A story in the spirit of Yūko Tsushima
I
On the morning of Friday the 13th, the rain began before dawn, a thin, persistent tapping that threaded itself into the last strands of my sleep. I woke with the sense that something had been calling me from far away, though when I tried to recall the sound, it dissolved like breath on glass. The apartment was dim, the air cool. I lay still for a moment, listening to the rain’s soft insistence against the window.
I had taken the day off work. Not for any particular reason — only that the heaviness in my chest had grown too dense to carry into the office again. I told my supervisor I had a fever. She didn’t question it. I had been quiet for weeks.
The kettle hissed as I boiled water for tea. The steam fogged the kitchen window, blurring the view of the narrow street below. A delivery truck idled at the corner, its headlights smeared into pale streaks. The rain made everything look slightly unreal, as if the world were a watercolor someone had left out in the weather.
I sipped my tea and tried to steady myself. The dream — or whatever had woken me — still clung to the edges of my mind. A voice, maybe. Or footsteps. Or the feeling of someone standing just outside the room.
I shook it off. I had been having strange dreams for months, ever since I moved into this apartment. The landlord had warned me it was old, that the walls were thin and the plumbing temperamental. He hadn’t mentioned anything else.
By midmorning, the rain had grown heavier. I decided to go out anyway. Staying inside felt like letting the dream follow me from room to room.
II
The street was slick with water, the gutters choked with fallen leaves. I walked without direction, letting the rain soak into my coat. The city felt emptied out, as if everyone else had sensed something I hadn’t. Even the convenience store near the station was quiet, its fluorescent lights flickering faintly.
I bought an umbrella I didn’t need and wandered toward the older part of the neighborhood, where the houses leaned close together like tired relatives. I had walked this way once before, on the day I moved in, but I hadn’t explored it since.
As I turned a corner, I saw a house I didn’t remember. It stood slightly apart from the others, its eaves darkened by years of rain. The wooden siding was warped, the windows clouded with age. A narrow path led to the front door, where a small stone basin collected rainwater.
Something about the house tugged at me. I felt a faint pressure behind my ribs, as if a hand were gently urging me forward.
I stepped closer.
The rain softened around me, muffled by the overhanging branches of a persimmon tree. A single orange fruit clung stubbornly to a high branch, swaying in the wind.
I don’t know why I knocked. Perhaps I wanted to prove to myself that the house was just a house, that the unease gathering in my chest was nothing more than the weather.
The door creaked open.
No one stood there.
The hallway beyond was dim, smelling faintly of damp wood and something older — a scent like forgotten paper.
I should have turned away. Instead, I called out, “Hello?”
My voice sounded small, swallowed by the house.
A moment later, a woman appeared at the far end of the hallway. She was slight, her hair pulled back loosely, strands clinging to her cheeks. She wore a faded sweater and held a cloth in one hand, as if she had been cleaning.
“Oh,” she said, blinking at me. “I didn’t hear you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I shouldn’t have— The door was open.”
She smiled faintly. “It does that when the weather changes. The wood swells.”
Her voice was soft, almost apologetic. She stepped closer, and I noticed the shadows under her eyes, the way her shoulders curved inward.
“Did you need something?” she asked.
I hesitated. “No. I was just walking. I thought… I thought I recognized the house.”
Her expression flickered, as if she were searching for something in my face.
“Would you like to come in?” she asked.
The question startled me. I opened my mouth to refuse, but the words didn’t come. Instead, I found myself stepping inside, drawn by a feeling I couldn’t name.
III
The interior was dim but warm. The walls were lined with shelves filled with books, their spines faded. A kettle sat on a low table, steam curling from its spout.
“I was just making tea,” the woman said. “You’re welcome to join me.”
I nodded, though I felt a faint unease. The house seemed larger inside than it looked from the street, the rooms stretching back into shadow. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and something else — a faint sweetness, like overripe fruit.
We sat on cushions near the table. She poured tea into two mismatched cups.
“I’m Aki,” she said.
I told her my name.
“You live nearby?” she asked.
“Yes. I moved here a few months ago.”
She nodded, as if this confirmed something she already suspected.
“I used to live alone,” she said. “But lately, I’ve had the feeling the house doesn’t like that.”
I looked at her, unsure whether she was joking.
She smiled faintly. “Old houses get lonely, don’t you think?”
I didn’t answer. The tea was warm in my hands, but the unease in my chest had grown sharper.
“Sometimes,” she continued, “I hear footsteps at night. Or the sound of someone breathing in the next room. But when I look, no one is there.”
Her tone was calm, almost conversational, as if she were discussing the weather.
“Have you ever felt that?” she asked. “As if the walls were listening?”
I swallowed. “I’ve had strange dreams,” I admitted. “Since moving into my apartment.”
She nodded again, her eyes softening. “Dreams are how houses speak to us.”
A gust of wind rattled the windows. The persimmon tree outside scraped against the eaves with a sound like fingernails.
Aki set her cup down. “Would you like to see something?”
Before I could answer, she stood and motioned for me to follow.
IV
She led me down a narrow hallway to a small room at the back of the house. The door was slightly ajar. When she pushed it open, a cold draft brushed past us.
The room was empty except for a low wooden chest in the corner. The floorboards were worn, the walls bare. A single window looked out onto the rain‑soaked garden.
