It had only been three days since I moved into Ayumi's house, but the difference was immediate. I slept more peacefully than I had in weeks—no echoing subway tunnels, no hollow footsteps, no long-nailed fingers creeping out from the dark. The house was quiet but warm. Clean, modern, but with traces of old charm in the carved wood around the windows and the faint scent of hinoki that lingered in the corners of the halls.
Ayumi had been nothing but kind. She gave me the guest room on the second floor—a simple but comfortable space with a large desk, soft bed, and curtains that let in just enough sunlight to feel like morning without ever being harsh. Still, sometimes at night, I'd hear faint whispers—almost like the sound of wind caught between the walls—but Ayumi insisted it was just the old heating system. I didn't press further. I needed this stability, even if it came with little mysteries of its own.
By the fourth night, I started to settle in more confidently. I cooked dinner for the two of us—simple oyakodon—and Ayumi praised my cooking with a smile that made me feel useful, like I belonged. After dinner, we cleaned up together, laughing about how Nanako had almost fallen asleep during their film history class that afternoon.
"She's the only person I know who could nap through a Tarantino monologue," Ayumi giggled, drying the dishes.
Once we finished, Ayumi excused herself to take a shower, and I stayed behind in the kitchen, scrolling through my phone. Hanabi hadn't texted me since the visit to the transfer student's house on Friday. I had messaged her earlier that morning, just a simple: "How did it go?" but it was still unread. That wasn't like her. Hanabi always replied—even if it was just a sticker or emoji.
My heart started to feel heavy. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she forgot. Or maybe… she couldn't reply.
The thought made me uneasy, so I decided to distract myself and explore the house a little more. I hadn't seen the whole place yet. The upstairs hallway was long, with wooden floors that creaked slightly under my weight. Most doors were open: Ayumi's room, the shared bathroom, a small reading nook tucked into the corner—but one door at the far end of the hall remained closed. Always locked.
I had assumed it was a storage room, or maybe a guest room she didn't use. But tonight, for some reason, I stopped in front of it. Something felt… wrong. Not in an obvious way. The air near it felt denser, colder. My fingertips tingled as I reached out, almost against my will, and touched the doorknob. It was cold—unnaturally so. Like ice beneath my skin.
I leaned in, pressing my ear to the wood.
Whispers.
Soft, hushed voices. Not quite Japanese. Not English. It was like they were speaking through water—blurred, garbled, ancient.
I backed away, heart pounding. I hadn't imagined it.
Ayumi's voice called from the bathroom, the water still running: "Hey, Hikari? You okay?"
"Y-Yeah! Just… checking the hallway!"
I hurried back downstairs, trying to steady my breathing.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
The whispering door haunted me. I stared at the ceiling for hours, replaying the sounds in my head, trying to decipher the feeling that came with them. It wasn't fear exactly. It was… calling. As if something on the other side knew me. Wanted me.
The next morning, I finally heard from Hanabi.
Her voice was strained on the phone, and she sounded like she hadn't slept in days.
"…Nee-san, I—I shouldn't have gone. Her house… it's not a house. It's a prison. Or a stage. I don't know. Everything inside is covered in symbols and candles and—and mirrors that reflect something else. Not us. Something else watching us."
I froze in place, notebook and pen in hand.
"She—she said she's looking for a 'vessel.' That's what she told me after everyone left. I was the last to leave, and she said… she said I was too bright. That my light would burn her skin. And then she laughed like it was a joke but it didn't feel like one. I swear her shadow moved on its own. I swear it hissed."
My voice trembled. "Hanabi, you need to tell Mom and Dad. Now."
"I tried. But they just think she's eccentric. They think I'm overthinking things because of school stress."
"You're coming here or I'll come home," I said firmly. "No arguments."
"I'm scared, Nee-san…"
"I know. But I've seen something too. I believe you."
The silence between us lasted just long enough for me to hear her sniffle.
"Okay. I'll come. Tomorrow."
"Good."
After I hung up, I stared at the ceiling again, but this time, not from sleeplessness.
This wasn't just Tokyo's stress. This was something else.
And whatever had been whispering behind that locked door upstairs…
…might know more than it should.