Mass Threading

Old. Hunched, But towering in spirit. Ichiro's body was frail, but what he carried with him pulsed with unnatural strength: a cane carved from burnt cedarwood, its handle wound with charms and talismans, and hanging from its shaft―

A single black waraningyō.
Not straw. Not paper. But something darker.
Denser. Breathing.

Its limbs twitched as Ichiro walked, as if every step stirred its hunger.

The torch flames writhed on the walls, as if exhaling something unseen―alive, and watching. One by one, the returned guests were dragged in by invisible threads―some sobbing, some silent, all tied at the wrists with ceremonial cord, looped in red twine.

Even the police investigators, who had once interrogated Haruki, stood in stunned trance―brought back to the scene they had left behind. The man who'd taken their testimonies earlier now stood glassy-eyed nodding blankly like a doll that had forgotten how to blink.

"Welcome back to Hotel Toyohashi," Ichiro softly said, smiling. His voice cracked with rot, but the spell of authority curled around every word. "You're all here... because I've allowed it. And you will stay... because  she demands it." He tapped the black doll gently. Its head tilted.

"You see, this little one here," he said, raising the waraningyō fastened on his cane, like a trophy, "isn't just a decoration. This is the root. The trunk. It carries every branch of the tree that you call hospitality."

He turned to Haruki.

“Room 219,” he whispered, “was never just a room. It was a vessel—a spell chamber. Shion’s soul never left these walls. And Marie? Her spirit still burns in the forest. Her screams echo behind the walls. I hear her every night.”

Haruki clenched his fists. "Why? Why trap them? What did they do to you?"

Ichiro chuckled.

"They believed in truth. In love. In the romantic songs that break curses." His smile fell flat. "Foolish. Voodoo is not broken by song."

He circled the lobby.

“Shion planted waraningyō in every hallway, every ceiling beam. Every room holds a fragment of someone,” he said, voice low. “Even the gardens, the parking lot... the very corners of this place.” He nodded toward the seated Haruki. “I used the souls of lovers to mask the true game.” Then, with a twisted grin, he added, “I’ve stayed this long—aged, yes, but still alive. Still burning with youth, thanks to the hundred souls of our guests. They flow through me like colitas in my veins.”

Ichiro lifted the black doll again, this time holding it eye-level.

"Because when minds are fragile, this little one rewrites reality. One lie... becomes a truth they never forget."

A murmur spread through the guests. Someone began to scream. But the moment was swallowed by Ichiro's next declaration:

"Tonight, I fulfill the rite of blood and ash. The Mass Threading. Every cursed soul in this hotel will be stitched into me. I will become Japan's master voodoo priest. Eternal. Undying. Feared."

The doll on his cane pulsed.

A sudden gust swept through the sealed room—though no door had opened. The waraningyō dolls hanging from the chandeliers began to sway in slow, eerie unison. The air turned foul, thick with the metallic tang of iron and the sickly sweetness of scorched flowers.

Then, without warning, the guests began to move.

One by one, they formed a line—blank-eyed, trance-bound. As if pulled by invisible strings, they marched wordlessly toward the staircase, each heading for their designated room. From the ground floor to the second, the procession climbed in eerie silence. Not a single soul resisted. The dolls had taken hold.

Ichiro had vanished.

Haruki rose in a panic, trying to reach his colleagues—but they were already far gone, their minds hijacked. Down the corridor, he heard voices. Dozens of them. None he could recognize. Not quite whispers. Not quite words. Just... hisses. And chants. A chorus from beyond the veil.

Rain crashed down in sheets, drumming against the roof like a war march. Outside the hotel’s perimeter, the police dog howled—a sharp, piercing cry that cut through the chaos. Then it bolted toward the building, teeth bared, eyes blazing with purpose.

The dog darted through the gardens, nose to the earth, sniffing out the hidden curses. One by one, it found them—waraningyō buried beneath the soil like secrets. With furious precision, it clawed and snapped, tearing the dolls apart. Heads ripped from bodies. Charms shredded. Strings unraveled into mud.

From the lobby window, Haruki watched in shock—then awe.

“Kashikoi inu da…” he breathed. “Smart dog.”

Without hesitation, Haruki burst through the doors, rain soaking him instantly. He dropped to his knees beside the dog, both of them digging, destroying, unbinding the spell one doll at a time—fighting the darkness with their bare hands and bared teeth.  

Beneath the hotel, in the suffocating dark of the chamber, Ichiro stood over Nakai—his eyes sunken, his breath a rattle. "Cast the spell," he growled, "room by room. Let the walls feast. Let their souls be swallowed like smoke."

Nakai, trembling, obeyed. Ancient symbols flickered across the floor, glowing faintly as the spell awakened.

Ichiro lowered himself onto a throne of jagged stones, as if the earth itself had shaped a seat for him. In his hands, he clutched a black voodoo doll—its fabric pulsing faintly, as though it had a heartbeat of its own.

Above, in the hotel's dim corridors, the staff moved like shadows. Their faces blank. Their eyes void of self. Possessed guests were escorted silently to their rooms—not with fresh towels, nor comforting toiletries—but with coils of coarse rope placed gently on each bed, as if it were part of the evening amenity.

No one resisted. No one spoke. Just a procession of hushed footsteps and creaking floorboards.

Ichiro smirked in the darkness. "Let them hang themselves," he whispered. "Let them mirror the dolls above—limbs swinging from chandeliers, lifeless, obedient. A hotel of puppets. A shrine of silence."

While Haruki and the dog tore through the garden, ripping the cursed dolls limb from limb, a voice—thin as thread and cold as bone—curled into his ear.

“Ni… ichi… kyū… Ni… ichi… kyū…”

A whisper. A chant. A summons.

Haruki froze.

It wasn’t the wind. It was deliberate. Male. Familiar.

Room 219.

As if compelled by something ancient and unseen, Haruki dropped the last doll and turned. The rain pounded harder, but his feet moved on their own. He reentered the hotel—its lobby dim and flickering like a dying breath—and climbed the stairs with urgency.

Room 219 waited, door already ajar.

He pushed it open.

Inside, the air was heavier—thick with incense and memory. And there, seated on the edge of the bed like he’d been waiting for years, was Shion. His gaze met Haruki’s—not wild or threatening—but calm, resolute. Not the look of a ghost haunting.

But of one ready to help.

As if he, too, had waited for this very moment.

[Next: Spell Of The Unbroken]