The Haunted Girl
by Anne Hansell
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I’m Isabella Miyamoto; people have called me “The Haunted Girl” since I was sixteen.
It was from a night when I was studying for high school mid-term exams. My parents had hounded me about my schoolwork day and night, and the Japanese American education philosophy demanded that we keep our nose to the grindstone. I did as they told me, but when I got very tired, I decided to take a walk in Sherwood Park near my house. It was about seven thirty, and a full moon had already risen. Sherwood Park had a small, thick forest. Honeysuckle scented the night, and a gentle wind stroked my hair. Owls hooted. It was exactly what I needed to relax. Footsteps behind me broke the calm. I tensed, alert, and spun around. A young man in hoodie and sweatpants stood behind me. Moonlight shone on the right side of his face, revealing a tattoo of a hawk’s head. He was a member of the Hawk-Heads, the most notorious gang in town. Not a good sign. According to social media, trouble sometimes visited Sherwood Park, and rumors had it that young girls went missing during weekends whenever the Hawk-Heads wanted “dates.” I wanted to run away at the sight of him, but my feet wouldn’t move. The man came right up to me, then grinned. Fear sped up and down my spine. “You’re a very pretty girl,” he said. “You’re coming with me, chick.” He grabbed my arm and pulled, but I finally found my strength and resisted. The more I struggled, though, the tighter his vise-like grip became until I yelped in pain. A long, thin arm with a hand the size of a baseball mitt shot out from the thick branches of the tree where we struggled, and another hand grabbed the guy by the arm, pulling him against the tree trunk. The gang member shouted curses that would shock even my Grandpa. He pulled out a switchblade and stabbed the arm, but no blood gushed out. |
I screamed. Vampire! But, then, even vampires would surely bleed, wouldn’t they? What kind of monster was this creature in the tree?
A flash of light caught my attention. Another arm descended; this one held a long samurai sword, sharp, and gleaming in the moonlight. Grandpa’s words came to mind: “When you see samurais fighting with their swords, you better run away, lest they cut your head off by accident.”
Time for me to go.
While running, I took my smartphone out and called 911. I told the dispatcher, “There’s an injured guy in Sherwood Park. No, I didn’t see what exactly happened.”
Once home, I rushed upstairs to my bedroom where I closed the curtains, turned the lights off, grabbed my old baseball bat and sat on my bed, waiting. I stayed awake until the wee hours, but eventually fell asleep.
The next morning, I was pouring my favorite cereal into a bowl when my mother came in looking concerned. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Police officers are at our door asking for you. They have some questions.”
With my parents, Grandpa, and my older sister Sara watching on the sofa with anxiety, Detective Justin Kincaid said, “Miss Isabella Miyamoto, please tell me exactly what you saw in the Sherwood Park last night.”
I told him what the gang member said to me, except that I revised some details, like seeing several shadowy guys grab him from behind and hearing someone’s voice telling me to run home right away. “As I was running away, I didn’t look back to see what happened.”
Detective Kincaid raised his thick eyebrows and looked at me with skepticism. “Even under the full moon last night, you couldn’t see their faces?”
“No. Their hoodies hid their faces. If you line them up at your station, I can’t identify them at all. They could be anyone.”
The detective leaned toward me. “The victim has cuts all over his body. The coroner said the nature of the wounds indicated samurai swords. Did you see any one of them carrying a sword?”
I nodded. “One of them held up a sword before the gang member let my arm go, and then he started fighting them. I ran away.” I felt bad about lying to the police, but I couldn’t tell the truth without risking being declared insane.
“I may come back to ask you further questions.” I had no choice but to nod in agreement.
After the police left, Grandpa, looking concerned, indicated me to follow him to his room. He sat on his bed and told me to close the door before gesturing me to sit on a nearby chair. “Isabella, please tell me about what you really saw last night.”
I told him everything.
Grandpa’s face winced. “That’s what I thought. You just saw Yosei arms.”
“What’s that?”
“Yosei is a Japanese fairy.”
Japanese fairy? Images of cartoonish fairies – all feminine, in gossamer dresses with fluttering, sparkling wings flashed through my mind. I asked, “Like those in the fairy tales?”
Grandpa shook his head. “No, No. You’re thinking of European fairies. Their Japanese counterparts are different – they wear kimonos or samurai armor, and they have large wings. But they don’t grant wishes or cast spells. Instead, they protect certain people.”
I cocked my head to the right. “But why me?”
Grandpa smiled. “A very good question. Centuries ago, in Japan, a wicked lord hated a certain Yosei clan and hired a black arts magician to get rid of them. But our samurai ancestor jumped in to kill them both before they could cast a single spell. The Yosei folks were very grateful and swore they’d watch and protect our family forever.”
I frowned. “But we’re in America. Aren’t they supposed to live back in Japan?”
