As a Temple Forgotten

Check the notes for any words you are unfamiliar with.  Feel free to message me questions if I fail to make any terms clear.

                Abandoned, it is a powerful word.  It carries those feelings of being forsaken and forgotten, which are in many ways much worse than death.  Yet we all too often, as humans, focus solely on what it feels like for our own kind.  But when wandering a ruin, it is hard not to feel a melancholy for those abandoned walls, their purpose long lost, leaving only stone and concrete as their final testament.  Yet other ruins seem unwilling to let themselves go, and instead of wistful sadness they carry a malevolence, as if they are enraged that the world has forgotten them.  You may be skeptical of this, that a place can carry malevolent designs, but spend a night in an abandoned slave castle on the coast of Sierra Leone, and you will be a believer--for it will be a night that you will remember.

                In Japanese, there is a word for these places, they are known as ‘Haikyo’, written with the symbols, 廃虚, which too have lost much of their meaning since the great war; even the name has been abandoned, leaving behind a meaning of hollow and empty refuse.  That old abandoned hospital, with crumbling concrete; everyone knows it was a hospital, but no one can remember what it was for--an asylum perhaps?  Or that old hotel on the fringe of town?  It was once a ‘love-hotel’ where couples could lose themselves in passion away from the children in their single room home.  It is closed now, condemned for at least thirty years, the children will just have to watch.  And yet still it stands all these years later because only nature seems interested in tearing it down.  They say that it was closed because of passion; there was a fire, or perhaps it was a murder?  It was probably both since one room is burnt black as though hit with hellfire, while another has what appears to be caked blood on the walls.  You can’t find any record of what happened, but that is how it is in the rural villages of Japan.   I couldn’t see much through that night, with the raging typhoon blowing through the shattered windows; but I can tell you this much, it is no longer a hotel of ‘love’.

Or what of that small shrine on the lake-side?  The locals tell me that a woman died here, many years ago, no one knows when.  She was betrayed, was it murder or suicide?  It doesn’t matter because even she doesn’t remember; instead she now waits for lone men to approach her banks, so that she can draw them under--for she is but a remnant of hatred.  Their blood is what fuels those rose-hued petals of the sakura, those unnatural cherry trees.  The locals won’t go there, even the women who should be safe will never approach it.  I went there anyway, the lake seemed unsatisfied.  Lilies were in bloom, the first time in twenty years; perhaps that is why nothing happened to me?  With such a loathsome feeling settling on the water, I often wonder, “Why did she never take me?"

But which of these abandoned, malice filled places filled me with the most dread?  It was without a doubt that temple, long since abandoned.  Its architecture, I think it was from before the Meiji era, before Japan modernized, when it was still steeped in tradition.  The temple was dilapidated, the wood mostly rotted away; I don’t know if it is still there or not.  After all, it was near the coast and the following year the monsoon was strong; I saw in the news that the levee failed and the village lost many lives.  Japan is very wet… and very dynamic; contrary to what the ancient buildings will have you believe.  Massive trees arched up and around the temple, casting it into shadow and complete darkness even during mid-day.  The trees were filled with ravens, huge birds, much larger than the ravens I had known as a child.  They were angry that I had entered their territory, and they screeched and rustled in those dark boughs; which made the whole forest seem enraged that I had not only entered, but that I had ever even existed.  Such a scene was much more terrifying than even the most macabre of Poe’s works.  I assure you, there are no words which could describe the evil which permeated that temple.  And yet, I could not help myself; I had to see what was inside; would I ever get another chance?

And so I cautiously made my way up to the temple, I saw the small washbasin, it has fallen into disrepair as well.  It had once been under a roof of its own, a small enclosure, but this had apparently not been built with the same care as the temple, because only a remnant pole remained.  There was a piece of bamboo leading to the basic, likely to carry water to it, but no water flowed through it.  Still, it was the rainy season, I had been on the stone paths for weeks now and my clothes were rotting.  I smelled like death itself; odd that the ravens felt I didn’t belong.  There was a small bit of water in that basin among all the dead leaves.  It was filthy, but I felt compelled to observe the tradition.  No ladle was near, so I used my left hand to scoop up a small bit of water, and then drizzled it over my right hand, before repeating it with the other hand.  I then cupped both hands, and raising the muddy remains I poured it into my mouth.  I needed little incentive to spit it back out.  I was now ‘purified’ and allowed to enter.

