Pathway to Japanese Literature

Vibration Demon

1

I shall now first describe the most bizarre experiment ever conceived by my friend Kakioka Shūrō.

Though calling him Kakioka Shūrō would likely fail to pique readers' interest, this is of course a pseudonym I devised—were I to write his true name here with full honesty, readers would gasp in astonishment at its excessive renown.
Nevertheless, the reason I dare defy journalistic norms by not exposing his true name—though I began to write this, I must confess feeling immense hesitation in addressing it—the reason for not exposing his true name is that I wish to spare his wife Kakioka Kureko as much future suffering as possible.
Kureko was a truly rare and delicate woman in this beastly modern age.
If I were to metaphorically describe it, one might say it resembled the sensation of gently cradling a canary chick in my palm—its soft yellow feathers just fully grown—a faint impression one might receive from Kureko.
Even when autumn winds rustling through fallen paulownia leaves in the garden blew down the delicate downy hairs lining Kureko's nape, even when a persimmon-ripe crimson sunset plummeting like a well bucket struck her round eyes framed by long lashes, Kureko's figure seemed poised to dissolve into a wisp of vapor and vanish midair.
Ah, it seems I have grown too fervent in recounting these trivial matters.

One would have to declare that my friend Kakioka Shūrō—permitted to call such a delicate beauty his wife and embrace her night after night in their crimson boudoir—was indeed the most blessed of the blessed in this world. Had I been granted Kakioka Shūrō's position—oh, merely imagining it lures me into such sweet intoxication—I would build Mrs. Kureko an Egyptian-style palace, seat her upon an emerald throne encrusted with pearls and jewels. Were there such a thing as a male chastity belt, I would fasten it myself and hang its key from Queen Kureko's chest, eternally prostrating myself nine times from afar behind pale crimson drapes, never tiring of serving her like a slave. However, in the case of my friend Kakioka Shūrō—what an insatiably greedy man, oblivious to his own nature! He had entangled himself in an unspeakably vile relationship with another fool they called Madam Sow—one he could neither sever nor endure.

That Madam Sow was Shiraishi Yukiko, thirty-seven years old and two years Kakioka’s senior.
Yet while her appearance bore a discernible air of maturity commensurate with that number, nowhere on her physique could one find any trace befitting such an advanced age.
Particularly, the curve from her nape to her chest formed a slope of unparalleled elegance; her upper arms and thighs alike swelled plump and milky white as if saturated with cream. Should one lightly press a finger against those areas, it would initially leave a deep indentation like poking soft rice cake, but soon an uncanny elasticity—both kneading and defiant—would well up from beneath the fingertip.
Moreover, Madam Sow—who had never borne a child—appeared to have added several millimeters of pallid fat layer beneath her fine-pored skin over recent years, whether through physiological changes or other causes.
When Madam abruptly drew near, a thick, suffocatingly sensual fragrance rose from the narrow space between her voluptuous breasts and crimson underrobe.

That Kakioka Shūrō became entangled with such a sinister blossom could only be called his misfortune.
Even were it not Kakioka, any man encountering a woman like Mrs. Yukiko would find himself unable to pull away from her, as if frozen in place.
However, what had long saved Kakioka Shūrō from being driven to act on his carnal impulses toward Mrs. Yukiko was precisely that she was his benefactor’s wife.

Though I claimed I would describe Kakioka Shūrō's bizarre experiment, readers might grow impatient with this overly lengthy preface—yet the apparently mundane facts I am about to relate would later form the most crucial part of this memoir, and so I ask that you keep this in mind as you read.

Now, the husband of the so-called Madam Sow, whom Kakioka Shūrō revered as his benefactor, was Dr. Shiraishi Yusaku.
Dr. Shiraishi was a renowned pulmonologist who operated a large sanatorium in the Shōnan region.
Generally speaking, sanatoriums only admitted those with extremely mild cases of tuberculosis. For patients in more advanced stages like the second or third, doctors would cleverly claim the therapy was unsuitable and gracefully evade responsibility.
But in the case of our Dr. Shiraishi, not only did he gladly admit patients of any severity, but through his unique Lesion Solidification Method, he achieved remarkably high recovery rates.
This somewhat resembled the well-known method of having patients inhale calcium powder through their nostrils to create limestone walls around lesions, but in Dr. Shiraishi's solidification method, the first layer of the lesion was formed using a newly invented material composed of a certain organic substance—creating a tough yet flexible adhesive membrane—upon which a second layer was then gilded with gold powder to block the activity of tubercle bacilli.

