The Demon

There is an old house in the downtown prefecture of Chiba, Japan that is haunted. This is said as if the appearance of the house had not given this away, with it’s rotting porch and peeling wood that has lost it’s coats of paint years prior, and the windows that are broken and held together only with weathered duct tape. The wallpaper inside has never had any care since the day it was put up, and the carpet was a mold breeding ground.

The appearance has always given this house a specific kind of tension—a kind of tension that left the teeth grinding and body tense, with shoulders touching the ears. When the kids of the neighborhood were younger, they had never noticed the old ghosts that wander the halls of the house, but they did know about the demon that resides here. The house had always given an unsettling aura to anybody who passed it, all morning joggers and dog walkers avoided the street entirely. The kids would constantly dare each other to knock on its door, or to go inside and take a souvenir, which never actually happened despite the one-upped rumors. 

The demon of the house shatters dishes and grasps at wrists so tightly that they leave bruises. The demon screams at all hours of the morning, leaving the furniture in disarray, bringing with it the same unsettled feeling of fear and helplessness that seeps into the property around it.

It has been well over twenty years since anybody had last gone into the house. It was left behind when the young man that lived there all his life turned eighteen. He hightailed it out of there as soon as he could, because he, too, knew of the demon that haunted the settlement. His fear of walking through the doorways of the house and being greeted by the demon kept him alert for most of his youth, ducking his dead and moving swiftly along, a habit that took him many years to break. 

As of today, he has moved on with his life and married a wonderful woman, with three kids between them and a steady job as a railway engineer. 

There was not a room in his childhood house that did not carry ghosts. Ghosts that wailed in the closets to be let out, ghosts that locked themselves in the bathrooms to hide from the demon, and ghosts prying open the floorboards to find items hidden and stored within. Their hollow, staring eyes darted to each and every creak and croak caused by the house’s settling. An ear and an eye was always kept open, hoping to identify the source of any noise, hoping it wasn’t caused by the demon of all things.

When the young man had moved out, he swore he would never come back. He told himself that he would never visit the street the house was on, that he would never come back to Chiba entirely. It was in his past, which was firmly planted to his past, where he wanted it to stay. 

He still gets nightmares from living in the house, with the demon, and the ghosts. Waking up in cold sweats with a furiously beating heart, a scream caught dead in his throat. His only source of comfort being his wife, who always woke up when he did, rolling over and hugging him tightly until he drifted back to sleep. She knew little of the details of his childhood, and she knew about the demon. She never complained once about his nightmares, and he loves her for it.

Today was Tuesday. Tuesdays meant that he did not have work, his only day off besides Thursday for the whole week. Normally, he’d spend the day drawing up plans and designing parts and repairs for the trains and rails of Tokyo. It was his job, after all. But there was something stirring in the atmosphere that left his teeth a bit on edge.

He couldn’t place why, but something felt off this morning. Some strange sense of foreboding clouded his mind every moment his guard was let down. There was not a reason to be feeling this way, as the morning had started off well. He got up early and made coffee, wished his wife a good day off to work, and drove his kids to school. He showered, brushed his teeth, made breakfast. It just didn’t make sense.

The feeling did not leave him after an hour or two, and he was starting to feel antsy. What was going to happen? Why was this feeling sticking to him like half dried glue, stiff and thick?

By the time the clock struck three, the feeling did not leave him. He was getting nervous. Something was going to happen, but what? He found himself mentally preparing for something bad to happen, maybe the school will call about his kids? Maybe his wife is in trouble at work? Or, maybe—maybe…

He nearly jumped out of his skin when the house phone suddenly rang. The shrill chatter of the dial tone was almost loud enough to cover the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. 

At the same time, the anxiety in his stomach eases. He was still wound tight, one hand clutched at the hem of his shirt, but he quickly put an end to his growing nervousness and picked up the phone. 

“Moshi moshi,” He greets, leveling his voice. The caller was quiet for a beat or two, only a heaving breathing coming through the line.

When a voice finally does come through, his blood instantly turns to ice.

“Hitoshi,” the demon’s voice came through the phone, distorted and awful, sending him through an immediate shut down. “Hitoshi. Why don’t you come back, Hitoshi.”

The phone slipped from his hands and clattered to the floor. Shock and fear froze him to his spot, and his stomach churned dangerously like an angry thunderstorm. His ears began to ring.

The voice of the demon on the other end sent him spiraling, falling deep into the nervous mind of his younger self who still greatly feared the monster. The image flashed in his mind’s eye, of the demon’s extremely thin greyed hair and yellowed eyes. It’s rotten black teeth, clenched and hissing, hidden behind spit-covered, paper line lips that were constantly twisted into a snarl. Long, gnarled fingers with jagged claws that had often left scratches across his cheeks. Skin hung off its body like an ill fitting suit.

He felt afraid. Genuine fear raked over the back of his neck, left the hairs on his arms standing on end. The demon found him. How on Earth did it find him?

His mouth went dry. He couldn’t talk. The ghosts of his memories danced across his vision, replaying moments of his childhood. He remembers the demon, and he remembers the demon well.

After all, how does anybody forget the face of their mother?