Reek, page 8
Or not.
Mai didn't want to go over. A part of her, that clever part in all of us that speaks with the voice of reason, that ancient thing that some call instinct, thrummed inside. Warning her. Yet, the girl called in a way that hurt, striking a chord in Mai that yearned for resolution, yearned to help the child. Wrap her up in her arms, small, gaunt face nuzzling against her collarbone. This girl needed her; silent whispers imploring Mai to cross the distance. Venture closer. Save the day.
She stood next to the last door in the hallway, the final one needing to be checked. A dry, creaking noise started up, building into a roar.
The door grew out, warping into a mouth; the frame the lips, the door paneling the teeth. It rose over the girl, moving to swallow her whole, down in one bite. Mai wanted to go, the voice of reason becoming faint static. The girl raised her arms, asking to be held. She couldn't see the child's eyes; hair too thick.
The door groaned, mouth starting to come down around the girl. Mai could picture her eyes, mind filling in the image; terrified, innocent little girl eyes. Her whispering grew, her voice familiar.
Is that? No, can't be...can it?
Mai stepped forward.
Yes!
She was going to do it, going to save the girl. Who knew how long she had been on the island, lost and alone? Just like Mai, the same. The vile mouth strained out, wood buckling and snapping, large serrated teeth made of wood and twisted nails about to claim their prey. Another step forward.
I'm coming!
The girl gestured for her, desperate for the safety that Mai could offer. Her feet were moving faster now, the door–it stank–closer than ever, the child almost safe. She could do this. It would make up for the accident. It could. She would show everyone. Things would be different. The girl's voice, incredibly familiar; pleading.
I'm coming, I'll save you!
Another step, hands reaching out. The mouth engulfed the girl, chomping down.
NO!
“Hey,” someone said as calm as could be. Jin walked in front of her. “You check that door over there?”
Move, move! I've got to save her, I can make up for it!
Control came back all of a sudden, her hands shoving him aside.
The door stood, erect and inanimate. The hallway, just a hallway. The little girl, dust in the air.
“What's your problem?” Jin said.
She had been there, Mai heard her, saw her. That little grubby girl. That empty space by the door.
“I saw,” she said, the voice of reason coming back now, telling her to lie. “...thought I saw a great spot for a camera to go. Got a little excited, sorry.”
He didn't seem to believe her but didn't press further.
“I've checked the rest of the rooms down here. Bunch of nothing, except this one,” he said, pointing to the door just behind her. “That one has a bed frame in there. Looks like it used to be a resting room.”
They had checked two hallways. Some rooms were bare, furniture devoured by termites so badly their original purpose long gone. Others had rusted old-timey medical equipment still in its place, waiting for their next job.
The door ahead was the last one. Jin walked over to it, a careless rapid walk. Mai's pulse spiked, remembering the mouth.
Wait, don't-
He tried the doorknob. It didn't budge. “Locked,” he said, his hand lingering.
Her heart rate returned to normal. Jin stood, his brow furrowed, hand gripped tight around tarnished metal. She thought she saw him shudder for a moment, just as she blinked. “You-”
“Yeah,” he said, letting go. “Locked.”
“We could bust it open,” she said, looking for something to wedge between the frame.
“No,” he said, a strength to his voice that made her look at him. “Best to leave it alone, for now. It's almost dark and time for dinner.”
“Kojima will be angry if we don't che-”
“Leave it. It's a locked door. No harm came from something being locked.”
“Fine,” she said, feeling the complete opposite. Nothing else had been locked since they had started to explore. The thought of what could be behind the door would drive her crazy. She promised to return with one of the camera guys later on when Jin was occupied. Then she would know. They walked away, leaving the hallway silent.
There was a slight creaking noise of metal twisting, long in need of oil, as the locked door opened a fraction.
In the shadows, a small pair of eyes watched the woman move away. Watched the man, too. The eyes were joined by another set, salient and infected. More came, until the small gap was filled with pupils, hundreds of them. More joined, eyes squashed against the door frame, straining against wood, packing the tiny space.
Staring. Waiting. Hungry.
07:39:22:22
Dinner had been dry and bland. The perfect thing to bring the team together.
When he was coming up in the filmmaking world, he had seen crews revolt against producers due to poor catering. All the big movies–especially American films–had stellar catering.
Get chewed out by a production head? Load up your plate with comfort food at the catering tent. Moist chocolate cake and sugar covered doughnuts. Wrap a hard scene? Celebrate with gourmet food while the rest of the team set up the next shot. Grilled salmon with a dash of herbs and heavenly rice. Want to schmooze with a famous actor? Catering tent. Whatever they were eating.
But they were all big films, filled with the affluent and apathetic. They hadn't started from the ground up. Learned the way he had, been as relentless as him. On smaller productions Kojima had discovered another technique.
Keep the food breaks to a minimum, keep the food barely edible.
It bonded the crew, gave them a common thing to complain about, forced them to eat together at the same time. It worked back then and it worked now. Just as he planned.
