The Graveyard Apartment (22 page)

Not long after that, the noises began. They were macabre, disturbing, and distinctly unpleasant. The unsettling cacophony included the whistling of a high wind, which seemed to be traveling along the electrical cables on the ceiling; a sort of discordant screech, as if an unmusical child were fooling around with a violin and bow, randomly scraping at the strings; a squishy slapping, as of a throng of giant reptiles thrashing around in the murky mire of a swamp; and the stealthy murmuration of an immense number of voices, whispering secretly among themselves. Teppei was standing perfectly still, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. His T-shirt was now completely untucked from the waistband of his jeans, and the icy wind lifted it into the air, exposing his slightly flabby midriff.

“Stop it! Somebody help us, please!” Sueo cried. He and Mitsue were clinging tightly to each other, and without letting go they plopped down onto the floor and sat there, looking stunned. The wind stole under the gathered skirt Mitsue was wearing, causing it to billow so high that her baby-blue granny panties were plainly visible.

The adrenalized stress was making Teppei feel lightheaded. He couldn't believe that he was still able to remain upright, with his feet on solid ground, and it occurred to him that this must be what people meant when they talked about losing it. Psychologically, he was already at the end of his tether.

I think I owe Misao an apology,
he thought.
It's starting to look like she was right about the basement all along. This is definitely not a normal place.

Mitsue had been clutching the flashlight, which had somehow found its way from Sueo's hands back into hers, but now she let it fall to the floor with a clatter. Teppei felt weak at the knees, and he realized that he was physically unable to move. In the darkness, something was squirming and wriggling. This was no hallucination born of fear; some amorphous, hazy, unimaginably huge
entity
was moving toward them, slowly and inexorably.

“
Gaah!
No!” Mitsue shrieked, while Sueo could only gasp in terror.

A sudden flurry of ice-cold wind whipped noisily around them, making Teppei feel as though he had suddenly lost his hearing. Some rough force seemed to be trying to knock him off his feet; he staggered around for a moment, then collapsed onto the floor. He felt someone or something striking him repeatedly on the head, and then the world went black.

 

12

May 17, 1987 (evening)

An hour had passed since Teppei set out on his reconnaissance mission. Misao felt upset after he left, so she had busied herself with tidying up the dinner dishes before settling in front of the television with Tamao to watch a home drama about the troubled relationship between a young wife and her shrewish mother-in-law. At the same time, doubling down on her determination to improve her mood, she was leafing through an enticingly illustrated article titled “Three-Minute Recipes,” in a cooking magazine. The voice of the ingenue playing the part of the new bride began to grate on Misao's ears, and she turned down the volume.

Tamao had been happily playing with her teddy bear, but now her eyelids began to droop. When she got drowsy, Tamao had an unconscious habit of vigorously rubbing her ears. Tonight she had already kneaded one ear to the point where it was visibly inflamed.

Misao gave her daughter a light tap on the bottom and said, “I know you're sleepy, but you need to wait till Papa comes back, okay? You always take a bath with Papa on Sunday night, isn't that right?”

“Do I really have to take a bath?”

“You worked up a sweat today, didn't you? You'll sleep better if you take a bath before you go to bed.”

“I don't want to. I'm already super sleepy.”

Misao looked at the clock on the wall.
How long are those three planning to stay down in the basement
,
anyway?
she wondered.
Does this extended stay mean they found something?
Even so, it would have been nice if Teppei had taken a minute to run back upstairs and give her an update.

Craning her neck to peek into the hallway, Misao caught a glimpse of Cookie lying asleep on the floor with both forelegs stretched out in front. When Misao turned back to look at Tamao, her eyes were drawn to the TV screen. It was filled with an extreme close-up of the face of the actress playing the young wife, but the image was wavering and shimmering, almost as if it were being projected on the ripply surface of a body of water. In addition, the screen was streaked with a veritable blizzard of diagonal lines.

