Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Three-Story House

The three-story house stood midway up the slope.
Across from it stretched ancient cedars from a Zen temple, their branches arching over the road to brush against a brick toilet below.
Why would someone build a toilet halfway up such a slope?
The thought lingered uneasily—a gaslight glowed mournfully beneath its eaves.

The first floor of the three-story house began with a store that doubled as a sundries shop, followed by an artificial flower shop, with a greengrocer next to it. The entire second floor was always without tenants, and the rain shutters tended to remain closed. Occasionally, the rain shutters would open only when the artificial flower shop crafted large floral pieces.

On the north side of the third floor lived a man named Matsuoka, a reporter for H Newspaper, but the room next to his remained closed and had never been opened... Not only that, but the rain shutters of the adjacent room were also kept shut. Occasionally there would be tenants, but no sooner would a cart arrive than they would move out within two or three days. The landlord was a bathhouse in the immediate backstreet, but this time had decided to rent it out only on Sundays to soldiers from the division—though it seemed the soldiers had stopped coming after about three times. It was an utterly ordinary rental house without any particular rumors, yet no one seemed able to settle there.

At the end of the first floor, the greengrocer formed the corner of a three-way intersection, serving as the entrance to the pleasure quarter.
The artificial flower shop was situated at the top of the slope, where a basement had been constructed and used by the greengrocer.

Matsuoka of H Newspaper lived alone and would immediately begin his side work of drawing charcoal portraits from photographs upon waking late each morning. Due to his professional duty of accepting commissions for portraits of deceased division officers, his room overflowed with painted likenesses. Enlarged portraits of pallid war-dead officers hung in the dim northern room—whenever the artificial flower shop housewife entered during his absences, she would hurriedly retreat from the space.

Whenever Matsuoka went out, he meticulously wrapped one portrait at a time in a furoshiki cloth before departing. He invariably wore a frock coat and black yamagasa hat. At the slope’s summit stood an imposing iron bridge. To any observer’s assessment, H Newspaper reporter Matsuoka Tadashi carried himself with such distinction that he might have been mistaken for a district court’s chief judge—or possibly someone of even higher station.

After completing his rounds at police headquarters and city hall, he would write his articles and return home by four o’clock.

He didn’t particularly have anywhere to go; after returning from the newspaper office, his work consisted of little more than painting portraits.
The artificial flower shop and sundries shop were also quite popular.
His meals were prepared at the artificial flower shop, though only dinner.
The artificial flower shop housewife often heard Matsuoka’s footsteps descending from the third floor for his nightly needs—he seemed to be working at his easel late into the night.
Matsuoka would quietly muffle his footsteps while descending from the third floor to the second before entering the toilet right beside the basement storage.
At such times, without fail, the housewife would call out from near the storage room to check on him.

“Are you still working?”

“I was just thinking of stopping soon.
What time do you think it is now?”

Despite firmly holding a watch, Matsuoka said this and ascended the long staircase with light, clicking footsteps.
When combined with his newspaper income, his portrait painting earnings seemed to amount to a considerable sum, but since he never went out for leisure, it was said he likely had substantial savings.
Neither did anyone come to visit him, nor had he ever gone out for dinner in the evening for days on end.

He was extremely fastidious, with maintaining his appearance seeming to be his sole indulgence.
He always wore his black yamagasa hat properly, carried a Western-style cane under his arm, and walked across the bridge; yet his unnaturally pale skin and emaciated shoulders stood out conspicuously, his figure casting a shadow in the morning sun appearing peculiarly desolate.

Only once did a female guest who had taken a rickshaw from the station late in the evening alight in front of the artificial flower shop, and the housewife saw that the woman’s complexion—due to exhaustion from being jostled on the train and the agitation of her hasty journey—had left her fingertips trembling violently.

“Normally, it would already be around the time he returns home, but if you would go up and wait, he should be here shortly.”

The housewife said this and looked at the female guest’s pale face as she fidgeted nervously; yet its very pallor gave her features a strangely delicate charm.
From her demeanor, she was by no means a jaded woman, and even if married, she seemed to have had little contact with men for only about six months at most.
The housewife intuitively thought she was a woman connected to Matsuoka, but since only about four months had passed since Matsuoka had moved in, she felt she had grasped something.
“Anyway, there’s no need to wait long.”

The female guest said in a flustered voice.
“But would it be all right if I waited?”
“Well—”

The housewife gazed at the female guest's face.