Grandpa laughed. “When we moved here, they followed us. They’re living in Sherwood Park, near our house now.”
After the incident with the Hawk-Heads, my parents forbade me from taking long evening walks in Sherwood Park, fearing that the gang members might seek me out.
At my high school, I heard rumors that the Hawk-Heads started hunting for those who had injured one of their own.
Fear tightened my chest. I didn’t have my samurai ancestors’ fighting skills to defend myself, and I couldn’t afford to get in trouble because I was preparing for college entrance exams.
In the girls’ gym locker room, I heard gossip that the Hawk-Heads had found a witness to what happened at Sherwood Park. I worried if that person recognized my face and knew my name? Thinking about it made my stomach lurch.
For a week, I kept quiet and concentrated on my classroom assignments. At lunchtime, I made sure to eat with my friends. I walked with them between classes and on my way home after school.
On Friday evening, Sara dropped me off at a friend’s birthday party.
An hour later, I was horrified to see that several Hawk-Heads arrived.
Several gangbangers, all dressed in hoodies, jeans and sneakers were stopping girls and looking at their faces. I suspected they might be looking for me.
Scared, I squeezed through hordes of teens, away from the gangbangers, only to run into a huge guy in a gray hoodie who exclaimed, “You’re Isabella Miyamoto – I finally found you! Let’s go outside – my homeboys want to talk with you.”
My heart sank. He dragged me through chatting kids and out the French doors.
On the patio, I faced eleven Hawk-Heads, who glared at me with contempt. The big guy still held my sweatshirt’s collar and my left arm, preventing me from running away. Their leader stepped forward. He held a switchblade close to my face.
“Who killed one of our brothers?” He snarled.
My throat tightened. My mouth was dry. I couldn’t answer.
“No answer? Well, I guess you want your pretty face cut up, then.” The knife came centimeters close to my cheek when an arrow suddenly pierced deep in the guy’s hand, forcing it away from my face. The knife flew out of his hand, and he dropped to his knees, his face twisting in pain. He rocked back and forth, moaning, and clutching his bleeding hand with his good hand.
Everyone spun. Seven small men in samurai clothes stood in the yard, long swords, shining bright under the moonlight. Huge butterfly-like wings fluttered from their backs.
“Who are these weirdos?”
“Yosei – Japanese fairies – and friends of my family for centuries.” Relief flooded through me to see my guardian fairies again.
The guy holding me howled and drew his switchblade to stab me, but one Yosei jumped faster. He cut my assailant’s arm off at elbow with his sword.
The Hawk-Head let me go. Other gang members attacked the Yoseis, stabbing at them furiously. The fairies grinned and swung their weapons, preparing for battle.
I dashed back through the French doors, but hordes of partygoers were rushing outside to see the fight, blocking me. I pushed my way against the tide. I had to get out of there.
When I reached the front door and pulled it open, I faced several policemen. One of them grabbed my arm. Great. I couldn’t get away and was going to get in trouble with my parents again.
At the police station, Detective Justin Kincaid sat beside me, reviewing a tape, taken from the party house’s security camera.
It showed the Yosei creeping out from nearby bushes and the ensuing fighting.
The time stamp indicated the fight lasted for seven minutes.
When it was over, three Hawk-Heads lay dead, four badly wounded, and the rest had fled. The Japanese fairies sheathed their swords and flew away before the first of the police officers came out in the yard.
The detective stopped the tape and turned to me, his head shaking with disbelief. “Now I understand why you lied to me about what really happened in Sherwood Park. I don’t blame you; I can’t use this as evidence in the courtroom. They’d laugh me out of my job.”
“What are you going to do with this now?” I asked.
Detective Kincaid rubbed his temples with his hands. “The homeowners agreed to erase this from their security camera system – they don’t want to get certified as lunatics and lose their jobs. As for myself, I’d put the case aside until it’d be classified as a cold file. You’re free to leave now.” I thanked him before departing.
Back at school, several of my friends told me that there were rumors that the Hawk-Heads called me “The Haunted Girl” and warned other street folks to stay away from me. Since that night, when I was out for a walk, I sometimes saw the Hawk-Heads scurrying away from me as if I were some kind of plague. I would chuckle and just keep walking.
Ten years later, after graduating from Harvard, I applied for a position of forensic pathologist. I got an interview with a crime scene supervisor named Franklin at a local police station. I felt butterflies in my stomach when I went there. I watched Franklin checking my application papers and my background check file, and he looked up.
“A very interesting nickname you have – ‘The Haunted Girl.’ At first, I thought it as a joke, but when I talked with several people in the department, they told me that you’re the person that the different gangs fear the most, and they’d go long way to avoid you. How come?”
I sighed. “It’s a long story, but you won’t believe me.”
