The Voices of the Invisible

A veil of morning mist still blanketed Kyoto when Isao left his studio. Nakamura-sensei had warned him: to truly perceive the secrets hidden within his mirror, he would have to seek those who spoke with the invisible. In his notebook, he had scribbled an address in the northern mountains of Honshu: an itako named Ume Kagura, one of the last traditional mediums capable of communicating with spirits.

The journey to Aomori Prefecture was endless. On the shinkansen, Isao was lost in thought, obsessed with Lucille. It was the first time in weeks that he had been away from her for so long. He didn’t see the cities he passed through, nor the landscapes flashing by the window.

Three days later, he returned to Kyoto with a frail old woman. Wrinkled and hunched, she moved with tiny steps, leaning heavily on a yew-wood cane. Her eyes, veiled by milky cataracts, seemed nonetheless to pierce through beings and objects.

"You have awakened something ancient," she murmured as she entered.

The last rays of twilight streamed through the windows. The itako stopped in front of the Victorian mirror without Isao even guiding her. Her nostrils flared slightly, as if she were inhaling an invisible scent.

"She is here," she affirmed.

"Prepare your studio: incense, seven erōsoku, a bowl of pure water, salt."

While Isao busied himself, Kagura-sama settled on a cushion facing the mirror. She took a uchiwa daiko, a small fan-shaped drum, from her bag and began striking its taut skin in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Her lips moved in silent prayer, reciting ancient invocations.

The incense burned gently, a thin thread of bluish smoke curling through the heavy air. The tall candles cast dancing shadows on the walls, and outside, the wind had begun to rise.

The medium closed her eyes, her breathing slowing. Her gnarled fingers gripped the drum with surprising strength.

"Come closer, photographer," she said in a voice that was no longer quite her own — lower, deeper.

Isao knelt before her, fascinated and terrified at once.

"Show me your photographs."

He laid the glass plates out before her, acutely aware of the absurdity of showing images to a blind woman. Yet she ran her fingers over each plate, sometimes pausing to trace invisible outlines, nodding or frowning.

"Her name is RU-SHI-I-RU. She comes from far away... across space and time."

Isao nodded, stunned. He had never once mentioned her name to the old woman.

"She has been imprisoned... for a long time. Time does not flow the same way for souls trapped like this. For her, it is both a blink and an eternity."

"Can you communicate with her, Ume-obaa ?"

She shook her head.

"It is not so simple. Young man, remember: I am only a bridge between the souls of the dead and our world. The spirits of the living do not answer the same calls."

She straightened slightly, her features hardening.

"She is here. I can feel her presence... She is listening."

A blast of cold air swept through the room. The flames flickered, casting distorted shadows across the walls. One of the candles went out with a sharp crackle. Ume Kagura stiffened.

"We are not alone... and he... he is no more..."

Her fingers tensed around the drum. With a sharp motion, she resumed beating it, faster now, more erratic. Her voice rose, chanting an ancient song in rough, guttural tones.

The mirror seemed to come alive. Shimmering reflections danced across its surface, as if it had become liquid. Isao thought he glimpsed Lucille’s face, her lips forming silent words.

Suddenly, she stopped. Her hand stretched out toward the mirror, trembling.

"The curse is powerful. Very powerful. This is no simple spell. It is a prison forged from jealousy, possessiveness, and rage. Three emotions that transcend all cultures and all eras."

Ume fell silent for a long moment, as if listening to voices Isao could not hear. The wind howled louder, battering the windows.

"The curse rests on three pillars," she said at last. "The mirror itself. The toxic love of the one who imprisoned her. And..."

She paused, her fingers brushing Lucille’s face on one of the photographs.

"Her beauty. Her unique beauty."

She turned toward Isao, her milky eyes somehow boring into him.

"You have fallen under her spell, haven't you ?"

Isao looked away, embarrassed, and Kagura gave a sad smile.