Misao jumped up from the sofa and changed the channel. The picture looked the same on every station: quivery and obscured by slanting lines. “That's funny,” she said. “Tamao, something's wrong with the TV.”

Tamao showed a brief flicker of interest, then immediately went back to sleepily massaging her ears. Misao tried fiddling with the picture adjustment button. Just like the other time when there had been some kind of electronic interference, the image on the screen continued to waver and sway.

Misao felt an unpleasant sense of foreboding. Ignoring Tamao, who was becoming increasingly fretful, she went into the kitchen. Lifting the receiver of the telephone on the counter, she punched in the Tabatas' number. It rang and rang, but no one picked up.

Misao's forehead broke out in prickly beads of sweat. The basement was basically an open space, and it wasn't all that large, so how could it possibly take this long for three people to conduct an inspection?

When she checked on Tamao, she saw that her little daughter had already begun to doze off, right where she was. Misao grabbed a large cushion and stuck it gently under Tamao's head. Then she went to the nursery and fetched a light terrycloth coverlet to drape over the sleeping child. Tamao's face still wore a resentful expression, but her breathing was already deep and regular. Clearly, she was sound asleep.

A moment later, when Misao headed toward the front door, Cookie got up and followed her. “No, you can't come,” Misao said, shooing the dog away. “Stay. Stay, okay?” Cookie slunk off in disappointment as Misao locked the door behind her and stepped into the outside corridor.

The light on the panel above the elevator showed that it was still on “B1”: the basement level. With one shaky forefinger, Misao pressed the call button. Normally, she would have heard the usual
ga-tonk
as the elevator began to move, but now? Nothing. Not a sound, and no sign of movement.

“Oh, no, this can't be happening again,” Misao said aloud. She could almost feel the color draining from her face. On the day when Tamao was injured while playing in the basement, the elevator had refused to budge. Maybe the three explorers were holding the door open at the basement level, for some reason. But why? What possible reason could they have for doing that?

Misao hurried over to the entrance to the emergency staircase, unlocked the door, and sprinted down the stairs.
It's just like that other time,
she thought. The air in the stairwell was lukewarm, and when she took a deep breath she could feel its tepid stickiness spreading through her lungs.

As soon as she reached the ground floor, Misao checked the elevator panel. “B1” was still lit up, and there was no indication that the car had moved at all. As she hit the call button over and over, to no avail, Misao's mouth filled with saliva that seemed, in her stressed-out state, to have the metallic taste of blood. She walked over to the caretakers' apartment and rang the doorbell. Nobody appeared. She tried twisting the doorknob, but the door was locked.

Weak-kneed, shaken, and fighting back tears, Misao went back to the emergency staircase and galloped upstairs. She was panting like a thirsty dog, and she could have sworn she heard her kneecaps knocking together. Her heart was pounding so violently that she felt it might explode.

When Misao got back to her own apartment, she found Tamao still fast asleep on the sofa, breathing softly through her mouth. The television's picture quality had deteriorated to the point where it was nearly impossible to make out the images on the screen.

Misao switched off the TV and plunged toward the telephone, in a desperate motion that was more like falling forward than running. She surprised herself by remembering Eiko's phone number right away.

“Hello?” Eiko answered on the first ring, in a voice filled with eagerness. It was almost as if she had been waiting for Misao to call. “Um, listen,” Eiko said after Misao identified herself, “has your TV been acting strange?”

“Yes, very strange,” Misao replied. “The picture's all wavy and blurry.”

“I know, right? Same here. It's really weird. There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with the set itself, though.”

“I'm actually calling about something else,” Misao said. “My husband went to the basement with the Tabatas, and he hasn't come home. They said they were going to take a look around, but it's been more than an hour since he left. I started to get worried, so I thought I'd pop down and check on them, but the elevator's stuck on the basement level and I can't get it to move.”

“Really?” Eiko's voice rose in concern. “That's just like what happened the day Tamao was injured! Are you sure it won't move?”

At that point Eiko apparently passed the receiver to her husband. “Mrs. Kano? Is something wrong?” he asked hesitantly.

