Summer Chiller: Jiko Bukken – Part Three

The quiet neighborhood of Aobadai, nestled in Toyo’s Meguro-ku, welcomed a fresh face on August 12, 2019. Makoto Oe, a 67-year-old retiree and widower, took ownership of the unit that had been vacant for two long years. Despite being fully aware of the tragic incident involving a renowned artist that occurred there, he appeared unperturbed. Little did he know, the previous inhabitant had also suffered a tragic demise within the depths of the bedroom closet.

Following the sudden passing of his beloved wife, Makoto made the difficult decision to sell their family home and relocate to this unit, bringing along only a few necessary belongings. These simple possessions fulfilled his daily requirements: a modest bed, a dresser, a comfortable couch, a beloved kotatsu table, a reliable TV set, and a cherished butsudan adorned with a photo of his dearly departed wife. These precious belongings were neatly arranged throughout the once empty space, meticulously cleaned by Hirotsugu Masuda and his dedicated clean-up crew. They were experts in salvaging apartments where the unfortunate occupants' bodies had remained undiscovered for days or even weeks. Every morning, Makoto would faithfully say his prayers at the butsudan, carefully arranging the daily offerings in front of the cherished photograph of his beloved wife.

Makoto, a humble man, was raised in the serene countryside and spent the majority of his life devoted to serving the city government. Throughout his retirement years, he adhered to a strict and structured routine. Without fail, each morning he would awaken promptly at seven o'clock, and prepare a simple breakfast consisting of rice, nato, and miso soup. Later on, he would devoutly say his prayers at the butsudan and then calmly immerse himself in reading the daily newspaper. From time to time, he would catch up on the latest updates on television or enjoy a leisurely stroll around the neighborhood. In the face of his advanced years and the recent passing of his beloved partner, he continued to enjoy robust health and approached life with an optimistic perspective.

Whenever he stepped outside, he would strike up casual conversations with the neighbors he happened to meet. Mrs. Yamada was incredibly warm and welcoming, understanding the pain of losing a loved one firsthand. She and Mr. Oe would spend endless moments engaged in conversation, whether it was while Mrs. Yamada was taking out her trash or when Mr. Oe was retrieving his newspaper from his mailbox. Makoto Oe had swiftly established himself as a valued member of the community, garnering widespread admiration.

Yet, as time passed, Makoto Oe appeared to undergo a mysterious transformation. He began to venture out less frequently, neglecting his newspapers in the mailbox for days on end.

Whenever he ventured outside, his disheveled appearance and noticeable weight loss were hard to ignore. He became increasingly reclusive, withdrawing from social interactions and isolating himself in his unit, where the curtains were always drawn. He callously disregarded his daughter's attempts to reach him, responding with a cold dismissal when she sought him out at his doorstep. In a state of panic, she reached out to the welfare department to inquire about her father, who had become increasingly withdrawn. When the welfare department manager arrived, Makoto adamantly refused to open the door. He sat in front of his butsudan, gazing emptily at his wife's photo.

Makoto was indeed undergoing a transformation. Gone were the days of adhering to a rigid schedule, rising promptly at seven o'clock every morning. Indeed, he devoted the majority of his waking hours to a realm where the boundaries between day and night blurred into one. Many a time, a perplexed expression would grace his countenance, as though he were endeavoring to decipher a cryptic message that reached his ears. A message that only he could hear.

Whenever he wasn't sitting in front of the butsudan, his gaze fixed upon his deceased wife's photo, he would find himself on his bed, staring intently at the open doors of his bedroom closet. Throughout the day, he preferred to keep the curtains drawn, enveloping the room in a strange darkness. As the sun set, he chose to embrace the shadows, sitting in the depths of darkness without a flicker of light. Quietly listening without uttering a single sound.

On a moonlit night, Makoto found himself perched on his bed, captivated by a mysterious sound. With a deliberate pace, he stood up and made his way towards the dresser. As he searched through the drawers, he discovered a vibrant red silk tie. In a moment filled with tension, he cautiously shifted his gaze towards the closet, where a ghostly figure of his beloved wife stood before him. "Is this the one?" he asked. Her face remained serene as she nodded in agreement.

Makoto approached the open closet, his hand clutching the vibrant red tie. His lips curled into a smile as he approached his wife, the woman he had been married to for twenty-four years but had tragically lost to cancer. She gently grasped his hand and led him into the closet, and Makoto willingly followed. Emerging from the depths of darkness, the visage of Masayoshi Son materialized, pale and enigmatic. Suddenly, the face of the renowned artist Takashi Murakami appeared. All three ethereal figures were now urging Makoto to join them. Makoto confidently ventured further into the dimly lit closet.

The following day, Makoto's daughter pleaded with the property manager, desperately seeking access to her father's unit. She was adamant that something had happened to him. Her distress was overwhelming, and nothing he could say would ease her troubled mind. Reluctantly, the manager acquiesced and the duo ascended to the fourth floor in the elevator. A peculiar hush enveloped them as they made their way towards the entrance of Makoto's dwelling. With a steady hand, the manager inserted the key into the lock and effortlessly turned it, just as Yasu had done when he accompanied his clients to inspect the unit. With a barely perceptible sound, the door swung open. The room was enveloped in darkness, the curtains tightly shut. The floor was covered in papers, which caught the daughter's attention, given her father's reputation for being neat and organized.

With a voice filled with longing and affection, she called out to her father, "Otochan!" As the two cautiously entered the dimly lit bedroom, silence greeted them. Before long, a piercing scream shattered the stillness.

To be continued…