I stepped over the threshold, into the temple, carefully testing each step.  I was afraid that the temple could collapse at any moments, a part of the roof had already done so.  Through it, the small bit of light which penetrated the thick trees weakly illuminated the room.  There was an old statue of the Buddha, it had likewise began to rot; not all statues are made of bronze.  I bowed meekly, probably the first in many years.  I am sure the priests who once lived here would laugh if they had been told that a gaijin, a foreigner, would be their last visitor; but the Meiji brought with it change which few in Japan had expected.  So here I was, a gaijin, pale as the dead, who had stumbled across an ancient path which led here.   The inside of the temple, unlike the area outside of it, seemed sad more than anything.  As if whatever had lived here had not yet twisted into the unnatural.  It was a nostalgic feeling that I was strangely in tune with, and so I stood there for a while, taking in the beauty of decay.

And while I wanted to stay longer, I needed to get to the next town before darkness settled.  It was dangerous to wander the mountains alone at night, especially in the rainy season.  A week before I had experienced a mud-slide which had destroyed the path right in front of me; I had quickly grown to respect the dangers of this pilgrimage.  And so I turned to leave, and felt my foot kick something… something round.  At first I thought it was a skull, it would not have been out of place here.  I felt my heart leap through my chest, but somehow I stifled a scream.  Looking about in a frenzy I finally noticed what I had kicked, a daruma.  Chuckling to myself, I realized that I had not noticed the other Buddha of the room, so I gave it a bow as well.  Now, for those not familiar with it, the daruma is a hollow Japanese doll.  Its appearance is based on the founder of Zen Buddhism.  Whenever you knock one over it will always roll upright again.  Because of this, they are seen as good luck charms, and a symbol for persevering.  I reached down to pick it up, but as my fingers were about to touch it, I instead pulled away.  I was not sure why.  But somehow this ‘good omen’ actually made me feel uneasy.  Staring at it incredulously I again went to pick it up, and yet again, a feeling of unease stopped me.  Looking closer, I noticed that only one of its eyes had been filled in; a wish had been made on this doll, but never fulfilled.  I knew better than to fulfill another’s abandoned wish, and so I left it.

I was now loathe to spend even another unneeded moment there; so I quickly left the temple, not even turning to give a final bow to the Buddha, and made my way back down that old stone path.  The ravens seemed to laugh, taunting me for my cowardice; they are arrogant birds.

I managed to reach the village down in the valley earlier than I had expected, perhaps it was because of a frenzied haste in my steps?  Not only that, but there was even a small inn available.  More accurately, it was a couple’s home which they rented out to travelers.  I was grateful that I didn’t need to spend a night in ‘that’ temple; it would not be the first time that I had slept in an abandoned temple or shrine.  Fortunately the couple had 2 extra bedrooms and enjoyed listening to visitors; the village rarely had any.  It was probably the closest thing to an inn for at least thirty miles; I was more than happy to pay them the 8000 yen they wanted for a night there.  They even included dinner and breakfast; she was about to start making some unagi-don!  It had been a few days since I had last had some eel, so I was excited; as were her children.  You may think that Japan is advanced, and you are correct in this.  But where I was, it was as though I was hiking through an era long past; many towns had a single dirt road leading through them, and few people owned cars.  It felt like I was in the early Showa, maybe even Taishou, at the turn of the century… well, beside the children who played the latest Pokemon games while eagerly discussed this week's edition of JUMP. 

There was a local coin laundry, as the locals called it, available for use, which my host recommended, probably because of how bad I smelt.  I decided now was a good time to try and get rid of that moldy smell.  The laundry machine was ancient, with only a single button, which made it easy to use.  Modern washing machines in Japan seemed to have dozens of buttons; it is incredibly complicated even if you know how to read Japanese.  No wonder we gaijin were always so smelly!  I decided to kill some time while I waited on my clothes, I was expecting to have to clean them several times, probably until I ran out of 100 yen coins.  There was a stack of reading material and a vending machine.  Funny how even a place like this had vending machines. 