“I don't know,” Misao replied. “The elevator seems to be stuck on the basement level. It's been more than an hour since my husband went down there, and he still hasn't come back.”

“Hang on a minute,” Mr. Inoue said, and there was a clattering thump as he put the receiver down. Misao could hear the familiar sound of the couple's rambunctious children running around in the background.

After a few moments, Eiko's husband returned. “You're right—the elevator's out of order again,” he said. “I couldn't get it to move at all.”

“What should we do?” As she spoke, Misao could feel hot tears welling up in her eyes. Her vision blurred, and her throat felt constricted from the effort of holding back the sobs that kept trying to escape.

“Do you have the number for the elevator maintenance company?” Mr. Inoue asked.

“No, I don't. I think the Tabatas are the only ones who have it.”

“In that case, maybe we should call the police. Or would it be better to phone the fire department? I really don't know what to do. What a mess!”

Mr. Inoue evidently handed the phone to his wife, because Eiko spoke next. “Listen, Misao,” she said urgently, “why don't you just come down to our place, to start with? I'll be waiting by the emergency door, so you can take the stairs. Oh, what about Tamao?”

“She's sound asleep.”

“Well, in that case, it's probably best not to disturb her. Just be sure to lock your apartment door behind you, okay? I'm leaving right now, so…”

“On my way,” Misao said. Grabbing the key ring, she flew out the door. The elevator was just as she had left it: stalled on the basement level.

She charged headlong down the emergency staircase, and as she approached the fourth-floor landing, she saw the door opening inward. Eiko was standing in the doorway, her face unnaturally pale. Mr. Inoue was beside her, a long drink of water next to his diminutive wife. As Misao entered the hallway Tsutomu dashed up, calling “Auntie!” and took hold of her hand.

“I think calling the police is the best plan,” Eiko said. “Even if we could figure out how to contact the maintenance company, they probably wouldn't be answering the phone. I mean, today's Sunday, right?”

“The thing is, we don't know for sure that anything has happened to them. They may be perfectly fine down there,” Misao said, but she shivered involuntarily as she spoke.

Mr. Inoue gave his head an emphatic shake. “That's probably true, but the fact remains that we need to do something,” he said. “If we just sit around worrying, the elevator could remain out of order for the rest of the evening, and that would be inconvenient for the tenant on the fifth floor who works the night shift and comes home late.”

“This is no time to be talking about a minor inconvenience to someone we hardly know,” Eiko said grumpily. “We need to focus on making sure that Teppei and the Tabatas are safe.”

Just then Kaori wandered out of the Inoues' apartment and looked around uneasily. Misao took a deep breath and tried to muster a reassuring smile. Tsutomu, meanwhile, was banging on the call button, over and over. “It's broken for sure, Mama,” he announced.

“Yes, I know,” Eiko said shortly, making it clear that Tsutomu's attempt to be helpful was more of a nuisance. She laid a sympathetic hand on Misao's arm.

Eiko's husband pressed one ear against the elevator door. When his father died, Mr. Inoue had immediately taken over the family factory, which his dad had owned and operated for decades. Misao knew that he and Teppei weren't too far apart in age, but Mr. Inoue always struck her as quite a bit older. She thought that might be because his male-pattern baldness was already well under way, especially toward the back of his head. Misao had only met Eiko's husband on a couple of occasions before tonight, and this was the first time she had ever gotten a good look at him from behind.

I'll have to tell Teppei about this later,
she thought. She would say something like, “Mr. Inoue seems to be losing his hair, and he looks a lot older than you in other ways, too.” She could imagine Teppei's comical, mock-boastful response: “Hey, I'm still in the prime of manhood, you know. Looking at other men will just make you realize what a spectacular specimen of youthful masculinity I really am.”

Please let him be okay,
Misao prayed.
I'd give anything to be able to have that kind of bantering conversation again. Yes, if Teppei does come home safely, there are so many things I want to say to him. And so many important things we need to talk about, together.