by Hap Hapner

Ghostwater had crept up from the river during the night packing itself thick
between every rock and tree. Screams, my sister’s, had roused me from a
fitful sleep, setting me to wander, torch in hand through the moonless night.
The ghostwater mocked the light - my feet barely visible as I descended the
path, deeper into the ghostwater’s grasp.

It filled my lungs, a turbid, humid vapor seeking to possess me. Its talons
wrapped my chest and head tightening with every step. What was that? I
spun, torch fire whooshing.

In fear’s grip, I longed for a screech from that feisty purple jay or the “thunk”
of the woodpecker’s beak on a log – anything normal, anything clear,
anything daylight.

I knew these bottoms well. They lay flat and wide along the Chikugo river,
welcoming and friendly during daylight. On a clear night, under a full moon
and a salted sky, danger lurked here in the hunting ground. But the moon’s
time of month had come; it had fled.

“Sister, is that you?” The ghostwater swallowed my voice. I stood stalk still.
Listening. No response. The river gurgled. The ghostwater swirled and
ungulated, beckoning.

In blindness, I inched forward in the false comfort that the big cats and
wolves, who hunted by other senses, could not see me. With every step the
ghostwater thickened, pressing in, clawing the skins that I clutched tightly
against the night air. I heard the heavy pad of ghost paws on the ground. I
froze in place.

A husky, yet high-pitched scream rang out, stones clattered down toward the
river. I broke into a trot abandoning all fear of phantoms and hunters in the
night. “Izanami!”

Rushing river sounds filled my ears, mildew assaulted my nose, the
preternatural ghostwater thickened, its clammy swirls pawing my face.

The new day began to dawn; the ghostwater filled my vision like an odorless
smoke. A fading whimper. I moved along the slippery stones careful not to fall ​into the unseen torrent not three feet away. I held the torch low to the
ground. Blood. “Izanami!”

I rushed forward.

A red fox lay bleeding; its neck snapped its innards pulled out.

Confused, I stepped backward into the ghostwater – my only refuge. But it
belonged to them – the ghosts. She had come to play, enticing my pursuit.
Izanami died long ago. Her ghost had lured me.

The ghostwater roiled and churned. Heavy pads galloped, closing swift and
sure upon me.

Then maybe seven feet in the air I saw it. Those eyes. Descending toward me.
Those kawatora eyes. Those kawatora teeth. Eyes and teeth surrounded by
buckskin fur.

Never again will I hear the jay squawk or the woodpecker peck.

The roar. The bite. The tearing of flesh. The ghostwater hid them all as the
kappa feasted upon my organs.

I am now become a ghost – one with my guilt – one with my sister.


Notes:
1) Izanami is the female deity of both creation & death, the Shinto mother goddess.
2) Kawatora means river tiger and another name for kappa, a Japanese legendary creature.

Hap Hapner delivers software projects by day and writes speculative fiction by night. He has lived and worked on 4 continents accumulating cultural experiences that inform his writing. Working in Japan and “acquiring” a Japanese son-in-law and grandson along the way have given him a particular interest in Japanese storytelling and mythology. He lives with his wife, Camilla, in North Carolina, USA.
Hap loves putting together stories that amuse, educate, and transport readers to other places, times, and realities.
Read other short stories and essays at: www.haphapner.com
Follow him on Twitter @HapHapner

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