"But surely you know? If you know..."

"Yes, I do know that, but—"

The female guest said ambiguously.

“Then it shouldn’t be an issue, should it? Please do go up.”

The housewife guided the female guest up the long staircase to the third floor.

“Are you part of his household? I was under the impression you were his wife, but…”
The housewife said this while stealing a glance at the woman, who responded in a hushed voice.

“There are certain circumstances, you see…”
“Hmm…”

The housewife opened the door to Matsuoka’s room.
Unfinished portrait paintings were eerily hung on all four walls.
The housewife tidied the area and had the female guest sit down.

“Good night.”

After the housewife left, the female guest sat vacantly in a dazed manner, gazing absently at the portrait paintings until quiet sobs had begun to escape her before she knew it.
And for a long time, she remained seated just as she was.

As the wind began to howl through the cedars of the temple across the way, there was not a single sound in the room where light still lingered.
The woman was about to adjust her facial features with a hand mirror when there came the creaking sound of something ascending the stairs near the second floor.
Matsuoka Tadashi usually walked with the quietest of steps, but today his footsteps seemed to carry a deliberate emotion, and as he took a few paces, he appeared to be deep in thought.

The woman casually took note of those footsteps, but within the span of a mere second, her skin turned ashen pale.
When she then heard footsteps on the third-floor stairs, her fingertips—still clutching a small bundle—began trembling bit by bit.
Her expression held suffocating tension, her very skin appearing crisp like paper.

When the footsteps reached the top of the third-floor stairs, the woman—her eyes dazed as if on the verge of collapse—lurched forward from suppressed agitation and finally braced herself by placing her hands on the tatami mat.
The footsteps stopped at the sliding door, but it opened smoothly as if handled nonchalantly.
The woman flinched as though slashed across the shoulder, broke into a cold sweat, and jerked her head upward.

Matsuoka Tadashi, apparently having learned about the woman at the entrance, stood coldly composed and silent before walking to the wall to remove his jacket. The woman kept silent with her face bowed. Matsuoka’s expression showed clear displeasure as he slid open the front shoji—violently, excessively violently. Beyond lay the temple grounds where red mourning streamers hung stagnant in the twilight haze for some commemorative occasion. Matsuoka took off his trousers, changed into a kimono, hung a hand towel from his waist, and descended the long staircase once more. His slippers made sharp clacking sounds like a leather strop being struck repeatedly.

The woman remained with her face bowed.
It seemed she was bowing her head with all her might.
Matsuoka entered, a cigarette still in his mouth, and confronted her in an extremely sharp tone.

“When did you get here?”

The woman’s nape twitched.
Then, when she finally lifted her face, she spoke in a hoarse voice—so overcome that no proper sound would come out.

“I arrived approximately thirty minutes ago.”

“Thirty minutes ago? —Why would you think that way? I never summoned you here…”

“There was something I wished to discuss, which is why I came so suddenly…” The woman cut off her words. “I did think it was improper.”

“If you thought it improper, why come? I’m busy.”

“That’s already…”

“Then what’s this business you have? I want to hear that next—”

“There’s nothing particularly new to discuss… but it’s also rather difficult to put into words…”

“What are you talking about?”

Matsuoka chewed on the cigarette butt and discarded it, then grew impatient with evident irritation and clicked his tongue.
The woman’s eyes were clouded by a nervous timidity that seemed apologetic, and she suddenly found herself unable to speak.
In her flustered state, her ashen-pale loveliness appeared withered and tenderly limp.
Matsuoka’s gaze cruelly trampled that withered gentleness as he glared.

“I made it clear you were to wait until I contacted you, yet you took it upon yourself to come here—I can’t stand that. My work had finally taken shape and was about to go well, and here you are again to get in the way.”

“I did think I would surely be scolded, but it has been so very long since I last had the chance to meet you…”

“So… you ‘haven’t had the chance to meet me’?”

Matsuoka clicked his tongue again and crushed the woman’s resolve.
“You come here with such half-baked complaints—do you think I can stand that?”
“If you had at least given prior notice before coming, that would be one thing—but to show up so brazenly takes some nerve.”

The woman remained silent, her face bowed.
Her neck—unlike her ashen complexion—was white and extended with a quiet plumpness, neatly arranged.
However, Matsuoka Tadashi’s eyes did not linger on such a neck; rather, he looked down at her with hatred.