As noted here, Kakioka Shūrō revered Dr. Shiraishi as his benefactor, but in truth Kakioka himself was one who grasped the happiness of rebirth through this new therapy of the doctor’s.
And had Kakioka passed through the hospital gates a month later, or sought the doctor's diagnosis a month earlier, he would have forever lost his chance at rebirth.
This occurred precisely when the doctor had just gained confidence in this new therapy—Kakioka rushed to him at that very moment, effectively becoming the doctor’s first official trial patient. Meanwhile, Kakioka’s condition neared the third stage, with the first lobe of his right lung completely ravaged and roughly half of the second lobe beneath it being devoured by tubercle bacilli. Had he passed through the doctor’s gates even one month later, not even Dr. Shiraishi could have taken responsibility for his recovery.

I have now been compelled to briefly outline Kakioka Shūrō’s profile for readers here: Kakioka Shūrō possessed vast inherited assets in his hometown of Okayama, wielded distinguished social reputation as both a social educator and religious leader despite his youth, and enjoyed particularly seething popularity among young men and women.
Just before collapsing from illness, there had been an election within that religious organization, and through vigorous campaigning, he had attained an extremely important position despite his youth.
There exists no stranger creature than those who call themselves religious figures or social educators. Among them, those who would truly serve God and gladly sacrifice their own lives to save the world's sinners are exceedingly rare. The majority simply happened upon their professions by chance, thereafter preaching with professional zeal, peering covetously at their superiors' seats with burning ambition, attempting consolation under the guise of hearing confessions from young women or visiting the sick—all while secretly reveling in dubious passions within their hearts.
If we scrutinize Kakioka Shūrō's true nature, he was indeed this type of person, but being relatively timid, he had fortunately managed to avoid exposing his flaws until now.
This is not something I say out of jealousy.

Had Kakioka succumbed to that illness and drawn his last breath, his competitors would have pounced like starving tigers and wolves, devouring every last vestige of his status and wealth while heaping countless acts of dishonorable betrayal—both real and imagined—upon his corpse.
Kakioka Shūrō was fully aware of the atmosphere during that time.

(I'm finished.) He had steeled himself even to make his final preparations.
It was Dr. Shiraishi Yusaku who brilliantly rescued him from such a crisis.
From Kakioka's perspective, being saved by Dr. Shiraishi came to mean not just his illness being cured through medical treatment - through those hands were preserved simultaneously his social standing maintained intact against predatory rivals' ambitions; family bonds shielded from scandalous dissolution; wealth secured against vulturous confiscation.
On discharge day from Dr.Shirashi's sanatorium,Kakioka pressed forehead against floorboards before physician's feet,drowning cheeks beneath streaming tears that pooled lacquer-wood grain patterns while shoulders shook through minutes uncountable before composure returned.

That the two families of Kakioka Shūrō and Dr. Shiraishi came to maintain an extremely close association indeed originated from these circumstances.

2

These two couples would often gather for tea parties, play the newly popular game of mahjong as a foursome, or drive to the Miura-Misaki area on Sunday afternoons to enjoy golf—to outside eyes, they appeared as an affectionate quartet.
However, the relationship between Dr. Shiraishi and Mrs. Yukiko, Kakioka and Mrs. Kureko could not remain so simple forever.

The first time I became aware of that matter was on a day as summer was drawing to a close.
Mrs. Yukiko and the doctor had never produced offspring between them for reasons unknown.
Burdened with excessive leisure time, Mrs. Yukiko soon recovered her health and voluntarily assumed management of various social enterprises connected to Kakioka Shūrō—who now surged forward with rehabilitative vigor onto society's front lines.
That summer found the Kakioka couple temporarily residing together at a certain Sagami Bay beach where a coastal forest school had opened, tending to the children's needs.
Meanwhile Mrs. Yukiko, serving as director of a summer lecture circuit through Tokyo's outskirts, would depart each dawn for venues in those sweltering suburbs and busy herself attending to every detail.

Now I must briefly speak of myself here - originally, Kakioka and I had passed through our hometown's middle school together as what they call bamboo-horse friends, though I was merely a physics teacher at a private middle school without wealth or fame. Yet childhood friends are truly peculiar things; even today with our completely different social standings, we could call each other like true brothers and exchange selfish remarks.
Through this famous wealthy friend's benevolence, I would frequent his mansion to enjoy feasts my wallet could never afford on its own; on occasion, I even obtained from him pocket money sufficient to slip through the lattice of cheap teahouses on the town outskirts to relieve my solitary congestion.
After he married Mrs. Kureko, I could no longer openly pester him for money, but by ghostwriting publications and drafting lecture outlines in his stead, each time I received compensation equivalent to the salary I earned from my school.
Mrs. Kureko likely had some inkling of these circumstances, but with her inherently kind heart, she warmly entertained me in various ways.

