My Modern Kaidan

Chapter 1

Kaidan (怪談) is a Japanese word consisting of two kanji: 怪 (kai) meaning "strange, mysterious, rare or bewitching apparition" and 談 (dan) meaning "talk" or "recited narrative."

Originally based on didactic Buddhist tales, kaidan often involve elements of karma, and especially ghostly vengeance for misdeeds. Kaidan also frequently involve water as a ghostly element. In Japanese religion, water is a pathway to the underworld as can be seen in the festival of Obon.

(Wikipedia)

. . .

My mom has always told me she thought her second trip to Japan would be so much more glamorous than the first. Stationed in Okinawa at the age of nineteen, she found herself in love with the people and the culture. She made a promise to herself to return on her own terms and explore everything the island had to offer.

"I thought I would meet Kai Kudomo. He was this big pop star at the time. Instead I met your dad."

My dad was the antithesis of what my mom thought she wanted. Skinny, pale and painfully shy, it was only when my mom asked for help with her connection in garbled Japanese from the man sitting directly behind her at the internet cafe that sparks flew.

"Literally," my mom says.

"It was your laptop," my dad adds with a grin.

The rest of my mom's trip was spent courting my dad with bowls of ramen and small talk made even more awkward by a language barrier.

"There was just something about him."

"Then I showed her my drawings," my dad says. "And she was really afraid. But then again," he adds. "That's the point."

My dad is a famous mangaka, or manga artist. Horror manga to be exact. He's been featured in a different magazine every few months since before I was born. He has the stringent work habits that only come with dedication and love for what he does.

His most famous work has just been collected in a tankōban soon to be released, which couldn't have come at a better time. My mom has decided to head back to Japan for two years of desk administration until she officially retires.

That's where I come in, sitting in the backseat as we head towards the house where my dad grew up, feeling a mixture of homesick and nervous excitement. This is my first time in Japan, my dad's home country. Maybe I should feel different, enthusiastic about finding out what made this place so charming to my mom all those years ago.

Hungry from the long plane ride, my parents have immediately taken to the kitchen to unpack cooking supplies for tonight's dinner. My dad is saying he'll make sukiyaki.

The moving company has set all our boxes and furniture in the foyer of the house. I run my fingers over the battered cardboard, marked 'kitchen' and 'office' and 'bathroom' until my eyes are drawn to my own writing, 'Amaya's room.' Before I get into the contents of the box to see what's survived the trip my eyes are drawn to a different box, small, wrapped in paper and twine by the doorway, and as I stoop down, I see it's addressed to me.

Grabbing a box cutter, I cut through the packaging to expose a red satin box. Inside is a small hand-blown glass hummingbird, or hachidori, my parents' nickname for me and what they considered an "especially energetic" child.

It must be from my auntie as a welcome home present. On business in Tokyo, she had mentioned that even if she wasn't going to be able to visit right away, she would send a little something.

"Mai-chan," my dad calls to me, his footsteps echoing off the walls in the mostly empty house. "Do you see pots and pans?" He comes around the corner as I'm holding the ornament up to the light, the late afternoon sun refracting off its crystal wings. "What's that?"

"Auntie sent it, I think."

"Eh?" He places two fingers on it, tilting it around. "Auntie has good taste." He places a hand on my shoulder. The past few weeks have been a blur of packing and getting things in order and temporary goodbyes. It feels like we've hardly spoken. "How do you like the house?"

I shrug. "It's like a big long rectangle."

He nods. "Come on, I'll show you the best room in the house."

I follow my dad, knowing it's probably not the best room, but the room he wants me to have, since he's probably already decided what my mom and his room will be and most importantly, his office. My dad is very particular about his work space.

"What's with the panel?" I ask upon entering this so-called 'best room.'

"It's called a shōji," he tells me. "Every room has them. Mite." He slides it open to expose a thin strip of wood leading out to a lush walled garden. A fountain trickles softly at one end as a soft breeze ruffles the leaves of an assortment of lush green plants, birds chirping sweetly at one another. I step out into it, craving the fresh air, and hold out my arms, spinning in an ironic twirl.

"My own Cinderella," my dad muses.

"Snow White, Dad," I correct him. "Cinderella just got trapped in the house."

We step back inside and I slide the panel shut behind me, pressing on it with the tips of my fingers. It feels like I could break right through it if I tried hard enough. "Is it strong?" I ask doubtfully.

"Of course," my dad says, grinning. "Just don't press too hard."

"That's comforting."

"Mm," my dad nods in agreement. "There's nothing to be afraid of anyway."

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