“So what do you plan to do now, going ahead and coming up here on your own—”
Matsuoka barked, urging her to leave immediately.
Then, suddenly remembering, he said, “You sent the rickshaw back, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I was at a loss about what to do, but if it’s the rickshaw, after having the chance to meet you…”

“You’re probably going to say you can call again.”

“Oh, I thought so.”

“After all, it seems you have no capacity for patience.”
“Anyway, you probably haven’t eaten yet…”

Matsuoka made to move downstairs.
His countenance looked all the more enraged.
The woman hurriedly tried to stop Matsuoka.

“I had my meal on the train, so please don’t concern yourself.”
“If you haven’t eaten yet, please do.”

“I’m fine. Besides, I have work to finish tonight.”
“I have something I promised to deliver by tomorrow, you know.”

The woman reluctantly said, “Then I’ll take my leave, as I must be disturbing you…”

However, the woman’s face held a placid calmness devoid of any malice.

“And where are you going to go, all alone from this point onward…”

“There must be an inn nearby, so I shall go there—though staying here would be inconvenient.”

“I see. So you intend to come back here tomorrow too, then?”

“Um…”

The woman had been enduring all this time but could no longer hold; her eyes welled up with tears.
And immediately she bowed her head and pressed a handkerchief to her face.

“Ah, I can’t stand this—that’s exactly it.”

Matsuoka Tadashi said this in a withered, sallow voice, then suddenly plunged his fingers into his hair and tousled it wildly.
“Everything’s become deadline-driven work—starting tomorrow, it’ll all be ruined again.”
Matsuoka said this, then thudded down onto his back and let out a strange cry.
This was Matsuoka—unlike his usual self in that pretentious frock coat.

“In that case, I shall take my leave, as I was unaware of anything…”

Having said that, the woman fidgeted as she picked up the package, then pulled out a box of sweets from inside and shoved it toward the wall.
Matsuoka quietly rose and softly closed the dark front shoji.
From the temple grounds came the sound of insects merging into a unified drone.
Matsuoka did not even glance at the box of sweets.
With a cold, shears-like gaze, he kept scrutinizing the woman in a domineering manner.

“So you’re going to walk there, then—”

“I shall find a rickshaw outside and take it. Might there be a rickshaw stand nearby?”

Even that minimal phrasing effort was meant to appease Matsuoka, but he seemed wholly insensible to such nuances.

“When you cross the bridge, rickshaws loiter about.”

“Then I must have imposed.”

“—”

Matsuoka tried not to look at the woman as she slid open the fusuma and left, but when she descended the stairs, he strained to hear her footsteps—creaking yet almost too quiet.
Despite this, when the footsteps faded, he stepped outside the fusuma and peered cautiously toward the stairs.
The stairs at the entrance of the dark corridor had no light, and since the several rooms along the corridor were all open, there was nothing resembling proper illumination.
Moreover, the entire second floor stood open.
None of the six rooms had a single electric light lit.—However, the woman had indeed descended to the second floor and seemed to be talking with the artificial flower shop housewife downstairs.
Matsuoka listened intently to that, then returned to his room and spent time in a daze.
Before long, he began to smear charcoal onto the canvas.
It was a portrait of a military officer’s wife, but as he drew while enlarging the photograph, he couldn’t help but feel it had grown vertically elongated without his noticing.
Matsuoka adjusted the position of the electric light.
With that working out, he hadn’t noticed the passage of time.

"But…"

Matsuoka suddenly turned ashen and pulled the charcoal away from the canvas.
He had indeed heard her voice speaking with the housewife when she left after descending the stairs—this thought had repeated in Matsuoka’s mind, yet now his brush refused to advance.
Matsuoka felt through his trouser pocket and checked his watch: it had stopped at eight minutes past eleven.
When he shook it, the ticking resumed.

The flow of people before the temple had dwindled, and the electric light from the artificial flower shop no longer cast its usual glow on the street.
It must have grown very late; he marveled at how swiftly time had slipped by.

Matsuoka groped his way down the stairs, went from the second floor to the ground floor to relieve himself, but the housewife, in a sleepless voice,

“Mr. Matsuoka?”

she said.

It felt like a forest.

“Oh…”
Matsuoka asked this out of habit.

“Around what time?”

“Well, I heard the clock strike twelve, so it must be around one now.”