When passing through the gate of the Kakioka residence, it had become my custom to enter silently without requesting permission. After Kakioka had married Mrs. Kureko, I had indeed resolved to strictly reform this utterly improper visiting custom—but habits prove terrifyingly persistent. The moment my hand touched the lattice gate, I would somehow end up clattering it open before realizing what I was doing, only to find myself plopped cross-legged on the tea room cushion when awareness finally struck. However, I had resolved not to enter any areas beyond the entrance hall, tea room, kitchen, his study, and the detached guest room where bedding was always prepared for me during stays. However, just once—believing the couple's bedroom with its eye-startling crimson patterns and plush furnishings would be empty at midday—I went to peek through their lined chambers, only to fail in the attempt. But perhaps such matters are better left unspoken.

Now, it was a certain day that summer.

After finishing a tedious lecture at the training session (as was needless to say, Madam Sow was participating in this session), I decided that very night to visit Kakioka's residence in Azabu Honmura-chō to borrow a book I wanted to read—having previously noted its presence on his bookshelf during my observations.

When I slid open the entrance door with a clatter, I always made a habit of checking the footwear.
By the types of footwear lined up, one could discern who was present at home, and even gauge whether their owners were in good spirits or foul moods.
That day, not a single pair of footwear was lined up in the entranceway.
So I realized that even Madam Ohnohajime had not yet returned from the seaside.

In that case, thinking to stealthily go up and give a scare to O-Yoshi—the caretaker maid who might be napping in the tea room—I entered while muffling my footsteps.
However, not only was there no sign of O-Yoshi in the tea room, but the kitchen area stood tightly shut and the zabuton cushions lay neatly arranged—even without being Sherlock Holmes, it became clear she had likely gone out for an extended period.
But for that very reason, what carelessness this was!
Indeed, here I was—a veritable thief—having slipped right in without hindrance.

But it was at this moment.
I thought I heard muffled whispers coming from somewhere.
Wondering if it was my imagination, I strained my ears—but no—it hadn’t been a hallucination after all.
There were indeed human voices.
Moreover, those voices were leaking out from inside the house.

Had the Kakioka couple already returned?
I stood up and took two or three steps toward the voice's source—though when faced with such an opportunity, anyone would try to justify themselves while secretly eavesdrop, even while knowing it wrong.
In my case too, with my entire body burning with curiosity, I embarked on this minor adventure's first action.
Ah, but what a powerful impulse this stirred within me!
One voice was unmistakably Kakioka Shūrō's, yet his interlocutor wasn't Mrs. Kureko—to my shock, it proved to be none other than Mrs. Yukiko, Dr. Shiraishi's wife.

Familiar with the layout, I swiftly flipped around and succeeded in hiding behind the study's curtains.
From there, the conversation from the neighboring bedroom came through with such clarity that I wanted to cover my ears.

The content of the conversation I could hear there was sufficient to plunge me—who possessed no prior knowledge whatsoever about their relationship—into an abyss of astonishment.
Readers, upon reading the following passage, I ask that you imagine my dumbfounded expression.

“Why on earth won’t you grant my wish?”

“How revolting… You’re monstrous.”

“Even when I’m groveling like this to beg you, won’t you comply?”

“I absolutely refuse.”

“It will only take a brief moment, so please lie down here.”

“No matter what you say, I simply couldn’t assume such an indecent position before you.”

“Just endure it by imagining you’re visiting the doctor.”

"The doctor and you are worlds apart."

"What could possibly be shameful? I—"

A sense of them pressing closer.

“Are you resorting to violence?” (Mrs. Yukiko’s voice cut sharply, though its edge gradually softened) “How... utterly unmanly.”

“But if we let this moment pass, the opportunity won’t come easily again, you know.”

“I have no intention of ever complying with your wishes.
“You who serve God—how cruel you are, to personally send a living soul from darkness back into darkness, even if it hasn’t been born yet!
“Oh, you murderer…”

“Please don’t raise your voice.
“Why won’t you understand after all this explaining I’ve done?
“If it becomes known that you’re carrying my child, what do you think will happen to me?
“My social standing and reputation will scatter like ashes.
“If that happens, even you won’t be able to enjoy our extravagant rendezvous as we have until now.
“Even if my illness recurs, Dr. Shiraishi will no longer save me.
“Considering that—if you love me—please listen and undergo this simple abortion procedure.”

“No matter how many times you say it, it’s useless—I’ve already made up my mind.”
“I will lovingly raise the adorable baby I’m carrying in my womb.”

“Ah, so you intend to pass it off as Dr. Shiraishi’s child and raise it as his?”