He waved his hand away. “Ah, I don’t like long stories – they bore me to death. But I think my good friend, Chief Jackson, can use you, now and then, for dealing with suspects in his Gang-busting unit.”
Since then when I’m called to help with questioning gang members. The Hawk-Head suspects blanch at the sight of me, and their hands tremble before babbling to the detectives. For this, Franklin tells me the higher-level folks consider me the most useful resource in their arsenal in the war against gangs.
Anne Hansell is a third generation Japanese-American, and on her mother’s side, is related to General Mitsunari Ishida who lost the Battle of Sekigahara to Tokugawa. She's written many short stories since she was a child, and is a member of California Writers’ Club and Online Writing Workshop for SF, Fantasy and Horror. While visiting relatives in Tokyo, she visited Ueno Park, which her uncle later informed her has a notorious reputation as a haunted place. She lives with her husband (a New England gentleman) in Southern California.
A flash of light caught my attention. Another arm descended; this one held a long samurai sword, sharp, and gleaming in the moonlight. Grandpa’s words came to mind: “When you see samurais fighting with their swords, you better run away, lest they cut your head off by accident.”
Time for me to go.
While running, I took my smartphone out and called 911. I told the dispatcher, “There’s an injured guy in Sherwood Park. No, I didn’t see what exactly happened.”
Once home, I rushed upstairs to my bedroom where I closed the curtains, turned the lights off, grabbed my old baseball bat and sat on my bed, waiting. I stayed awake until the wee hours, but eventually fell asleep.
The next morning, I was pouring my favorite cereal into a bowl when my mother came in looking concerned. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Police officers are at our door asking for you. They have some questions.”
With my parents, Grandpa, and my older sister Sara watching on the sofa with anxiety, Detective Justin Kincaid said, “Miss Isabella Miyamoto, please tell me exactly what you saw in the Sherwood Park last night.”
I told him what the gang member said to me, except that I revised some details, like seeing several shadowy guys grab him from behind and hearing someone’s voice telling me to run home right away. “As I was running away, I didn’t look back to see what happened.”
Detective Kincaid raised his thick eyebrows and looked at me with skepticism. “Even under the full moon last night, you couldn’t see their faces?”
“No. Their hoodies hid their faces. If you line them up at your station, I can’t identify them at all. They could be anyone.”
The detective leaned toward me. “The victim has cuts all over his body. The coroner said the nature of the wounds indicated samurai swords. Did you see any one of them carrying a sword?”
I nodded. “One of them held up a sword before the gang member let my arm go, and then he started fighting them. I ran away.” I felt bad about lying to the police, but I couldn’t tell the truth without risking being declared insane.
“I may come back to ask you further questions.” I had no choice but to nod in agreement.
After the police left, Grandpa, looking concerned, indicated me to follow him to his room. He sat on his bed and told me to close the door before gesturing me to sit on a nearby chair. “Isabella, please tell me about what you really saw last night.”
I told him everything.
Grandpa’s face winced. “That’s what I thought. You just saw Yosei arms.”
“What’s that?”
“Yosei is a Japanese fairy.”
Japanese fairy? Images of cartoonish fairies – all feminine, in gossamer dresses with fluttering, sparkling wings flashed through my mind. I asked, “Like those in the fairy tales?”
Grandpa shook his head. “No, No. You’re thinking of European fairies. Their Japanese counterparts are different – they wear kimonos or samurai armor, and they have large wings. But they don’t grant wishes or cast spells. Instead, they protect certain people.”
I cocked my head to the right. “But why me?”
Grandpa smiled. “A very good question. Centuries ago, in Japan, a wicked lord hated a certain Yosei clan and hired a black arts magician to get rid of them. But our samurai ancestor jumped in to kill them both before they could cast a single spell. The Yosei folks were very grateful and swore they’d watch and protect our family forever.”
I frowned. “But we’re in America. Aren’t they supposed to live back in Japan?”
Grandpa laughed. “When we moved here, they followed us. They’re living in Sherwood Park, near our house now.”
After the incident with the Hawk-Heads, my parents forbade me from taking long evening walks in Sherwood Park, fearing that the gang members might seek me out.
At my high school, I heard rumors that the Hawk-Heads started hunting for those who had injured one of their own.
Fear tightened my chest. I didn’t have my samurai ancestors’ fighting skills to defend myself, and I couldn’t afford to get in trouble because I was preparing for college entrance exams.
In the girls’ gym locker room, I heard gossip that the Hawk-Heads had found a witness to what happened at Sherwood Park. I worried if that person recognized my face and knew my name? Thinking about it made my stomach lurch.
For a week, I kept quiet and concentrated on my classroom assignments. At lunchtime, I made sure to eat with my friends. I walked with them between classes and on my way home after school.