“This room belonged to my daughter,” Aki said quietly.
I felt a jolt of surprise. She hadn’t mentioned a child.
“She left,” Aki continued. “A long time ago.”
Her voice was steady, but something in it trembled.
“She used to sit by the window,” she said. “Watching the rain. She said the garden changed shape when it rained. That the trees moved differently.”
I looked at the garden. The branches swayed in the wind, their shadows shifting across the wet ground.
“She said the house whispered to her,” Aki said. “That it wanted her to stay.”
I turned to her. “Where is she now?”
Aki didn’t answer. Instead, she walked to the chest and knelt beside it. She lifted the lid slowly, as if afraid of disturbing something inside.
The chest was empty.
But the moment I looked into it, a cold shiver ran through me. The emptiness felt wrong — too deep, too dark, as if the bottom were much farther away than it should be.
Aki touched the edge of the chest with trembling fingers.
“She used to keep her drawings here,” she said. “But one day, they were gone. All of them. As if the house had swallowed them.”
I stepped back. The air in the room felt heavy, pressing against my skin.
“Aki,” I said softly. “Maybe we should go back to the front room.”
She didn’t move. Her eyes were fixed on the empty chest.
“She left on a Friday,” she whispered. “A Friday the 13th.”
The words hung in the air like a cold breath.
V
We returned to the front room in silence. The rain had grown louder, drumming against the roof. Aki sat with her hands folded in her lap, her gaze distant.
“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly. “I didn’t mean to trouble you.”
“You didn’t,” I said, though my voice felt thin.
She looked at me, her eyes searching. “You feel it too, don’t you? The house calling.”
I hesitated. “I don’t know.”
She smiled sadly. “It’s all right. Most people pretend they don’t hear it.”
A long silence settled between us. The rain blurred the windows, turning the outside world into a shifting gray.
“Would you like to stay for lunch?” she asked.
The question startled me. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly noon. I had been in the house longer than I realized.
“I should go,” I said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Aki nodded, though her expression tightened.
“Come back anytime,” she said. “The house likes you.”
The words sent a chill through me.
I stood, thanked her, and stepped into the hallway. As I reached the door, I felt a faint tug — not physical, but something like a whisper brushing against my thoughts.
Don’t go.
I froze.
The house was silent. The rain pattered softly against the eaves.
I shook my head, opened the door, and stepped outside.
VI
The air felt different once I left the house — lighter, though the rain still fell steadily. I walked quickly, my heart pounding. The street seemed unfamiliar, as if the house had shifted something in my perception.
When I reached my apartment, I was soaked. I peeled off my wet coat and hung it by the door. The rooms felt colder than usual, the shadows deeper.
I made tea, but the warmth did nothing to steady me. The memory of the empty chest lingered, its darkness pulling at the edges of my mind.
By evening, the rain had stopped. The sky was a dull, bruised purple. I tried to read, but the words blurred. I tried to sleep, but the moment I closed my eyes, I felt the house again — not mine, but Aki’s — pressing against my thoughts.
At midnight, I woke abruptly.
Someone was knocking on my door.
The sound was soft, almost tentative. I sat up, my heart racing.
The knocking came again.
I hesitated, then got out of bed and walked to the door. I opened it a crack.
No one was there.
The hallway was empty, the lights dim.
I closed the door slowly.
As I turned away, I heard it — a faint whisper, coming from the far corner of the room.
I froze.
The whisper grew clearer, though the words were indistinct. It sounded like someone calling my name.
I backed away, my breath shallow.
The whisper shifted, becoming a soft, rhythmic tapping — like rain against a window.
But the windows were dry.
The sound was coming from inside the apartment.
From the bedroom.
VII
I stood in the doorway, staring at the darkened room. The tapping continued, steady and insistent.
I reached for the light switch.
The moment the light flickered on, the tapping stopped.
The room was empty.
But on the floor, near the foot of the bed, lay a small piece of paper.
I knelt and picked it up.
It was a child’s drawing — done in crayon, the lines uneven. It showed a house with rain‑dark eaves, a persimmon tree beside it. In the window, a small figure stood, watching.
My breath caught.
I turned the paper over.
On the back, written in a shaky hand, were three words:
Come back tomorrow.
VIII
I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. The drawing lay on the table, its presence heavy. I kept glancing at it, half expecting it to move.
By dawn, the sky had cleared. The air was crisp, the streets washed clean by the rain.
I told myself I wouldn’t go. That the drawing was some strange coincidence, a trick of exhaustion.
But as the morning wore on, the pressure in my chest grew unbearable — a tightness that felt like a hand closing slowly around my heart.
By noon, I found myself walking toward the old neighborhood.
The house stood exactly as before, its eaves darkened, the persimmon tree swaying gently. The front door was closed.
I hesitated, then knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again.
Still nothing.
I tried the door.
It opened easily.
The hallway was dim, the air cool. I stepped inside.
“Aki?” I called.
Silence.
I walked through the house, my footsteps muffled by the worn floorboards. The front room was empty, the kettle cold.
I moved toward the back of the house.
The door to the small room was closed.
My hand trembled as I reached for the handle.
I pushed the door open.
The room was empty.
The chest sat in the corner, its lid closed.
I stepped closer.
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