“Oh, how could you even suggest such a thing…”
“The reason Yusaku and I had no children was because Yusaku himself couldn’t produce offspring.”
“Yusaku knows that well because he’s a scholar.”
“So if I were to become pregnant now, he would realize my conduct on the spot.”

“But one could argue it’s unclear whether it’s my child...”

“Don’t spout such foolishness. If we examine the blood type of the born child, determining whose seed it carries would be trivial. Moreover, you and Yusaku remain irrevocably linked as patient and attending physician. As for your blood type—through that sputum of yours—it’s been known since ancient times, hasn’t it?”

“Ah, then what do you intend to do from now on? What kind of torment are you trying to inflict upon me?”

“I want to lovingly raise the little boy conceived between you and me. I’ve already made up my mind completely. When Yusaku notices this—if he tells me to leave, I’ll leave; if he tries to send me to prison, I’ll let him. But someday, when I’ve gained my freedom, I’ll wait for you to come back to me—just me and our little boy.”

“Fine. I get it.”
“So you intend to use the unborn child as evidence to take all my assets.”
“Money isn’t something I’d refuse to provide.”
“But it’s an exchange condition—please abort that fetus.”

“Hohoho, that won’t go so smoothly, you know.”
“What I want more than money is you.”
“As long as this child lives, you cannot escape my grasp.”
“I know a much better way that won’t damage your position at all, you know.”
“But no matter what, I won’t let you go.”
“You must become exactly as I wish.”
“If you resist, your status and reputation will instantly come crashing down.”
“If I wanted to, you know.”
“But until then, you will be able to live unharmed.”
“Your life—every last bit of it—is clenched in my palm. Now that you’ve finally realized this, aren’t you just losing your mind…”

“……”

“Ah, you’re gripping a pistol.”
“You intend to kill me, don’t you?”
“Oh, I know perfectly well.”
“But how pitiful for you.”
“If you kill me, you’ll be off to prison the very next day—no, even sooner than that.”
“Do you think I’m such a fool that I haven’t prepared for when I’m killed?”
“You don’t know that there are documents and evidence stored somewhere that will expose everything the moment I die, do you?”

“Ah, I was an utter fool.”

Leaving behind Kakioka’s sobbing voice and Mrs. Yukiko’s amorous whispers—lewdly caressing words that had begun to comfort—I slipped away from the scene as if gliding, then dashed out barefoot into the street.

3

After that, Kakioka Shūrō and Dr. Shiraishi’s wife Yukiko appeared at least outwardly quite peaceful.
When Kakioka and Yukiko put on a record indoors and began dancing in each other’s arms, the flushed-faced Dr. Shiraishi helped Mrs. Kakioka Kureko up and took brisk steps.

When an autumn-announcing voice would drift in from nowhere, everyone’s expressions suddenly tensed.
Kakioka Shūrō immersed himself in his work and lectures as if he had forgotten how he once trembled under Mrs. Yukiko’s threats.
Yet each time he did so, Mrs. Yukiko’s presence clung to him like a shadow—one couldn’t help but call it tragic.

Kakioka Shūrō began constructing a strangely shaped makeshift shack in a corner of his estate's vacant lot approximately thirty days after the notorious secret meeting incident.
The makeshift shack had very few windows, and even those were positioned two meters high—shaped like prison cell ventilation ports—as if making only token concessions to illumination.
Once the shack had roughly taken shape, workers from the electric company arrived next. They erected large poles, strung thick wires, installed imposing insulators, and finally attached a jet-black square transformer.
Once that was completed, thick felt, asbestos, and cork boards were brought in and used to thoroughly triple-layer all six planes of the shack’s interior—whether walls, ceiling, floor, or entrance door.
Upon entering the room, there was a strangely musty, choking stench—as if one had stepped into the warehouse of a spinning mill.
Yet despite this, breathing wasn’t particularly labored—perhaps because the electric devices were functioning, skillfully replacing the indoor air with fresh outside air.
Once the triple-layered walls were completed, several machine stands were carried in, followed by a truck arriving laden with instruments carefully fitted into protective frames.
A young man who appeared to be an engineer directed workers to install all those instruments over roughly three days. Then, just as Kakioka Shūrō returned from his lecture engagement, the engineer provided him with detailed explanations before bidding farewell and departing.

What on earth was about to begin in this room now?

According to what Kakioka explained to Ms. Kureko, having received a grant from the association this time, it had been decided that Ryojun University’s Tokyo-dispatched research team would primarily conduct research on acoustics. Since they needed to build a laboratory but couldn’t find suitable land, Kakioka had decided—as part of social contribution—to lend out a portion of his estate.

Moreover, given that Kakioka himself had long held a strong fascination with science, it was said he would take this opportunity to begin learning through elementary-level experiments.