“Yui, Mr. Sato,” he said, beginning what he hoped would be the first and only time he would talk about this. “Please pay special attention, as we will film this information through interviews as you walk through the compound.”
He liked the word, compound. It fitted the place. All wood and dirt, grimy windows, yellowed walls and a low ceiling. The team was focused on him now, all of them; ears and minds open. He liked that too.
The day after the horrible nightmare, he had dived into the internet. Searching for The One. The story that beat them all, the place that had the greatest hook. Site after site, page after page. Thanks to the miracles of Google Translate, he read up on some stories that otherwise would have been missed. This was how he found Pokere Island, like some force was pushing him.
Look over here. Here.
Bullshit tales and rumors had been trying, enough to make any man walk away. Not him. Not after what those bastards had done to him. The suits and their audacity. No story was too unreasonable or outlandish, his research frenzied; never leaving his office, takeout food an endless stream of carbs and chemicals. The nastier the tale, the better. Pile on the gore, the misery. Up that shock factor, enhance the theatrical aspects, tease out the human elements, the 'Oh, that could have been me, my family' parts. After all, that was what he was best at. His fingers working, the players dangling from his hands; puppets dancing on his whim. His. The audience, his court. The more they enjoyed it, the hungrier they became. Damn the writer, the producers. He was the Director. The maker. And now, the maker chose to speak to his subjects.
“In 1907, a leper colony was established on Pokere Island. The colony was small–no more than thirty people at most, including a doctor and a few nurses. Men, women, some children too. This building,” he said, extending his arms out, ever the showman, “was built as their hospital, with those small huts we saw outside the leper's homes. This island was chosen due to the proximity to the port and of course,” he said with a pause. Maximum impact. “Strong currents and heavy winds coming down off the sea.”
“Why was that important?” Yui asked.
“It would prevent anyone from escaping the island back to the mainland,” Sato said.
“Exactly,” Kojima said. “Back then, leprosy was treated with fear and hate. Enforced isolation was practiced all over the world, even in Japan.”
“Don't forget to add to your documentary that Japan was also the last industrialized nation to free lepers. We didn't close our colonies until 1996,” Jin said. He stood away from the group; half in, half out.
“Yes,” Kojima said. He was trying his best to tell the story but really, all these interruptions were starting to scrape against his better nature.
Just sit there like good little boys and girls and listen along.
He smiled at Jin–getting harder to do, the man was a wild dog–and continued, “So, what does a small district like this do with lepers, especially as the years go by and World War One sucks each country into the fight?” Another pause. “They forget about them.”
That got a gasp from Yui. Good, it was important to know what resonated with female audiences.
“The boats stopped going over, fresh supplies. All of it. Whoever these people were–even the medical staff–were forgotten. To this day, there are no records, no names of any of the people who inhabited this island. They never existed.”
“That is horrible,” Mai said, “those poor people.”
He swallowed, getting ready for his favorite part of the story. “That's not the end of it. A smell reached the port. People say it smelled like something had expired.” Mai and Yui scrunched up their faces. Gore always got a response. “It wasn't until 1926, some nineteen years later when the council was forced to do something about it.”
“That,” Sato said, “is how these stories get started. One terrible incident starts some campfire story, most likely spread around by teenagers and people silly enough to spread the word. Years later, some story becomes fact.”
Kojima was ready for this. Hell, it was almost the entire reason he brought the pompous asshole along. You had to have an in, something or someone for the audience to side with. Someone credible. Who better than a professor at one of Tokyo's most honored universities?
“I see your point, Mr. Sato, and I raise you this question. How is it then, that in all this time, some ninety years after the first group of people went in to check the status of the island and the lepers it contained, that no one has returned? All told, twelve teams, a few locals brave enough and the odd tourist landing on the island, all of these people were never heard from again.”
“I find that hard to believe. The local authorities must have done something about it.”
“Yes, you're right. The police were sent over, back around 1960. Didn't find a thing. No bodies. No tracks, nothing. Left the island empty-handed. Then,” he smiled again. He loved this part. “Those policemen? A few months later, they too disappeared. No warning, no foul play suspected. It's like they too, never existed.”
He sat back, observing his work. They had it on their faces. Curiosity, with just a dash of fear. Even the fact that he had made the last part up–always enhance the theatrical–this place had it all.
“We're gonna make a fortune off this place,” Okada said.
“We're here illegally, right?”
The group turned towards Jin. His arms were crossed, staring at Kojima.
“Illegally?” Anno asked.
“What I heard just now,” Jin said, rubbing the glass face of his watch, “was that group after group has come here, and not returned. That's gotta be over a hundred bodies easily. If what you are saying is true, then the government must have this place on lockdown. It's the same with an island in Italy. Too haunted, too unexplained for the public.”
“You don't need to worry about that,” Kojima replied.
Sato shook his head, “Sorry to interrupt, but I think we do. If we are here illegally, then we could be detained in jail. I could lose my position at the university.”
“Worry about surviving the island first,” Jin said.
“You shut the hell up!”
Sato jolted forward, grabbing at Jin. Okada blocked him, an easy objective, due to the professor's inexperience in macho displays.