Sitting down I flipped through the reading material, it was an odd selection.  A heavily worn copy of Doraemon which was a childhood favorite for most of Japan and what seemed to be a clothing catalog from several years ago filled with white women smiling in their ‘fashionable’ outfits.    Beside them lay the latest edition of JUMP weekly.  It was really odd to see something so new here; so I went ahead and flipped through it.  With a sigh I put it down, it was full of the typical stuff that children liked.

An old man joined me in the laundromat, he looked at me strangely, which is understandable.  I went ahead and moved over to a corner to stand so that he could sit on the bench.  I would be gone the next day, I didn’t want to interrupt the routine of the people here.  He picked up the JUMP and began reading it in earnest; I suppose some adults liked it to.  He avoided looking at me directly, although I could tell that he was curious, so the room became incredibly awkward.  There were rarely white people in this area, and very few people spoke more than a few words of English.  They only knew the English words they heard on the radio, or on the few television stations they received.  English was new and exciting, but difficult.  If you put English words in a song it would be trendy!  Often this doesn’t make much sense; for example, some Japanese people say “purasu arufa / Plus Alpha” to mean ‘something extra’.    

Awkwardly I tried to start a conversation, “Kyou wa Atsui desu ne...” It is not the best Japanese, but it is adequate.  He smiles and agrees that it has been really hot lately.  In all reality it has just been a normal day, not particularly hot; but such a detail is insignificant.  When someone says ‘desu ne’ you just agree with them.  He is behaving much more friendly than most of the older Japanese people I have met out here.  Embarrassed, he explains that he doesn’t know English.  I realize now that he was avoiding making eye contact with me because he was worried I would talk to him in English, and he wouldn’t know how to reply.  It is common out here.

Speaking with him is difficult, he has a heavy accent and speaks quickly, even if he doesn't mean to.  But it helps pass time, and it has been a while since I had a conversation about something other than how much something was going to cost me.  He told me that he came here every week to read JUMP, he was a proud reader of Kochira Katsushika-ku Kameari Kouen-mae Hashutsujo, never missing a chapter since Showa 51, when it was first serialized.  As a child he had dreamed of being a police officer, mostly because he thought the uniform was amazing.  He is now old and never got to live that dream, but he still remembers those dreams of his youth fondly.  He thinks the series is funny, and loves seeing a glimpse of city life in them.  He has never been to Tokyo before; so he asks me if I have ever been there.  Apparently he doesn't realize that Narita International Airport is the only way into the country for most gaijin; almost all gaijin have been in Tokyo!  His only experience in a big city was visiting the World Expo in Osaka as a youth; he had spent several years savings for that trip alone!  I ask him about the Tower of the Sun, what it was like.  For a gaijin to ask such a question, it is unheard of, and he is extremely excited.  He begins to ramble about the nostalgia of that time, as Japan was entering the new modern world; I can barely keep up!  He thinks back on the higurashi of that summer; but honestly, who doesn't think of cicadas when they remember a summer in Japan?

The night is growing long, and I suddenly remember the odd temple from along the old pilgrimage route.  It may seem strange to forget such a thing, but my time in this village had distracted me.  My clothes are finally in the drier, and I don’t have much more time before I should return.  So I go ahead and ask him about it, if he remembers a temple out that way?  He goes quiet for a while, not out of any sense of foreboding, it is not like it was when I asked about the shrine on the lake.  No, he is simply quiet because he is trying to remember; apparently the temple has been deserted for a very long time. 

He finally tells me a brief story, what the temple’s purpose had been when he was a child, before any of the books in the room had been printed; he remembered going there with his parents shortly after the New Year celebration.  They had him take the toys he no longer played with; he did not fully understand at the time.  There, they would give the toys over to the few monks at the temple; and then he watched as the monks purified them with fire, chanting sutras over the bonfire.  Apparently the toys which were abandoned, never played with by children, grew malicious with time.  Eventually they would turn into demons which would harm their former owners.  As such the temple had existed for as long as anyone could remember, and every year around New Year all the unplayed toys were gathered and purged.  He laughed at the story, and made a remark about how people just threw them away now. And for the last half hour he described the toys he enjoyed as a child, and how much simpler they were than the Nintendo.