Kureko did not harbor even a shred of doubt regarding Kakioka’s words.
The fact that she could keep her husband—who spent most of each day outside the home—confined to a corner of their estate, albeit in a laboratory, felt somehow reassuring; when considering how she could now offer him heartfelt home-cooked meals with attentive care regarding his diet, she felt profoundly happy.

However, to describe matters truthfully, this was nothing less than the experiment born of Kakioka Shūrō’s utterly bizarre conspiracy being on the verge of commencement.
Now, as for that experiment—

Earlier, Kakioka Shūrō—who had been threatened by Mrs. Yukiko and had his abortion proposal rejected—subsequently feigned abandonment of the matter. Yet inwardly, he felt precisely the opposite; upon learning of her profound attachment and tenacious schemes at that time, he resolved that no matter the cost, he must carry out the abortion.
The method must neither endanger Mrs. Yukiko’s life nor fail to be utterly imperceptible to her.
That was an extremely difficult method.
Indeed, whether such a method even existed—that too was considered.
However, Kakioka—who held firm belief in the considerable capacity of his own intellect—thought that surely some splendid method would be found.

At times he would shut himself in libraries, scouring through countless books; at other times, he would discreetly attend medical scholars’ lectures and roundtable discussions, listening intently as he searched for that method.
He considered methods like intoxicating the lady with fine wine, destabilizing her senses through opium-laced water pipes, or performing the abortion procedure in the euphoric haze immediately after she had secured peace of mind through ecstasy—but Mrs. Yukiko was always so neurotically alert, never easily slipping into unconsciousness, so it was predicted that even if he attempted the surgery, she would instantly notice the accompanying pain midway through.
Once Mrs. Yukiko detected that the surgery had been performed, everything was certain to hurtle into hell.
By all means, it had to be carried out in an utterly natural manner so that Mrs. Yukiko would remain completely unaware—never sensing it was either a surgical procedure or the poison he possessed.
Even for him—endowed with great wisdom as he was—this was no mystery easily solved.

But he, fortunate as he was, finally discovered an extremely effective method.

It was a method utilizing object vibrations.
Take an empty drops can, remove its lid, pierce a small hole in the bottom, thread a string through it, hang the can upside down, and strike it sharply with something like a pencil shaft.
The can would then produce a disproportionately loud sound for its size—emitting a deep Gwaan—that continued resonating for some time.
Striking it harder yielded an even louder sound.
Yet its tone remained constant.
This occurred because box-like or jar-shaped objects possess one fixed frequency determined by their dimensions—since frequency fundamentally corresponds to timbre itself—meaning striking the same vessel always produced identical tone quality despite volume differences.

Take another empty drop can, secure it with string as before and hang it upside down, then strike the first can with all your might.
When you do this, a loud sound will immediately occur; after producing the sound, grip the can with your hand to stop its vibrations.
If you listen carefully at that moment—despite having stopped the vibrations of the struck can—wouldn't you hear a similarly toned sound resonating quite strongly?
Now, where was that sound coming from?

If one carefully observed, they would find that the drop can that had been hung with a string afterward and left unstruck naturally emitted a deep resonant tone.
This was called the resonance phenomenon—when two vibration bodies shared the same frequency, striking one caused vibrations to travel through the air and stimulate the other.
Since that stimulus was fundamentally identical in nature, it received the same effect as being struck by a rod, causing it too to begin resonating.
At first glance, it appeared that when one resonated, the other began ringing as if naturally responding in kind.
If the vibration body that had been separately and gently hung were of different dimensions, there would be no effect.
For example, using something like emptied large cans would not work.
In other words, those that did not share the same frequency would not work.

After attaching a few rice grains or similar particles to the later-hung can and then striking the first can with a sharp blow that produced a deep resonant tone, the later-hung can naturally began vibrating immediately—of course—but upon observation, the can's walls vibrated so intensely that eventually, the adhered rice grains detached and tumbled down below.
Using this device to carry out an abortion was Kakioka Shūrō’s scheme.

The uterus was an eggplant-shaped hollow vessel.
Considering this structure, it followed that the uterus must possess a specific frequency corresponding to its dimensions.
Fetuses at two, three, or four months of gestation resembled rice grains clinging to a drop can—adhering to the uterine wall through the most tenuous of connections.
By injecting a separating agent into the uterus via syringe, the chemical would corrode the soft membrane linking fetus to uterine wall until it sloughed away—thereby accomplishing abortion.
This mechanical principle formed the method Kakioka Shūrō sought to implement: by directing intense vibrations of precise frequency at Mrs. Yukiko's body from without, he would make her uterus convulse violently until the fetus conceived between them detached cleanly from the uterine wall and expelled outward—thus achieving complete abortion.

