Black Voodoo Doll

The storm was no longer just outside. It had entered the bones of the hotel.

Lightning flared behind every curtained window like searchlights of judgment. Inside Room 219, silence reigned—unnatural, tight, as if the air held its breath. All the hotel staff huddled together, backs pressed tightly against the wall. In the center of the room sat Shion—visible only to Haruki—cross-legged with his shamisen resting on his lap. His fingers hovered above the strings like a surgeon poised before the first cut. Though they could not see him, the staff could hear the music.

“Do not speak,” he whispered to Haruki. “Just listen. Feel. This spell will cost me.”

From every chandelier in the cursed hotel, the waraningyō swayed gently—twisting on their strings like dancers of death. Their bead eyes ignited into red sparks. That was when they heard it.

The Ritual of Kumo no Raijin had begun.

Down in the courtyard, Ichiro stood beneath the porte-cochère, rain drenching his bare chest, arms raised. A witch's needle glistened in his palm, already soaked in his own blood. He drove it straight into the heart of the black voodoo doll suspended from a lacquered cane. The wind howled. Lightning split the sky like a curse delivered from heaven.

Thunder cracked. Lightning struck. The doll ignited.

A monstrous cry of pain—no, ecstasy—erupted from Ichiro’s throat. His bones twisted and healed, his skin tightened, blemishes vanished. Hair curled, beard sharpened, spine unbent.

He became young again.

Groomed. Regal. Radiant.

His laughter echoed off the walls like a prophet possessed.

“You see this?” he called out, gesturing at his flawless form. His voice was velvet and fire. “I have become the lightning of vengeance.”

He turned to Nakai, who had watched in quiet horror from the shadows.

“Your time ends here,” Ichiro spat, lifting a single finger toward him.

Then, a flick—casual, cruel.

A crack echoed.

Nakai dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.

Ichiro didn’t flinch. “Every voodoo priest will bow and worship me!”

But as the thunder faded, something unexpected began.

His fingers trembled.

A patch of skin on his chest wrinkled—then another. His reflection in the puddle beneath him no longer held the youth he’d just claimed.

From somewhere inside the hotel, a melody began. Faint at first. The deep, eerie timbre of Shion’s shamisen.

A counter-chant, rising with impossible age and purity.

In Room 219, Shion’s voice merged with his instrument—a chant not of vengeance, but of memory, of love. A sacred refrain of the old forest wanderers, layered with a power Ichiro could never comprehend. Not a curse. A cleansing.

The dog barked once—low and fierce. Marie’s soul pulsed in her amber eyes as she pawed at the wall.

“Stay with me,” Shion whispered, his fingers bloodied but resolute. “Don’t let the hate win.”

The waraningyō screamed silently above them.

But Ichiro's power surged. His body teetered again toward youth. The black magic clung to him like a second skin.

Then came a rising hum, a tremble in the wood beneath them.

The monks returned.

Phantom warriors in ceremonial robes, bodies twisted by time, emerged—levitating up the stairwell like drowned gods. Their ropes unfurled, circling Shion’s ankles.

“No—” Haruki cried, reaching forward. But the dog barked again, unable to break through the phantom monks.

Ropes lashed around Shion’s neck, coiling tighter. Another snaked around his torso, pulling him backward. Still—he played. Each note rang defiant, slicing through the thick, cursed air.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEEEEP!

A long horn blared—an old sedan screeched into the porte-cochère, tires cutting through puddles. Rain and wind burst through the shattered entrance like a tidal wave of judgment.

From the downpour emerged Hana, soaked and breathless, carrying a wooden cross like a weapon. Beside her, Pastor Isagani, eyes blazing with urgency, raised a worn Holy Bible to the storm.

Haruki’s eyes locked on Hana.

Hope.

In that moment—forgiveness took root. The storm of guilt and silence inside him broke. He felt it—reconciliation, and the steady flame of his wife's love burning through the chaos. His heart steadied. He was no longer alone.

“No more darkness!” the pastor bellowed, stepping forward with outstretched hands. His voice pierced the veil like swordpoint. “By the authority not mine—but HIS—I cast you out!”

“IN JESUS’ NAME!”

A shriek of a thousand voices, twisted into one, shattered the room. Shadows fled into corners. The monks howled. The spell began to break.

Ropes snapped.

The bodies of the guests—police, investigators, even Haruki’s six friends—fell like fruit from poisoned trees. One by one, they gasped, eyes blinking into life. Their souls—ripped from Ichiro’s chest in spirals of silver smoke—returned to their rightful homes.

Ichiro screamed in agony.

Haruki lunged.

Ichiro staggered back into the lobby, clutching the cane, the black voodoo doll still burning at the tip. Haruki tackled him, both of them crashing into the furniture. Tables shattered. Velvet cushions burst.

The struggle was brutal. Equal strength. Young Ichiro against pure desperation.

Then—a burning torch tipped from the wall, landing on the velvet sofa.

Flames rushed up like vengeful angels.

They rolled, they fought. Haruki’s hand clutched the cane—

“Marie!” he screamed.

The dog leapt, teeth bared—not biting—but knocking the cane loose.

The doll fell into the fire.

Ichiro screamed—again. But this was no cry of victory. It was the raw, unraveling howl of a man watching his false divinity collapse into dust. His skin withered in seconds—wrinkling, cracking, mottled with age spots as his youth drained away. White strands overtook his once-dark beard; his spine bent under the weight of undoing.

Then, from the burning black voodoo doll, a thick, oily smoke slithered upward—twisting into the agonized faces of a hundred lost souls. They clawed at him, dragging him downward, their mouths open in silent screams. Their hands pulled, relentless.

The flames surged. Ichiro vanished into the fire, devoured.
His cane clattered to the floor, blackened and lifeless.

Silence.

The hotel staff stood frozen, drenched in sweat, faces pale and hollow. Eyes wide, but bodies unmoving—stunned by what they had witnessed. Around them, the guests began to stir, coughing, choking—hands scratching at their throats as if something unnatural had just let go.

And then…

From the haze stepped Shion and Marie—no longer bound by flesh. Their souls shimmered with a soft light as they moved silently through the wreckage, gathering the scattered waraningyo. Each doll they touched burst into ash, vanishing in soft hisses of smoke.

They reached for each other, hands clasping gently.

And with the first fragile light of Monday morning spilling through the broken windows,
they turned—
and walked into the rising sun,
fading into peace.

[Next: Epilogue]