I didn’t say anything about the daruma which had been left alone in that Temple.  I was odd enough by being white, describing omens and negative energy would make me stand out even more.  And so saying goodbye, to never meet again, we went our separate ways.

I was quiet throughout dinner, the eel was delicious, and I of course complemented it; the selection of pickled vegetables was exquisite as well.  Yet I was not in the mood to talk, the daruma was stuck on my mind.  Thankfully my host was not offended, she assumed that I was so quiet because I was not used to Japanese.  It is sometimes nice to be a gaijin, people don’t find it as odd when you keep to yourself.  I considered mentioning the story with my host, but if the old man could barely remember, it was unlikely that she would know anything about it.  So saying goodnight to the children, who continually pestered me with questions about what it was like in Amerika, I retired early.  I excused this by telling them that in Amerika we had a saying, “Early to bed, early to rise.”  Because life is a battle, and those who act first will emerge victorious.  They did not seem impressed; I was a boring guest.

That night I had a dream, an odd and poignant nightmare of the sort I have never experienced, either before or since.  I rarely remember my dreams, so I often have a hard time realizing when I am trapped in one.  It was stormy, lightning cracked through the sky, and the trees rustled, not with the sound of ravens, but rather from the wind of a mighty tempest.  I was inside the temple from earlier, which was pitch black except for the flashes of lightning.  Staring out at the door; somehow a simple idea was stuck in my mind.  “I want a friend.”  It was like a repetitious drone which drowned out all other thought.  I tried to move, but I couldn’t as much as move a limb or blink an eye.  In fact, I only had one eye… and I realized that I was a daruma.  But I didn’t mind, because all I wanted was a friend.

And with an unusually powerful gust, in the doorway stood a young girl.  Part of me realized that it was strange for a child to be here, in an abandoned temple so far from home, in a tempest like this.  But that thought was unable to be heard over the internal drone of “I just want a friend.”

She smiled, it was almost grotesque, but it was likely because of the storm.  She didn’t bow to the Buddha, she simply stared at me, and picking me up she giggled.  That giggle seemed to twist and reverberate off the walls, as if it hissed from unearthly lips.  And as the walls twisted and warped under that unearthly gargled laught, we were abruptly in a dark room, not in the Temple, but just a room--her room.  I might have questioned how we had come here, but this was a dream and I was trapped in my thoughts, “I just want a friend.”

She held me up and turned me around, around and around.  Through my one eye, I could see a room filled with dolls; dozens of them laying haphazardly in each corner.  These are not your cute little porcelain dolls that your Grandmother might collect.  No… these dolls looked like they wore a wide array of Noh-masks; what was once used for theater, in a dark room, looked like a nightmare attended by the Oni--the demons of old.  Each doll was cracked and disfigured, many were missing limbs or even chunks out of their heads.  I did not understand why I was here, but again, “I just wanted a friend.”

Then, as if satisfied at what she saw, this young girl dropped me, and as I descended I felt a foot connect solidly with me, sending me slamming into the wall.  Spinning about I finally settled on the floor.  The girl laughed, “It’s true!  You always ‘bounce’ back!”  And then she kicked me yet again… and again, until I couldn’t remember why I was there.  Dreams have an odd way of flowing, in which time is entirely controlled by our perception.  And I was trapped in a dream, within this daruma, for what seemed to be a hundred years.  What small part of me was aware that this was a dream felt regret for accidentally kicking myself earlier.  Just because I always bounced back didn’t mean that I enjoyed this.  Of course a toy doesn’t feel physical pain; but it can feel neglect.  The neglect when you leave it alone in a temple for decades, the neglect of being left alone in a chest, the neglect of being kicked and abused!  And what was once a simple wistful desire, “I just want a friend” became a raging torrent of hatred, “All I wanted was a friend.”

Now in Japan, they have many spirits, one for almost anything.  There is even a spirit which licks dirty bathroom floors!  Some spirits govern a domain, others simply desire a vengeance of some form.  With every kick and hysterical laugh, I began to realize how true that old man’s words had been.  Repeat “All I wanted was a friend” a thousand times, a million times… make it reverberate through your core, and you will quickly realize why Japan has so many spirits--because such hatred can turn even a toy, a mere plaything, into a demon.