Having discovered this uniquely grotesque and cruel method, Kakioka Shūrō leaped about the room in exultation.
He had sacrificed nearly 20,000 yen, used Ryojun University's research team as a front to construct a soundproof chamber in one corner of the estate—a room that would not leak acoustics beyond the laboratory—and among the many installed instruments, had preemptively purchased one that produced such conveniently tailored sounds by determining the frequency based on uterine dimensions.
The installation of the machine had also been completed.
He had not forgotten to have the machine designed for his ease of operation—stripping away all complex mechanisms so that a single firm press of a button would unleash those terrifying vibrations.
However, the person who created this machine had no knowledge whatsoever of his diabolical intended purpose.

Now all that remained was for him to find the right words to lure Mrs. Yukiko into this laboratory.
It required no particular effort.
He only needed to say one thing to Mrs. Yukiko: “Mrs., that laboratory we’re letting Ryojun University use has been completely finished—by this evening, all the desks and equipment will be fully installed.”
The rest would be left to Mrs.’s understanding.

“Oh—”
“Well then, I’ll drop by late tonight for a little while. That’s alright with you, isn’t it?”

She was certain to say.
And indeed, everything unfolded precisely according to that scenario.
When the clock struck seven, the laboratory door resounded with rhythmic knocking.
Kakioka—who had been lying in wait alone within—twisted his lips into an unsettling smirk upon hearing the sound, then deliberately rose from his chair.

When Kakioka opened the door from inside, Mrs. Yukiko entered, lurching forward as if pouncing while staggering.

“Are you alone?”

Kakioka asked, just to be certain...

“Yes, I’m all alone.”
“Why... Oh, it’s about Mrs. Kakioka.”
“As for Mrs. Kakioka, I hear she’s currently attending to some work.”

After her voluble chatter, Mrs. Yukiko flashed a vulgar wink like a prostitute.

“Mrs., what’s the matter tonight? Your complexion seems a bit off.”

“Oh, is that so.
“Is it that bad?”

“Aren’t you feeling unwell?”

“Now that you mention it, my head has been stinging since this morning. I suppose my very core must be completely exhausted.”

“You must take care. Please return home as early as possible tonight and rest.”

“Yes, thank you, Shūrō.”

With those words, the lady gently brought her hand to her forehead. She had unwittingly fallen prey to the suggestion born of Kakioka’s scheme.

Then Kakioka guided the lady around on a full circuit of the room.
The final place where they stood side by side was before that acoustic device said to emit strange vibrations.
After explaining the fabricated purpose of the experiment, Kakioka placed his right hand before the button and his left hand on the handle of the device that could alter vibrations within a narrow range.
This was a mechanism designed so that even if there were some miscalculations, by turning this handle to alter the frequency, he could still achieve that dreadful objective.

“Well then, I’ll try producing that sound now. It’s a rather peculiar tone... but if you listen attentively, there’s something distinctly pastoral—a simple acoustic quality to it.”

Kakioka Shūrō, savoring pleasure akin to a cat tormenting captured prey, methodically advanced through the steps of that bizarre experiment.

“Oh fine then, just get on with it already.”

Unaware that dreadful curse-claws descended upon her own body, Madame Yukiko awaited the experiment with restless anticipation.

“I’ll begin now.
“Look, this is how it works…”

Kakioka pressed the button firmly with the tip of his right hand.
A dull, low-pitched drone with broad resonance abruptly filled the room—a sound that seemed remarkably feeble yet paradoxically induced, upon prolonged listening, a sensation as though some reptilian creature lurked within one’s abdomen, writhing to life and gnawing at internal organs with sharp fangs from within. Even Kakioka found himself unsettled by this visceral unease.
But thinking that stopping the sound too readily would render the long-sought abortive effect insufficient, he endured with every ounce of patience and kept his fingertip pressed against the button.

“Somehow, it’s such a plain sound.”

“How about this pastoral tone...”

“Pastoral? It sounds more like moles squirming under the ground.”

Having said that, the lady began walking smoothly away from the experimental platform.
Kakioka sighed in relief and removed his fingertip from the button.

The lady walked straight to the corner but soon returned directly toward Kakioka.

“Hey, don’t you have a toilet in this room?”

The lady frowned slightly and bent one hand to press firmly against her lower abdomen.
Upon hearing those words, Kakioka felt his head spin and instinctively clutched the corner of the experimental platform where his fingertips had landed.
And, unable to utter a word, he mutely pointed to the opposite corner.
There, on a black horizontal wooden placard, the word “TOILET” was inscribed in white enamel.

