Buried Blueprints

After his secret conversation with the men in suits, Mr. Nakai wasn’t surprised when Haruki approached him.

"I’d like to see the old lot and floor plans," Haruki said. "Need to check the foundations—electrical, sewer lines, all of it. Makes construction flow smoother."

Mr. Nakai nodded, already anticipating the request. Without hesitation, he handed Haruki a rolled blueprint—aged and brittle.

The blueprint crackled faintly as Haruki unrolled it across the low coffee table in his room. Yellowed edges and faded ink spoke of its age. At the top center, written in elegant cursive kanji, a name emerged like a whisper from the past:

Horaji Ryokan

Haruki blinked. So that was the hotel's original identity.

He leaned closer. The dates and names were blurred by time. The entire plan had been drafted by hand—a striking contrast to today’s crisp digital renderings.

He traced the room numbers—ground floor: 101 to 110, then up the stairs to 201 through 218—until he stopped.

Room 219—his room—wasn’t listed.

Instead, that space in the upper-right quadrant was boxed off, labeled simply:

Private Quarters

“Huh…” Haruki muttered.

He stood, scanning the walls as if they'd confess a secret. His room was never meant for guests.

Later that day, he made his rounds through the structure. With his phone and digital camera in hand, he documented ceiling cracks, humming water pipes, and exposed electrical work. Every detail mattered. Starting on the ground floor, he inspected the lobby, restaurant, kitchen, front desk, and stairs. Some finishes had been updated, others carefully preserved—repainted or polished to retain their charm.

On the second-floor hallway, just outside his room, he spotted a square manhole in the ceiling. He fetched a ladder and climbed up.

As the panel slid open, dust filtered down. A cold breath of air drifted out.

Then—he saw it.

Resting about three feet into the darkness: a doll. Linen-bodied. Beaded eyes. Western in style. Out of place.

A voodoo doll.

His heart skipped. He snapped a photo silently, then climbed down and resealed the manhole.

Over tea in Mr. Nakai’s office, Haruki asked, “How old is this building, really?”

Nakai leaned back. “Built in 1923. Right after the Great Kanto Earthquake. It used to be Horaji Ryokan. A place for recovery and healing. Some say it welcomed... outsiders.”

“Outsiders?”

Nakai shrugged. “Foreign guests. Musicians. The war changed everything.”

Haruki nodded slowly. “And Room 219—it wasn’t listed among the guest rooms.”

Nakai offered no response.

Haruki leaned forward. “I found something strange in the attic. A doll. Western. Possibly Haitian.”

That got Nakai’s attention. His expression stiffened. “A doll?”

“ I can show you.”

They returned upstairs. Haruki climbed the ladder, opened the manhole, and shone a light.

Nothing. Only a rolled piece of used insulation.

“Must’ve been a mistake,” Haruki muttered, uncertain now. “I could’ve sworn...”

With Nakai’s answers vague and incomplete, Haruki turned to the adjacent residential structures.

He roamed the streets and alleys, hoping to find elderly locals—residents who might remember the old Ryokan.

But each time he approached—past laundry lines, garden sheds, vegetable plots—people turned away. One old man muttered, “Don’t ask about the Ryokan,” before vanishing behind a corrugated gate.

Something was wrong.

Back at the hotel, Mr. Nakai gathered the staff.

“Tonight, we’re expecting guests from Tokyo,” he said. “Businessmen. They’re arriving from Toyohashi... probably already drunk.”

It was a last-minute reservation—unusual, large.

Nakai forced calm. A full house meant revenue.

But deep down, something twisted.

Because full houses meant patterns.

And patterns meant one thing:

Trouble was about to check in.

Meanwhile, near the rear of the grounds, Haruki’s phone buzzed.

His wife's name lit the screen.

He hesitated, then declined the call. His momentum couldn’t be broken now.

He wandered past a weathered shed and paused at the edge of a sunken stone foundation.

Then—movement.

A scruffy dog was digging. Whimpering. Ears flat against its head.

Haruki smiled faintly. “Nature calls, huh?”

But the dog froze. It looked up, wide-eyed—then bolted. Fast. As if fleeing something invisible.

Haruki knelt and peered into the disturbed earth.

There, half-exposed, lay a waraningyō. Straw-bodied. Weather-worn. Dried blood darkened its chest and grooves.

He reached toward it.

The soil was cold. Too cold.

This place wasn’t just old.

It was haunted by more than time.

He slipped the doll into his sling bag, but unease followed him back to the hotel. The conversations he’d had left more confusion than clarity. Some answers weren’t answers at all—just delays. Deflections.

Still, the real fear hadn’t taken root.

Not yet.

In his room, Haruki reviewed the day’s photos and videos.

He paused at the manhole shots.

His blood chilled.

There—clearly visible—was the voodoo doll.

But in the far corner of the frame, half-draped in shadow:

A pair of feet.

Dangling.

Suspended in midair.

Then—his phone rang.

The sharp ringtone made him jump.

He answered on reflex. “Hello...?”

The voice on the other end was garbled—shouting his name.

“Haruki! Haruki!”

It grew louder. Urgent. Panicked.

By the fifth shout, he blinked. “Oh—sorry. Who is this?”

Laughter erupted.

His team from Tokyo. CAD operators, fellow architects, drinking at a Philippine pub in Toyohashi.

“We’re coming to your hotel tonight!” they laughed.

“Come join us!”

He forced a chuckle. “I… can’t. I’ve got too much on my mind.”

He ended the call. The room grew still.

Then—a knock.

Slow. Deliberate.

He turned toward the door, pulse quickening.

He stepped to the peephole and looked out.

And reeled backward.

Outside his door—

A pair of bare feet.

Pale. Dangling.

Swinging midair.

[Next: Shadows Return]