"You admire her beauty... but do you feel the weight of her soul ?" the medium asked, her eyes narrowing.

He had never truly considered what she must have felt — the crushing loneliness, the terror of being imprisoned for over a century, the horror of being trapped by someone she had known, perhaps even loved.

Her smile faded.

"Souls are not meant to linger between worlds. They wither there, like flowers deprived of light. Liberation is possible, but it will demand a sacrifice."

"What kind of sacrifice ?"

"Proportional to the initial imprisonment. Balance must be maintained. The cost will be high."

The old woman continued, her voice now barely audible:

"Especially since Western spirits react differently to Japanese rituals. The results are... unpredictable. Her essence could dissolve into nothingness."

The mirror quivered, a fleeting ripple running across its surface. Another candle extinguished.

"This is not merely an imprint... It is a hold. A living one," she murmured. "He is here too. He will never let her go."

"Adrien Rousseau," Isao breathed.

The moment he spoke the name, the mirror emitted a sinister crack. A thin line appeared across its surface — a fracture.

"Do not speak his name here!" she hissed. "You give him power."

She straightened, suddenly urgent.

"Draw a circle of salt around the mirror. Now!"

Isao obeyed, his hands shaking. Kagura-sama chanted swiftly, her voice rising and falling in strange modulations. Once the circle was complete, she threw a handful of powder into the incense. A thick smoke rose, forming bizarre spirals that seemed to dance around the mirror.

"We must seal the breach," she whispered. "Quickly, quickly..."

The air in the studio grew heavy, oppressive. Isao struggled to breathe. The mirror’s reflections twisted, taking on menacing shapes. He thought he saw a man’s face, distorted by hatred, flash across the glass.

The shaman struck her drum three times, each beat echoing with supernatural force. The fracture on the mirror froze. The spirals of smoke slowly faded. The wind abruptly died.

A heavy silence fell over the studio.

Isao exhaled, realizing he had been holding his breath. Kagura slumped, suddenly exhausted.

"Was it... him ?" Isao asked.

The old woman nodded.

"He is powerful. Very powerful. And possessive beyond death."

She extended a hand toward Isao, who grasped it to help her up.

"You must understand something essential, photographer. This girl... Lucille... she is not just an image captured by your camera. She is more than a wandering soul. She is a person. With desires, fears, dreams. If you truly wish to help her, you must see beyond her beauty, beyond her image. You must see Lucille."

She paused, scrutinizing Isao with unsettling intensity.

"If you seek to free her only to possess her in your own way, you will fail."

The air seemed to freeze.

"This is not merely a matter of spirits. It is a matter of the heart. Your heart. Hers. And that of the man who imprisoned her... through devouring love."

Slowly, methodically, she gathered her belongings.

Isao accompanied her to the taxi that would take her to a small apartment loaned by the Adashino Nenbutsu-ji temple.

"We will meet again in a few days," she said as she got into the cab. "I’ll let you know the exact date later; I’ll send a messenger. In the meantime, think carefully about what you want. Be ready for the sacrifice. There is no rescue without a price to pay."

Before the door closed, she gripped Isao’s arm firmly and added in a grave voice:

"And tonight, cover the mirror. Do not look at it. Do not speak to it. Not for twenty-four hours."

Then she disappeared behind the taxi door, leaving him alone in the sleeping city.

The candles still cast their dancing shadows on the walls. The scent of incense hung heavy in the air.

He approached the mirror. A fine crack now snaked across its smooth surface — a detail that hadn’t been there before the séance. Tangible proof that something had happened.

In the fractured glass, he thought he saw Lucille’s face. Paler. Sadder than ever. Her lips moved, forming words he couldn’t hear. Was it a cry for help ? A warning ?

He raised his hand, hesitating to touch the cold surface. Then, with one last look, he grabbed a cloth and carefully covered the mirror, following the itako's instructions. Tonight, at least, a barrier would separate them.