Mrs. Yukiko walked toward the toilet door as if drawn by some force.

Kakioka opened his mouth like a monstrous maw, thrust all five fingers of his hand between his teeth, and stood there quivering uncontrollably with an expression too complex to discern whether he was laughing or crying.

With a bang, the toilet door slammed shut violently, and Mrs. Yukiko staggered out unsteadily.
Her face was deathly pale, her lips a purplish hue.
A glance revealed the lady was dangling something from her right hand.

“Shūrō,” called Madame Yukiko’s hollow voice.

“...”

“Your prayers have finally been answered.”
“Our precious little one—look, I’ll even let you meet him.”

Something lukewarm struck Kakioka’s cheek with a slap, grazing past his ear as what resembled a handkerchief—about a handful’s worth—fluttered down.

“Hah—!” Kakioka wiped his cheek with his palm, then reflexively thrust the hand smeared with that tepid substance before his face.
Ugh! Blood! Blood! Blood! A glistening crimson clot.

Kakioka crumpled to his knees and collapsed on the spot, losing consciousness.

How much time had passed?
When he regained consciousness, Mrs. Shiraishi was nowhere to be seen in the room.

(Anyway, it worked.
Completely opposite—no matter what happens, they’d never realize I made the lady undergo an abortion through acoustic vibrations.
Once the fetus was expelled, it’d all be mine.
Hey Kakioka, this was your victory!
Go on, laugh loudly and joyfully!)

Though he had thus encouraged himself, even when trying to raise his voice, his chest felt constricted, leaving him unable to act as intended. When he regained awareness, something resembling a pumpkin seemed lodged around the area below his throat, inducing nausea. The moment he thrust his jaw forward to expel it, an abrupt itch deep in his throat triggered a hacking cough—and something warm came gushing out before his knees.

"This backfired!"

Kakioka Shūrō saw clearly into the depths of his chest—depths invisible to ordinary eyes. Violent coughs assailed him one after another, each time spewing fresh blood in thick gushes. The pool of blood before him visibly doubled, then tripled as it spread across the floor. Alongside this came an indescribably repulsive lethargy that overwhelmed his senses. Then his entire body began trembling violently—no matter how desperately he tried to restrain his arms, the shaking refused to cease until at last he hallucinated the entire laboratory swaying like a building caught in an earthquake. Scorching fever erupted from every pore of his body.

“Galloping tuberculosis!”

He collapsed onto the floor while clearly diagnosing his own sudden turn.

4

Ah, Kakioka Shūrō—what an ill-fated man he was!

Though he had finally succeeded in the abortion procedure for Madame Sow through painstaking efforts, that very night he was suddenly struck by massive hemoptysis, rapidly developed a fever exceeding forty degrees, and became bedridden.
His consciousness had already grown quite hazy, but he insisted to his family that they increase the oxygen flow and that under no circumstances should they summon Dr. Shiraishi, his attending physician.
Why had he refused the renowned Dr. Shiraishi?
Had he rejected the doctor even at the cost of his life?

Regarding that matter, Kakioka ultimately added no further words and passed away two days later.

Here lay something that could not be witnessed without tears.
It was that Mrs. Kakioka—who had only just welcomed the spring of her twentieth year—now found herself interred in the formal role of a widow in ink-black mourning robes, forced to wring ceaseless tears from days and nights steeped in nirvanic desolation and endless regret.

The only one who could assist Mrs. Kakioka—who had few relatives—in all matters was me.
Both Dr. Shiraishi and Mrs. Yukiko suddenly became distant and rarely visited Mrs. Kakioka.
I comforted Mrs. Kakioka, taking the place of my deceased friend Kakioka—no, with loyalty many times over what he could muster.
Mrs. Kakioka too came to rely on me as if I were her late husband's brother in all matters, consulting me without keeping even inheritance arrangements secret.
That Mrs. Kakioka’s heart and mine had gradually drawn closer together was something, I believe, anyone would acknowledge.

One morning in late autumn, two months after Kakioka's death, as I envisioned receiving a joyous pledge from Mrs. Kakioka's lips on that very day, I brought my newly tailored three-piece suit out to the veranda. Determined to don it quickly and visit Mrs. Kakioka at her Azabu residence immediately—without waiting until afternoon—I resolved to set out right then.

I undid my sash and flung my garments backward, then leapt onto the sun-drenched veranda wearing nothing but a loincloth. The faint warmth of radiant heat soaked into my bare back as I took a deep "Uun" breath and closed my eyes.

“Mr. Machida Kyōta.”

Suddenly, there was a sense of someone approaching from the direction of the garden.
When he opened his eyes against the glare, a young gentleman in his thirties—facing him with a benevolent smile—called out my name.