Matsuoka, hearing the voice behind him, began climbing the stairs but wondered if that much time had really passed and thought about how quickly time was moving. However, he usually returned by four o'clock, but today he had stayed out until five-thirty. He recalled this and thought, *Is that so?*

When he reached the top of the second floor, the glass rain shutters facing the street were faintly lit by the residual light from the iron bridge’s lamps—as he always saw—but tonight they felt distinctly brighter; then he thought he saw something shadowy move across the lower glass panes toward the northern room but dismissed it as a common occurrence and foolishness.
But it was a shadow of something with substance.
To put it hyperbolically, it might have been a human shadow—or, to go further, the way it veered northward in retreat, the sluggishness of its movement struck even Matsuoka as peculiar.

“Surely not…—”

Matsuoka thought that as well.

He began to climb creakingly up to the third floor.

When he entered his own room, he vividly recalled for the first time that the shadow from earlier had produced a faint sound.
It was a kind of scraping sound—as if something had been forcefully stepped on and dragged across the fine, gritty particles accumulated on the slope of the corridor, particles that couldn’t quite be called dust or sand.
It was a faint sound—less a noise than something akin to pulling the topmost sheet from a stack of several layers of Western paper.

"That room is open, but it seems bundles of artificial flower branches and paper molds are piled up there."
"Then perhaps that was the sound of something rubbing against..."

Perhaps the bundles they had strained to stack during the day had sagged from the humidity overnight, causing part of them to collapse—Matsuoka realized such things could happen.
Yet even allowing for that—what could that shadow-like thing have been, moving broadside with bowed head as it passed by? When Matsuoka considered this, he felt a momentary yet violent chill pass through him—as if fifty or sixty needle tips had pierced his collar—and experienced a tremor.

He slid open the fusuma and peered nervously into the outer corridor, but there was naturally no sign of anything changed.
Up until now, Matsuoka alone had felt no sense of strangeness or eeriness on this third floor.
Each time various other people moved in and out, it had been almost comical.
The greengrocer owner and the artificial flower shop housewife were most relieved that Matsuoka was there.
Matsuoka himself had never once experienced anything strange.
You could say there wasn’t even a single instance—

But tonight—Matsuoka realized his persistent agitation stemmed from the woman’s visit—he had never once experienced such urges to check the corridor, such chills, such pounding in his chest, or such parchedness in his throat. Each time he heard the various rumors about this three-story house from others, Matsuoka had rather scoffed at them.

As Matsuoka was closing the fusuma door and about to enter his room, he heard a dull thud. It was a sound coming from the stairway entrance between the second and third floors—apparently caused by something propped up suddenly falling and resonating through the floorboards. He thought it must have been on the second floor, on the corridor floorboards. There had never been such a sound at this hour; it was too loud to be a rat.

Matsuoka suddenly recalled the broad, shadowy form that had crouched and fled sideways earlier.

"The second floor is also at the northern end—it must be directly beneath my room."

Matsuoka shuddered again.

Matsuoka got into bed but seemed unlikely to fall asleep.
He thought he needn’t have dismissed the woman so brusquely earlier—needn’t have been *that* brusque—but at the same time, he found himself recalling how she had always suffered from nausea aboard ships, jostled for eight hours that day (her sallow skin, devoid of even a hint of redness beneath its surface, had made it clear she’d endured torment on the vessel today too), though he hadn’t meant to dwell on it.
That woman must have gone home just like that, but for Matsuoka, it didn’t sit well at all that she had dejectedly left within barely thirty minutes, even after meeting the housewife downstairs like that.
However, Matsuoka thought he had to feign as much brusque coldness as possible, driven by his desire to distance himself from the woman.

In the midst of drowsy half-sleep, Matsuoka suddenly felt as though someone stood beyond the fusuma. When he sat up, filled with terror he had never once known before, he peered beyond the sliding door.
Someone stood there breathing; at minimum, it felt as though a body of substance—solidly pressing against the room from beyond a single fusuma panel while steeped in darkness—had created a silence so stifling it choked the air.

“Who’s there?”

Matsuoka shouted in a strained, yellow-tinged voice and violently slid open the fusuma, but no one stood there.
Matsuoka stepped out into the corridor.

At the stairway entrance from the second floor, something like a dim glow hovered hazily.

"That light comes through the small window—I never usually notice it.
Anyway, I should make a round of all third-floor rooms. I won’t sleep unless I do."