I don’t know when it happened; after all, I was not of a lucid mind.  But at some point I could feel myself changing.  Like a higurashi molting, crawling out of the shell that once contained it, the hatred was transforming me.  And just as the higurashi bursts from its husk, I was suddenly a tanuki--a racoon dog--or rather a bakedanuki, a demon…  And filled with that rage of being neglected, I leapt at the girl like a wolverine.  It was over in mere seconds… I would love to describe the sensation to you as a reader, but even as I meticulously crushed and slashed that cruel girl to pieces, I had but a single thought, “Why couldn’t you be a friend?”  Such is the obsession of one who is trapped in a wish.

I don’t know what overcame me, but looking down at the mess which I had created, blood and guts splattered across the room, the moist warmth of her life under my claws, I somehow did not feel satisfied.  It wasn’t that I wanted to kill her, I just wanted a friend.  It is so simple…  Her skull was cleaved open, her brain slowly leaking from the wound.  As a human I would surely be disgusted by the sight of her bulging eyes, that look of shock which had been on her face before my claws wiped it away… but as a demon, I was entranced with her brain.

I cracked the skull apart, much like you might snap apart a pomegranate; they are not so different.  And holding the mass of spongy goop I deliberated on what I could do with this fruit?  It was gorgeous really, this thing that let a person make a wish, carry a desire to fruition.   It had a use, and like dreams can often lead us, I decided that it was the only way.  So in an excited fervor I leapt about that bloodied room, pushing a handful into each of the dolls which surrounded me.  And while this may not make much sense, in a dream, stuffing brain-matter into a doll can only lead to giving them life.   And so I was surrounded with kindred, and opening my other eye I finally saw that I had friends.

But this lasted only a second, for the dolls shuttered as one, and together, in that harsh shrieking laugh they screamed, “I only wanted a toy!”  And as they leapt from their perches, gliding down towards me, I realized that I would never have another… and then there was an explosion of blood and fur, and the snapping crack of bones as my new-found body was torn apart and left on the floor, indistinguishable from the girl.  And as all nightmares which involve being turned into a tanuki and then being torn apart, albeit these dreams are not standard fare, I awoke in a pool of my own sweat.

I could not go back to sleep…

The next morning, after a breakfast… I don’t remember what it was.  I said farewell to my host, and gave her my payment, plus alpha.  And standing out on the street with only my small backpack beside me I debated on what I should do next…  I still had roughly a hundred miles of stone roads to travel before I reached Mt. Koya, yet a part of me was unable to ignore that ominous dream.  And so, ignoring my destination, I backtracked to that temple which I had sworn I would never visit again.  I am not even sure why I felt the need, but I needed to confirm something.

Coming up the path to the temple, the ravens, those eternal guardians, mocked my return.  They no longer seemed angry at my arrival, rather they seemed to scorn me for my return; they are arrogant birds.  A sense of unease overcame me, much greater than anything I had felt before, even throughout this whole ordeal; the temple, it was not the same as I had left it.  Rather, in its place stood only a few worn pillars; the rest of the temple was gone.  It was as though hundreds of years had passed.  And I realized what it was like to step into a time you do not belong.  But possessed by an unnatural obsession, I rushed forward, searching for the key to this all, the daruma.

I found nothing…

A voice rippled through the air, it was the sound of that child from my dream!  “All I wanted was a friend!”  And turning towards the voice, I saw only a glimpse of those tanuki claws before my eyes were gouged out, leaving me unfulfilled.  With a scream I felt my flesh flayed from me, and the part that realized that this was a dream, regretted ever killing that little girl.  And as all nightmares which involve being turned into a tanuki and then being torn apart, waking up and then being torn apart again, this time by your tanuki-self, albeit these dreams are not standard fare, I awoke in a pool of my own sweat.

I could not go back to sleep…

 

As I left that village, desperately heading to Mount Koya, no longer curious in the slightest if that daruma ever got his second eye, I tried to ignore all the other temples along my way.  I was already going to be unable to sleep for a long time… I hated these legends; almost as much as I loved not having friends.  As I passed a group of children, I could hear that familiar song,

 

Tan-Tan-Tanuki no Kintama wa,

Kaze mo nai noni, Bura Bura

Sore wo Mite ita

Oyadanuki Onaka wo

Kakaete Wahhahha

 

And I realized,

I would never forget that forgotten temple.