“Gentlemen,” Kojima said, voice cutting through the din. “Let me assure you, no one will go to jail. I am sorry I did not tell you in advance, but yes, we are here illegally.” He was planning on this, some burst of disagreement; a chance for him to exert control. “This is not the first documentary that has skirted the law, it won't be the last. Surely you've all seen documentaries that have gone to extraordinary lengths for their subject? Any legal issues, however minor, will be rendered ineffective once the documentary is released. My lawyer, the best in Japan, has been prepared in case of any issues.” The group looked at one another, daring someone to speak up. They wouldn't. He had them. “Okada, Anno,” he said, “how many projects have you made that were not entirely legal?”
Okada scoffed, “Lost count. He's right, it happens every time. Besides, it's not like anyone shot at us on the boat ride over. You see any warning signs?”
Anno shook his head, confirming. Kojima made a mental note to add a little bonus to their paychecks. Sato sat back down, dipping his head in a slight bow of apology.
“Anyone who is opposed to this is welcome to back out now,” Kojima said. Always good to wrap things up with a little guilt. “I'll understand completely.” The team sat in silence.
“I've told you this place is dangerous, don't think I need to add more, “Jin said. “Maybe I'll keep my mouth shut until you all come round to my way of thinking.”
The man was playing his role perfectly. Movies or documentaries, fact or fiction, it all came down to casting. Who better to decry the expedition and the warn of the dangers the team was facing nightly than a psychic? He brought a requisite amount of Johnny Depp-ness to the documentary. Not too old, rough enough for the audience to choose their sides. Science or the paranormal?
“You people wanna see a ghost so bad, you're willing to break the law and risk your safety in the process, be my guest.”
Okada laughed, “Some ghost going to come along and give me a heart attack?”
“Maybe. Might just rip your arm off, depending on the type of ghost.”
“There are types now? Like ghost levels? Gimme a break guy, keep your mystic crap for when the cameras are rolling.”
“Like I said, gonna wait and see what happens. You all know where to find me when–not if–things go down.”
Sato and Okada shared a laugh.
“With that,” Kojima said, content in the way the discussion had played out, “shall we get filming and make history?”
07:54:00:19
“We are stepping forward into the unknown. No one has set foot in this hospital for close to a century. Who knows what we will find?”
Yui filled the camera frame. Okada took a step back, trying to get just the right amount of background and foreground in the shot; the perfect composition. Kojima gave him a slight tug on the left-hand side of his jacket. Turn left. Okada panned to the left, hoping Yui saw the motion and followed suit.
“All around me, you can see evidence of this building being put together by hand. The walls are warped, with doors and floorboards at odd angles.”
She was right, the place was a real rush job. What worried Okada is how the place showed signs of repair. They were on the second floor now, and he could see a sheet of tin that had been placed over a hole in the floor. Sure the tin looked old as hell but seeing as how everything seemed to be made from wood, where did they get tin from?
Yui pushed open a door, leading them inside.
The smell reminded him of his apartment after being away filming for three months. You opened the door, smell was the happy puppy, first to greet you; stagnant and dry. This place was the same but with an underlying smell of a different sort. Okada moved the camera around the room. It resembled a doctor's office. A desk was propped against a large window. The view wasn't much as far as he was concerned but at least it got some sunlight. There was a large stain on the desk. Faded, but clear enough for the camera to pick up. It ran down the leg of the desk to pool on the floor. It was darkly colored, spread thick with no thin spots. Just a heavy stain. He moved closer, his hand reaching out to touch it. Something about the way it left a story, the way it started in one place and finished up in another. His fingers brushed against it.
“Okada.”
He jumped, biting the inside of his cheek. He had forgotten all about them, the damned show.
“What are you doing? Why aren't you filming Yui?”
“S-sorry, Mr. Kojima.”
He trained the camera, focus clearing to show Yui giving him a look.
“Ready to go, Yui. Sorry.”
She cleared her throat and continued, “Right now, our team is busy installing cameras all throughout the building. With the latest in technology, both audio and video, we'll be sure to find something. Isn't that right, Mr. Tanaka?”
Okada turned the camera to Yui's right, Jin filling the frame. Asshole looked down the lens like he had some place better to be.
“Maybe.”
Like a pro, Yui followed this up, not letting dead air eat up the scene.
“What will they look like? Will they be bright lights, or look human?”
“Actually, they'll look like whatever we want them to, I guess.” He looked down the lens again, half smiling, half yawning.
“Cut,” Kojima said.
“Mr. Tanaka, please don't look at the camera. I want you to imagine you and Yui are the only people here.”
“Not difficult,” Okada heard Jin say under his breath.
“Excuse me?” Kojima asked.
“Gotcha. Look at her, not you two.”
Okada felt Kojima taking a pause. He agreed with his director, the 'psychic' needed to get his ass kicked. If things kept up, Okada might do it himself. He was smaller than him, a rangy kind of guy. Yui cleared her throat, smiled at the camera and continued like nothing happened.