“I am Machida, but who might you be?”

I too found myself drawn into the laughter and cheerfully replied.

"I'd like to have a brief word with you..."
"I'm a private detective by profession."

With that, the young gentleman proffered a business card.
When I took it up and read:

Private Detective Homura Sōroku

I thought about tearing this damned card to pieces and tossing it away.
But betraying none of that in my expression, I said:

“I’m unaware of your business, but do take a seat. Let me just put on proper clothes…”

With that, I tried to dash toward the inner room where my garments lay—

“Move and you’ll receive a bullet.
A souvenir through your flank.”
The young man stated coolly.

When I glanced back, a Browning pistol glinted in the gentleman’s right hand.

Still fully nude, I gently shifted the new Western-style suit aside and settled onto the veranda.

“You must have prepared yourself by now—as Kakioka Shūrō’s murderer—but I shall arrest you all the same. The warrant is properly prepared here.”

The private detective who called himself Homura pushed a white piece of paper toward me.

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” I said. “Kakioka was my closest friend—a brother to me. Aren’t there plenty of suspicious people—the women around him and quack doctors and such?”

“I don’t take orders from you on such matters. If you wish to know, I’ll tell you—I’ve been conducting every possible investigation for over a month now at Mrs. Kakioka’s request. At this critical juncture, thrashing about will only tarnish your false reputation. Comport yourself properly.”

“You are the man who attempted abortions through acoustic vibrations, who skillfully destroyed lesion cavities in tuberculosis patients using those same vibrations—not only reactivating their disease but plotting to sever their very lives. Moreover, without ever breathing a word of such matters to Mr. Kakioka, you focused all your attention solely on inducing his wife’s abortion—never once cautioning him that his own cavity would generate violent vibrations to destroy the connective tissue and end his very life. Naturally, it was all your evil scheme as a physics teacher. You skillfully concealed that fact, didn’t you?”

“You deliberately schemed to shift responsibility for Mr. Kakioka’s death onto his attending physician Dr. Shiraishi while making it appear as though the doctor’s wife had harmed him out of jealous passion.”

“But all your machinations were far too crude for professionals like us.”

“Moreover, you made one crucial blunder.”
“Despite your meticulous precautions, you forgot to dispose of Mr. Kakioka’s diary.”
“Perhaps you had read it, but seeing he’d avoided even the slightest mention of that matter in his entries, you felt completely reassured.”

However, this I did not overlook—that crucial line. It was an article stating that Mr. Kakioka had taken two X-ray photographs—one frontal and one lateral—at the home of Nisshō Life’s insurance physician in early autumn this year.

“X-ray photographs are taken from the front or back—they’re never shot from the side. That was precisely what I found suspicious,” I said. “Then I visited Nisshō Life’s insurance physician and—after some intense questioning—discovered you had skillfully bribed both that insurance company’s agent and the physician to take those unconventional X-ray photographs, then taken away the original plates. Machida Kyōta—you meticulously calculated the volume of the large cavity in Mr. Kakioka’s right chest using frontal and lateral measurements.”

“As a result—and how ironic it was—it was discovered that Mr. Kakioka’s tubercular cavity was nearly equal in size to Dr. Shiraishi’s wife’s uterine cavity.”

“You were aiming to kill two birds with one stone—using the ignorant Mr. Kakioka’s own hands to bring about his self-destruction while simultaneously clutching that beautiful Mrs. Kureko into your grasp.”

“The perceptive Mrs. Kakioka, having valiantly thrown herself into your embrace of her own accord, promptly requested that I uncover the truth once she had gained sufficient conviction.”

“Now then, the bribed insurance agent and physician are in my company behind this fence.”

“If you harbor any honorable desire for reconciliation with Shūrō, I can immediately arrange a reunion. How does that suit you?”

“In the meantime, I would like to conduct a house search to discover evidence—the calculated scraps of paper from you, the Vibration Demon; the life insurance policy you made Mr. Kakioka believe he had failed to obtain, under which you contracted an enormous sum; and those documents proving you defrauded the massive death benefit payout after murdering Mr. Kakioka. Do you have anything you wish to tell me?”

The man who called himself the young detective Homura Sōroku had mercilessly exposed my true identity.

Then, two full years passed, with trial after trial following one another, until recently, when even the Supreme Court’s judgment was concluded, and now all litigation procedures were finally brought to a close.
And then I began writing this clumsy confession, but strangely enough, tonight—when I have finally finished writing—seems to be the last night I will experience.
Since I had noticed that fact from the day before, I felt no particular fear.

As this night heavy with memories quietly dawns and parts, he must leave this prison cell and ascend the high gallows.