Spell Of The Unbroken

The door to Room 219 creaked open as if sighing after years of silence. Haruki stepped inside, water dripping from his soaked clothes, leaving ghost-like footprints on the faded tatami. The air was thick, not with mold or dust, but memory. It felt lived-in, as though time had folded itself around this space and refused to let go.

On the edge of the bed sat Shion, hands resting lightly on his knees. His expression was calm, eyes shimmering with something deeper than grief or fear. He met Haruki's gaze not as a ghost, nor as a victim—but as a guide.

"You came," Shion said softly. "Good."

Haruki said nothing, catching his breath, pulse still racing from the horrors downstairs. The air around them pulsed gently, a warm contrast to the cold rain outside.

"You're not like the others," Shion continued. "I believe Ichiro’s spell—his voodoo—was crafted with precision. It targeted a specific kind of person: guests. Tourists. People who came seeking comfort, control, or some form of closure. But that same precision is what kept you safe. You didn’t come as a customer. You were invited, not welcomed. And in that difference... you were spared."

Haruki's brow furrowed. "I don't understand."

Shion rose, moving with strange grace. "Voodoo is not chaos. It is law. It works through grudge, pain, and twisted longing. But it cannot bind what does not resist with resentment. That's why... you must make peace inside."

He stepped closer. "Call your wife. Say it. Not for her forgiveness. But so your heart is emptied of poison. You cannot help me, or Marie, or the others, if you carry rot inside."

Haruki stared at him. “Now?”

Shion nodded. "Now."

Trembling, Haruki pulled out his phone. The signal barely flickered, but it held. He found her number—labeled as "Hana My Wifey"—and pressed call.

She picked up after the second ring.

There was silence. The kind that holds back a wave.

"Hana," he whispered, voice cracking. "Gomen nasai. I... I'm sorry."

More silence.

Then a breath. A faint, almost imperceptible inhale on the other end.

"I know," she said. "Let's work things out."

The line went dead—not in sorrow, but in peace. The call had ended like a prayer quietly answered. And those final words from his wife filled Haruki with a quiet resolve—to bring this chaos to an end, and to do it right.

Warmth returned to Haruki’s chest, like light had been poured into it. He looked at his palm—and there, burned faintly into the skin, was the impression of a frayed string in the shape of a broken loop.

Shion nodded. "That’s your seal. The spell I cast will hold... as long as your heart remains clean."

Then Shion paused, as if a sudden thought clawed its way to the surface.

"Wait…" he whispered, turning to Haruki. "Where is the dog?"

Haruki blinked, confused, but Shion's voice sharpened, urgent now.
"Haruki, listen to me. Marie—my beloved—is inside that dog. We hid her spirit there to escape the eyes of Nakai and Ichiro. It was the only vessel they wouldn't suspect."

At that moment, soft paw-steps echoed from the hallway—gentle, deliberate.

The dog stepped into the room. Her fur was drenched, clinging to her frame in soaked tufts, and dirt streaked her legs from the garden’s curse-stained soil. But her eyes—those eyes shimmered with something unmistakable: grief, recognition, and a human soul desperately fighting to be seen.

She stepped toward a staff member wandering the hall, dazed and blank. Lifting her paw gently, she tapped the woman’s leg.

The staff member flinched.

A shiver ran through her. Her eyes blinked rapidly—twice, three times—then steadied. Her mouth opened, but no words came. She looked around, disoriented, confused... human.

The dog moved on.

Tap. Blink. Stirring. Each touch loosened a thread of the possession.

But when she reached for a guest—an elderly man stumbling toward his room—the air shimmered violently. A pulse of invisible force sent the dog backward, yelping softly. She growled in frustration but dared not try again.

“She’s bound by the spell’s law,” Shion murmured. “Staff can be freed. Guests cannot. Not yet."

Haruki knelt beside her, running a hand along her side. She leaned in, eyes closing briefly.

Haruki looked down. “She knew... all along?”

Shion nodded. “She was the first to fight back. Even in death.”

A rumble shook the walls.

Far below, in the earth-bound chamber, Ichiro's eyes snapped open. He clutched the waraningyō, now writhing violently in his hands.

"One of them fights back," he hissed. His voice was not angry. It was terrified.

He turned to Nakai. "The seal is weakening. The pattern... is failing. I need more blood. Prepare the Binding of the Eldest Curse."

Nakai hesitated, lips pale.

“NOW!” Ichiro bellowed.

Shion glanced toward the door.

"We have little time," he said. "The Ritual of Kumo no Raijin begins tonight. And only one thing can save them now."

Haruki swallowed. “What is it?”

Shion’s eyes flickered with memory—and pain.

“Truth.”

A rumble shook the skies above Hotel Toyohashi.

At that same moment, deep in the belly of the hotel, behind faded velvet curtains in the underground ritual chamber, Ichiro stood shirtless before a cracked mirror. His back was a canvas of old scars—some etched from years of austere monkhood, others carved by rituals far more sinister.

He picked up the black voodoo doll, cloth stiff with dried threads of age, and slowly plunged a witch needle into its heart. Blood—his own—dripped onto the doll’s stitched fabric, soaking it dark.

Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled.

Ichiro raised the doll above his head, whispering an ancient incantation. A sudden gust of wind slammed open the chamber doors. The storm had arrived.

Up he climbed, barefoot, stair after stair, until he reached the front entrance of the hotel.

Rain poured like judgment.

He stepped beneath the porte-cochère, knelt on the slick stone tiles, arms outstretched. The doll pulsed faintly in his hand.

Above, lightning gathered in the belly of the clouds, hungry.

Tonight, the spell would be fulfilled:
The souls of the guests who had hung themselves—helpless under Ichiro's curse—would be devoured and transferred into his own flesh.
Their pain would become his power.
And Ichiro… would become young again.

As thunder cracked the sky, the tip of the witch needle gleamed—waiting for the strike that would change everything.

[Next: Black Voodoo Doll]