As Matsuoka inspected each room while walking about, the deceptive chill of late autumn seeped shudderingly into his very flesh—his body trembled uncontrollably. Countless times spiderwebs brushed against his face, and each time Matsuoka felt as if icy water had been dashed upward from his groin.

When Matsuoka stepped onto the upper landing of the stairs, suddenly, the artificial flower shop housewife’s voice pierced sharply from the stairway entrance.

“Who is there?”
“At this hour—”

It was a voice that sounded as though she had bolted upright from bed to shout.

“It’s me.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Actually, it’s just that… I’m checking around.”
The downstairs was enveloped in a forest-like stillness.

“I’ve also had this sense that there were footsteps on the second floor since earlier—I’m wide awake and can’t sleep at all. But then you were still up, so I finally felt reassured, but…”

In a voice as though she had bolted upright—loud and pointedly accusatory—the housewife declared:
"But upon reflection, those footsteps were on the second floor, not the third. Those were not your footsteps at all."

Matsuoka shuddered.

"I thought it was the second floor too—right below my room. Like someone walking... There should've been artificial flower supplies piled there. I heard what sounded like a collapse around eleven o'clock—"

The housewife seemed to have immediately taken up position at the stairway entrance below.

"Oh yes—it was around eleven o'clock, wasn't it? I heard that noise too. But the artificial flowers are just paper molds—there's nothing there that could collapse like that."

“How strange.”

Matsuoka was on the verge of mentioning that shadowy figure but, for some reason, found himself unwilling to speak of it.

“How strange. It was such a distinct sound, I tell you.”

The housewife made no move to go up to the second floor as she said this.

“There’s never been anything like tonight before—it might just be a rat—”

“Well, that might be a rat, but even so—”

Matsuoka trembled uncontrollably from the cold, his knees chattering so violently they seemed to clash against each other.
The housewife said.

“Would you mind taking a quick look around while you’re at it? I simply can’t stop this shivering.”

“No—I’d rather not.”

Matsuoka didn’t feel like going down to the second floor.
The draft seeping through the rain shutters—passing through from below the stairs that gaped like a pitch-black maw—grew even colder as it swept past his sides.

“But it’s probably nothing—not worth checking around—”

Matsuoka tried to return to his room, but the housewife spoke again.

“It’s probably nothing, but would you mind taking a quick look around?”

Matsuoka stood frozen in silence.

The sound of insects hummed quietly.

“Then I can sleep peacefully too, you see.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Please don’t say that and just look around.”

“It’s nothing. There haven’t been any noises since then, right?”

Matsuoka strained his ears.

“That may be so, but on a night like this, checking around would be better—it’ll allow peace of mind.”

“Why don’t you check around? It’s freezing here.”

“But you’re a man, aren’t you? To be so timid…”

Matsuoka truly had no desire to go down to the second floor.
Only—for some reason—he felt this oppressive discomfort, sinking into despondency until merely contemplating it made him feel physically emaciated.

“I’m going to bed now.”

“Please don’t say such things and just come down to check…”

“I’d really rather not,”
“Then would you mind making the rounds together? That would be best.”
“What wretched luck,”

Matsuoka began to slowly and hesitantly descend the stairs to the second floor.
From below, the housewife was also making her way up slowly and hesitantly.

“But it’s better to check around than lie awake all night, don’t you think?”

The housewife and Matsuoka met up on the second floor, and both stopped.
The light from the street’s rain shutters appeared to float dimly like paper lanterns, and Matsuoka was cold.

“It was indeed the second floor.”

The housewife repeated herself and stared fixedly at Matsuoka’s face.
Matsuoka remained standing and had no inclination to go first.
The face of the housewife holding the candle, illuminated in half-light, appeared greasy like a wrathful demon.

“It’s gotten cold, hasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Every unused room felt gritty, and the sensation of silverfish seeming to crawl into their heels was unsettling.

In the six-tatami room that served as a storage shed, a cricket flew across the floor—even this made Matsuoka startle.
“How did it manage to crawl into a place like this?”
The housewife stared uneasily at the cricket, though in the candlelight a large dark shadow moved along with it.
“It was below your room, wasn’t it? Where the noise came from?”

"I think so too, but..."

