As I stood there, swaying on the train I noticed that more than the usual amount of men had passed me by and licked their lips, eyeing us over as if we were absolutely delicious. They were unusual looking as well, with wide mouths or eyes that I heard termed before as “fox eyes”. One in particular stood out with his deathly pale skin and mouth as red as hell. His arms and legs were freakishly long, and he seemed to stretch them as he peered around, looking and looking around the train. He left before us, dropping two tickets on the floor. Damara swooped down, and scooped them up, smiling at me triumphantly as she waved them in the air. “Two tickets to the art exhibition on supernatural art! It has some stunning examples of wood-block prints just for you! It will also feature painting, sculpture, and masks! Let’s go later this week, okay?”



Before I could protest that she should give the tickets in to be collected later we feel the train come to a stop.





“Kiichijoji. Kiichijoji desu,” sang out the mechanical repeating voice of a female. Whenever they needed you to do something, to stand, sit, or leave, it was always a female telling you. Male voices were reserved for important things like public announcements.





Damara discarded the wrapper on the floor of the train, licking her lips. “Come on!” she insisted, grabbing me by the hand and pulling me out. I watched as a little one dutifully picked it up and put it in his pocket to be thrown away later.









“We’re early,” I snapped at her as we stopped at the top of the stairs that twisted and turned themselves into the park. Everywhere was orange, and the leaves fell softly in the cool morning air. We were, in fact, early. 8:55 A.M. to be exact. “I’ll wait for you here.”





“Thank you dear, but you know you can look around…I feel so bad, after the first time I asked you to come, you didn’t have to keep coming!” she said, looking at least a little shameful.





“It is fine, I brought my book. I’ll meet you here at three for errands?” I wasn’t about to let my friend do something so foolish alone every week. What if the wife found out, and came in with her iron pot and some salt to purify her for good measure?





“Well, perhaps this week you should finally be able to meet him. Who knows? Just remember, don’t come down until I come get you, alright? Here is your ticket, for safe-keeping,” she says, handing me a beautifully colored red ticket.





Then she flew down the stairs in a fever of desire and romance.





I waited at the top of the stairs. One hour of reading my book and it was the usual nonsense of the clumsy but beautiful heroine who happens to meet the guy of her dreams on her new job, in her new house, or on her new adventures. Another one shows up, they fight over her, but always the “bad boy” wins. Really, I had to get some new literature before my brain rotted from lack of originality. Three o’clock began just as my book ended.





But no Damara.





I played with a nail sticking out from the wooden stairs. It was still quite stuck in there, and was completely resistant to my attempts to pull it out.





3:15.





I had heard nothing from inside the park; maybe they were just saying their sickenly sweet goodbyes?





A timid looking girl who had come up the stairs stopped and stared at me, hesitantly opening and shutting her mouth, trying to decide if to speak to me and what language should she choose. I smiled at her, to let her know I wasn’t lost or confused.





Now I was scaring everyone with my waiting and watching. She smiled hesitantly, bowed and moved on.





3:30





Now a policeman came, looking disgruntled that someone was not moving along, about their business. There wasn’t actually a law against sitting on a stairway, especially when there really was no one there. Eventually he found out that staring directly and openly really didn’t have any effect on someone who was ignoring him, and moved on.





3:45





I saw that creature I saw on the train, more grotesque than ever and now staring at me intently. How did he get there? Did he know we took his tickets? I shivered and refused to stare back, but felt him walk back and forth slowly. His fingernails arched out in long yellow points, curling and uncurling with his fist. He stepped on the nail that I had found and it slowly sunk in. Finally he disappeared too, leaving me with hollowness.





4:00





A hand had come out of the bushes, attached to nothing but the foliage behind. I swallowed fear that tasted of pure ice, feeling panic slid down my throat and into my stomach. I stood up, moving back from that hand that was groping blindly in front of me. Yet another came out from the tree above, as white as snow, nails and fingers and arms growing, extending towards me.





Finally, I broke into a run.





Down the stairs, down the pathway littered with scarlet leaves and basking in fading sunlight. Down towards the place she told me not to come, not to approach. She’ll never believe me, only laugh as me. My heart was thumping so loudly I couldn’t see anyone or anything beyond the path before me. My eyes were glued to it and my head was being pulled towards it. Finally I gave way and felt my knees touch the ground, ever so softly. I heard a single word.





“Kitte…”





Ticket.





I looked up, and there was my friend, her hair falling in lifeless, ash curls. I couldn’t see her face; I couldn’t see anything but that hair. That man was standing beside her, still licking his lips that were covered in blood. He had no eyes and no nose now, only that mouth.





“DAMARA!!!!!!” I screamed. Her face rolled towards me, as if he’d pushed her head rather than as she had naturally turned it. Her eyes, once the color of turquoise, were now a sad empty brown. In exchange for the ticket, her eyes were the only feature remaining on her face.





I turn my own ticket over. “Gateway” it says.





Then he moved towards me, and everything turned crimson.





“The price?” he whispered.









My own family does not know where I am, what I have become. A shade of my former self, a will-o’the wisp where a girl used to be. That demon ate me that night, and I can still feel him crunching on my heart in the darkness.





I cannot tell anyone, I cannot help anyone. I am stuck, unable to go forward or go back. Besides, who would listen? Who would believe me? I watch the other girls go in and out of that park, and I wait for them to join me.





The last thing they know is the sound of their own heart beating rapidly, the body more aware than the mind of what eyes cannot see and ears cannot hear.



There are consequences to breaking the rules here.