On Friday evening, Sara dropped me off at a friend’s birthday party.
An hour later, I was horrified to see that several Hawk-Heads arrived.
Several gangbangers, all dressed in hoodies, jeans and sneakers were stopping girls and looking at their faces. I suspected they might be looking for me.
Scared, I squeezed through hordes of teens, away from the gangbangers, only to run into a huge guy in a gray hoodie who exclaimed, “You’re Isabella Miyamoto – I finally found you! Let’s go outside – my homeboys want to talk with you.”
My heart sank. He dragged me through chatting kids and out the French doors.
On the patio, I faced eleven Hawk-Heads, who glared at me with contempt. The big guy still held my sweatshirt’s collar and my left arm, preventing me from running away. Their leader stepped forward. He held a switchblade close to my face.
“Who killed one of our brothers?” He snarled.
My throat tightened. My mouth was dry. I couldn’t answer.
“No answer? Well, I guess you want your pretty face cut up, then.” The knife came centimeters close to my cheek when an arrow suddenly pierced deep in the guy’s hand, forcing it away from my face. The knife flew out of his hand, and he dropped to his knees, his face twisting in pain. He rocked back and forth, moaning, and clutching his bleeding hand with his good hand.
Everyone spun. Seven small men in samurai clothes stood in the yard, long swords, shining bright under the moonlight. Huge butterfly-like wings fluttered from their backs.
“Who are these weirdos?”
“Yosei – Japanese fairies – and friends of my family for centuries.” Relief flooded through me to see my guardian fairies again.
The guy holding me howled and drew his switchblade to stab me, but one Yosei jumped faster. He cut my assailant’s arm off at elbow with his sword.
The Hawk-Head let me go. Other gang members attacked the Yoseis, stabbing at them furiously. The fairies grinned and swung their weapons, preparing for battle.
I dashed back through the French doors, but hordes of partygoers were rushing outside to see the fight, blocking me. I pushed my way against the tide. I had to get out of there.
When I reached the front door and pulled it open, I faced several policemen. One of them grabbed my arm. Great. I couldn’t get away and was going to get in trouble with my parents again.
At the police station, Detective Justin Kincaid sat beside me, reviewing a tape, taken from the party house’s security camera.
It showed the Yosei creeping out from nearby bushes and the ensuing fighting.
The time stamp indicated the fight lasted for seven minutes.
When it was over, three Hawk-Heads lay dead, four badly wounded, and the rest had fled. The Japanese fairies sheathed their swords and flew away before the first of the police officers came out in the yard.
The detective stopped the tape and turned to me, his head shaking with disbelief. “Now I understand why you lied to me about what really happened in Sherwood Park. I don’t blame you; I can’t use this as evidence in the courtroom. They’d laugh me out of my job.”
“What are you going to do with this now?” I asked.
Detective Kincaid rubbed his temples with his hands. “The homeowners agreed to erase this from their security camera system – they don’t want to get certified as lunatics and lose their jobs. As for myself, I’d put the case aside until it’d be classified as a cold file. You’re free to leave now.” I thanked him before departing.
Back at school, several of my friends told me that there were rumors that the Hawk-Heads called me “The Haunted Girl” and warned other street folks to stay away from me. Since that night, when I was out for a walk, I sometimes saw the Hawk-Heads scurrying away from me as if I were some kind of plague. I would chuckle and just keep walking.
Ten years later, after graduating from Harvard, I applied for a position of forensic pathologist. I got an interview with a crime scene supervisor named Franklin at a local police station. I felt butterflies in my stomach when I went there. I watched Franklin checking my application papers and my background check file, and he looked up.
“A very interesting nickname you have – ‘The Haunted Girl.’ At first, I thought it as a joke, but when I talked with several people in the department, they told me that you’re the person that the different gangs fear the most, and they’d go long way to avoid you. How come?”
I sighed. “It’s a long story, but you won’t believe me.”
He waved his hand away. “Ah, I don’t like long stories – they bore me to death. But I think my good friend, Chief Jackson, can use you, now and then, for dealing with suspects in his Gang-busting unit.”
Since then when I’m called to help with questioning gang members. The Hawk-Head suspects blanch at the sight of me, and their hands tremble before babbling to the detectives. For this, Franklin tells me the higher-level folks consider me the most useful resource in their arsenal in the war against gangs.
Anne Hansell is a third generation Japanese-American, and on her mother’s side, is related to General Mitsunari Ishida who lost the Battle of Sekigahara to Tokugawa. She's written many short stories since she was a child, and is a member of California Writers’ Club and Online Writing Workshop for SF, Fantasy and Horror. While visiting relatives in Tokyo, she visited Ueno Park, which her uncle later informed her has a notorious reputation as a haunted place. She lives with her husband (a New England gentleman) in Southern California.
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