Matsuoka disliked entering that room for some reason.
Moreover, an inexplicable unease had been churning ceaselessly within him since earlier, his entire body trembling so violently he worried it might be noticed by the housewife.
In the hallway, the housewife suddenly spoke with a sarcastic expression, staring at Matsuoka.

"Madam sleeps quite soundly, doesn't she?"

"Madam?"
Matsuoka turned pale with shock.

“Didn’t she come here this evening?”
“Isn’t that lady your wife—a beautiful and kind woman?”

“That person should have returned. Something came up shortly after that.”

“No, she hasn’t returned. Her belongings are still properly downstairs.”

Matsuoka’s head reeled unsteadily, and he felt a vertigo devoid of tangible sensation—as if the back of his skull had been cleanly severed.

“Is that real?”

Matsuoka trembled violently, glaring at the housewife’s face.

“But she hasn’t come downstairs even once since then, you see.”
“I noticed it even during dinner, but I thought it was rather odd, you see.”

“Actually…”
Matsuoka said in a hoarse voice.

“She left shortly after that—I had some business to attend to—but is it true about the woman’s footwear being here?”

“In that case, go down to the lower floor and see for yourself.”
“Even so, if she had returned… I’ve been downstairs the entire time, so I should have noticed.”

“Anyway, I’ll go check the footwear—”

Matsuoka, turning pale, hurried down the stairs and saw the pair of woman’s footwear—rattan-covered with pale purple cords—left at the entrance, which was undoubtedly the same footwear he had seen when she returned that evening.
Their position also seemed not to have changed in the slightest.

“She hasn’t returned yet—if that’s the case, where could she be?”

Matsuoka was trembling violently as he climbed the stairs, and there at the top stood the housewife, her face pale with the late hour’s gloom.

“They were there, weren’t they?”

“They were there.”

“Did Madam truly return, or…”

“She certainly returned. As for thinking I heard a woman’s voice downstairs—that must have been a mishearing.”

Now that he thought about it, Matsuoka realized the voice hadn’t sounded like a woman’s at all.

“Then where could she be? How strange.”

“If she hasn’t returned…”
Matsuoka turned cold.

“Did you have some kind of argument?”

The housewife said with an uneasy expression, staring intently at Matsuoka’s face while her lips quivered slightly with some premonition.

“Well… you see, there are somewhat complicated circumstances.”

“But that’s strange.”

The housewife, standing in front of the artificial flower tool room, suddenly—

“I shouldn’t say this, but… if there was an argument…”
The housewife’s throat quivered as if parched.
“Was she feeling depressed? Or has she always been a gloomy person, I wonder?”
“She was somewhat like that.”

The housewife said they should check this room first.

“This spot here is directly below your room.”

She repeated this, but Matsuoka, his heart in turmoil and anxiety surging, couldn’t bring himself to open the room’s door.
The housewife abruptly slid open the fusuma door, but inside lay only silence, with nothing out of the ordinary.
Matsuoka, relieved, involuntarily said.

“I was worried that woman might have done something rash out of impatience—I couldn’t rest easy until I checked this room.”
“Even so, where on earth could she have gone? It seems she put her geta on the wrong feet.”

“We can only think that way—if we assume she isn’t anywhere here.”

Matsuoka let out a single yawn.

“Let’s rest. This is utterly absurd.”

“But it’s just as well.
If something were to happen, the aftermath would be so troublesome, you see.”

“Surely not… If it’s someone like her…”

Matsuoka sneered.

“You shouldn’t treat such a beautiful woman so harshly. Were you together for a long time?”

“There were some circumstances that led us to part ways, but she keeps showing up like that, and it’s unbearably bothersome.”

“But since it must be difficult for you alone, why don’t you stay together?”

Matsuoka remained silent, laughing derisively through his nose.
The two were standing on the stairs leading to the third floor when the housewife suddenly froze and pulled Matsuoka’s wrist from behind.
Matsuoka turned around in surprise, and the housewife pointed downstairs.
By the candlelight, Matsuoka caught sight of something trailing a long shadow, its form narrowing from behind the stairs.
The woman’s face was turned away, hidden.
She remained motionless, frozen in place.

“That’s her.”

The housewife trembled violently.

“So she didn’t return after all.”

Matsuoka turned as pale as paper, looked down at the rigid housewife at his feet, and cast his gaze up toward the ceiling at her elongated form.

“I did something terrible.”

Matsuoka muttered to himself in a voice that sounded like an apology for the first time, but his body had stiffened and refused to move.