Crap.
Trying not to panic, I search the room as quickly and as thoroughly as I can. I check under the couch, the bed, even take another quick look inside the bathroom. Nothing.
A drop of water landing on the carpet in front of me is the only warning I get. I have just enough time to look up as the doll bears down on me from the ceiling. Its mouth is too big for its face with rows of jagged-looking teeth and its eyes a terrifying window of hate. The two thoughts that immediately come to mind are uh-oh and damn it.
Ever had a possessed doll slam itself into your face at Mach 2 speed? It’s like getting hit by a carnivorous chicken. I crash to the floor, the doll still clinging to me, jaws snapping at my cheek. I grab it by the scruff of its neck as I cry out in pain. I force it away, putting myself out of reach of those canines. What I don’t expect is for the doll’s neck to extend several inches from its body, still gunning for skin.
“SON OF A—”
I hurl the doll across the room. It hits the wall and flops onto the floor.
Something’s wrong. After that first stab, it shouldn’t be able to move, much less attack me like it’s rabid. And the last thing I want is to get bitten.
The third and final rule of the game is this: don’t lose. I’m not entirely sure what would happen if I did, but I don’t want to find out. I’ve tagged it once and been tagged once. Not good odds.
A loud, ripping sound screams through the doll, which twists and writhes on the floor.
Its dress bunches up, something shifting underneath the cloth. I can see the red threads unraveling, stitch by painstaking stitch. I leap forward, burying the knife once more into that writhing mass. The doll falls limp.
“I win!”
But when I raise my hand again to deliver the third and final blow, the doll’s body tears open. A hand bursts from the center of its chest to grab at my wrist. The hand is followed by a yellowed arm and shoulder. Another hand forces its way out, and then another, and then several more.
Finally, a head leers out of the tattered doll’s remains. A horribly disfigured face sits atop a form that isn’t so much an actual body as it is a confusing protrusion of arms.
It wails—a mewling, yowling sound—and reaches for me again.
I’ve never punched a woman before—dead or alive—but this feels like the time to be misogynistic. The creature reels back, loosening its hold, and I scramble backward. It crawls toward me again, and I kick it right in the jaw. I need another stab with the knife to end the ritual, but I’m not entirely sure how to keep it still long enough to do so without getting my own limbs chewed off.
Then something falls from the ceiling, and the creature is pinned underneath two pale hands, which would be slim and lovely if they didn’t look like they’ve been decomposing underground for the last few centuries.
“Okiku!” I gasp.
There are similarities between my Okiku and the many-armed woman, in that they are both (a) dead, and (b) bloodthirsty when they’ve got a target in mind.
From behind her curtain of hair, Okiku looks almost quizzical. Her hands are steel vises, fueled by three hundred years of old grudges and tempered by her surprising fondness for me. Nothing the other creature attempts could dislodge her.
“Thanks.” I pant, taking aim and driving the knife one final time into the point where the seven-armed woman’s neck is joined to the rest of her, and then I brace myself.
“I win!”
The most horrible earsplitting wail I’ve ever heard rends the air, and the ghoul explodes.
I hit the ground, covering the back of my head with my hands, more from the force of the impact than from instinct. The wailing peters out, and I take that as a sign to lift myself up and assess the carnage.
The blast has shattered a small art-nouveau lamp, a Waterford vase, and the drooping clump of chrysanthemums that had been cowering inside it. A thick cloud of dust settles onto the floor and over the furniture, but all that’s left of the creature is the ruined doll. Its black eyes are as creepy as ever, but at least its slit-mouth is gone.
I’ve read about hoso-de before. Generally, these benign spirits, characterized by multiple arms, are found in most Japanese households. Why it was so angry and what it was doing in the good old U.S. of A., I have no idea. Perhaps there’s a foreign neighbor in this apartment block. People always bring their ghosts with them, holding on to them like faded photographs.
Okiku, naturally, sits in the center of the whole mess, impassioned as always, with broken remnants of the fight strewn around her like a dirty halo.
“I hope Sondheim’s not expecting me to pay for this,” I mutter, standing and trying to shake the sawdust from my hair. My spirit companion says nothing. Okiku never says much, never gives any indication of what she’s thinking. I’m almost used to that by now. I ramble enough for both of us.
Okiku drifts over to me and places a finger against my cheek where the hoso-de scored a bite, the way Okiku always does when she wants to know if I’m all right. Which is rather nice of her. Up close, her face is the stuff of nightmares, an amalgamation of what it’s like to be alive and dead all at once.
I’m almost used to that too.
“Never been better.” I grin, trying to hide my shaking knees.
This was not the first attempt at exorcising ghosts for either one of us. Over the last year, I’ve gone against faceless women, disfigured spirits, and grotesque revenants. Some people have dangerous hobbies, like skydiving and driving in monster truck rallies and glacier surfing. Me? I cast my soul into the churning waters of potential damnation and wait for a bite. And Okiku’s been doing this for three hundred frigging years?
Just to err on the safe side, I pour the rest of the salt water onto the doll’s remains and sweep them into a large garbage bag. Okiku watches me but doesn’t help. From the books Kagura lent me, I know the hoso-de are creatures of wood. Spirits of water, like Okiku, can’t touch their vessels without having their own strength sapped. Fortunately, the fight didn’t last long enough to weaken her.
I turn off the TV, then paw through the blankets to find my cell phone and punch in a few numbers. “It’s done,” I say as soon as Sondheim answers.
I don’t have to wait long. Andy Sondheim plays wide receiver for Pembrooke High’s football team and is so far up the social ladder from me that it’s like trying to scale Mount Everest. With him is his perky cheerleader girlfriend, Trish Seyfried, though she’s not quite so perky at the moment. Sondheim likes to boast about having his own place, even though his parents pay the rent. They’re away on enough business trips that I suppose it’s almost true.
He and Trish are fully dressed now. I’d assumed they’d just gotten back from some party and were making out before they’d called. Both are still white-faced and trembling, which I’ll admit I enjoy, because when he’s not in fear for his life, Sondheim’s usually a jerk.
Okiku ignores them. She’s been counting tiles on the floor, black hair flapping behind her like a bird’s wing. Neither Sondheim nor Trish sees her. Most usually don’t.
“It’s gone,” I tell them wearily, not bothering with the details.
“Damn, Halloway,” the jock says, looking around his apartment. “How about doing it without trashing the place?”