 

 

 

Reviews

[Kuandio]

The theme of abandonment presented at the beginning is powerful. The forsaken hotel had me thinking about the movie, "The Shining".

Some lines I liked;
- "she is but a remnant of hatred. Their blood is what fuels those red-hued petals of the sakura,"
- "the lake seemed unsatisfied"
- "I had been on he stone paths for weeks now and my clothes were rotting" (this one actually confused me,
but is interesting)

I liked the atmosphere as the narrator enters the forests and the birds seem enraged with him
Wow, the daruma doll in the temple is creepy
I think maybe you could modify the conversation with the main character and the old man to be in actual dialogue, and thus break away from the narrative for awhile

More good lines;
- "They did not seem impressed; I was a boring guest" (funny)
- "such is the obsession of one who is trapped in a wish"

The nightmare is fantastic! Nice and creepy. Reminds me of some very bad nightmares of my own

Your voice reminds of writers from the turn of the century, like Poe, and also Lovecraft. Sounds scholarly, intelligent, at the same time grim. There is however, a certain choppiness to a lot of the prose. If you were to revise it, you could make it flow with more ease. I think the best way to do this is reading it out loud to yourself or another. The few errors are pretty minor things that you can iron out. There are some run on sentences. Either you can break them up or figure out ways to join the parts more fluidly. Sometimes switch up some of the words, like "malice filled places filled me with most dread" - you can use another world beside filled twice.

Overall the story reminds me of some Japanese horror movies I've seen. Man, they make the scariest movies in the world. You make effective use of your knowledge of Japanese culture

By the time I do my next reviews hopefully I will be using diigo, what C.Rose uses.

[Woody]

phew!!! what a story! agripping tale, giving the reader a particular glimpse of a certain aspect of Japan. the story is beautifully crafted as are all your stories. the dream at the end is fascinating and, I think, borderline horrific.
I enjoyed the read enormously, Nusquam.

[Mister_Sir]

Well, this was definitely an amazing. As usual, the style instigates the greatest envy. And the story itself is so beautiful and horrific. That seems plenty in Japanese writing and folklore. I especially liked the dream, and how the narrator killed the girl. It gave the story the kind of creepiness that I love. And the ending with little children singing was perfect. "I would never forget that forgotten temple." That's a beautiful closure. I love reading your stories, Esse. Keep up the great work.

Neurotically yours,
Mister Splitbrain

[Delmar Cooper]

It is, of course, beyond me on many levels. I might as well read Spanish for the music of the vowels. I don't mean to say that as a bad thing. Music is music. It isn't beyond me because of the unfamiliar culture although it is as alien as the obverse of the moon. Most of the feeling is beyond me. Not all, the old man grounded me. I saw many old men in him, old men I know or have known or will become.

I am not afraid of old places because they may be haunted. All old places are haunted. I am the ghost- in -waiting of my own house, as you are of yours. I am not a traveler. I have been many places and seen many things but if I did not meet a person I never really went. When I meet the person I suppose I meet another ghost to be. They don't haunt me but here is a cohabitation that endures.

Thank you for your magnificent work.

[kitty cat]

like it but there is a lot of words i don't understand sorry

[Sam]

Your description of the setting is done incredibly well and the way you wrote the dream is amazing. All in all I think you did a fantastic job on this!

[Blood Ink Diary]

A symphony of surrealism and the fantasia of mind - the story is engaging and captures the attention right to the end. An air of enigmatic presence arrests the mind in wonderment around the climax and unfolds with an amazement at the end.

"Like a higurashi molting, crawling out of the shell that once contained it, the hatred was transforming me. " -- the imagery of metamorphosis seems apt. And, horror writing is not easy, yet, you seem to have written effortlessly - brava !

Thoroughly relished the post ! Cheers.

[Tinkerbellje]

This piece of writing really touched me. I've spent some time in abandoned places and been around historic ritualistic sites. They each carry their own feeling, be it peaceful or somewhat creepy.

You brought back the feelings of these places... amazing piece of writing. Thanks for sharing.