Onmyodo Case Files 001: Shinjuku Dead Zone

By John Luke Maxwell

Yamada Jiro is a twenty-one year old Japanese-American who, on a whim, travels with his best friend, Dexter, to his father's native country of Japan. After a mishap with their hotel reservations––and losing their money and luggage––Jiro finds himself facing uncertainty and the unknown when Dexter is kidnapped by an urban legend.

Armed with a cell phone app, which he got from a man dressed in purple at a game center, Jiro must seek out and banish the restless spirits that have been plaguing the Shinjuku district. He is aided in his new quest by Natsumi, his old friend and schoolmate, who is employed by the Bureau of Occult Affairs.

The Bureau's job is to keep otherworldly threats at bay while maintaining a low profile. To Jiro's surprise, they also have a connection to him and his family, a legacy that goes back generations. Long ago, Onmyoji––ancient sorcerers of immense power––protected Japan under the direct orders of the Emperor. Now, the Bureau is the least-respected branch of Japan's government and a dumping ground for embarrassing employees. There hasn't been an active onmyoji in Tokyo for over a decade, and a modern one armed with a cell phone doesn't exactly inspire the most confidence.

Jiro may not have wanted this life, but he has little choice but to trust the Bureau and their good intentions. Fortunately, he has Natsumi to back him up, who may have more than just friendly feelings for her old friend from America!

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Luke Maxwell
• Release date: Sep 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005078140

John Luke Maxwell

John Luke Maxwell grew up in the woods, a place that prides itself to this day on having no cable or high-speed Internet access. Therefore, it was only a matter of time before his escape!His family farmhouse was near the bayous of central Mississippi. Here, John learned about ghosts, witches, and other things that go bump in the night. Despite everyone's best efforts, he is more comfortable with creatures of the night than plain ol' ordinary 'good Christian folk'.John lives with his godmother, who is a witch, and their cat, who may or may not have been a dog in a former life. He identifies as a bisexual male, and is currently in a polyamorous relationship with several men, one of whom is also a witch.In his spare time, when he is not obsessing over his latest idea or worrying about whether or not a plot is coherent enough, John enjoys cooking, nature walks, and working on his 'Dad bod'. He runs a YouTube channel, and would like to become a space pirate one day.

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Shinjuku Dead Zone

陰陽道 Case Files 001

by John Luke Maxwell

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

To Verdant,

Who fulfilled my request for a fluffy lil’ cherub with wings!

Glossary:

Iie: No!

Hai: Yes/Affirmative.

–kun: A suffix, usually indicative of a young male.

–chan: A suffix, usually indicative of someone very young or female.

–san: A suffix, usually indicative of an adult––the English equivalent being Mister or Missus.

Dono: A rarely-used honorific, usually pertaining to nobility or someone of great importance.

Kitsune-gao: Literally, Fox-faced. Soft, pointed facial features in men or women, usually considered attractive.

Gaijin: A westerner/foreigner.

Nikuman: Steamed buns with meat and seasonings in the center. Usually sold as street food.

Ohaiyo gozaimasu: Good morning!

Domo arigato: Thank you very much.

Gomen nasai: I am very sorry.

Onmyodo/Onmyoji: A style of magick in Japanese folklore. Onmyoji are practitioners of said style.

Shikigami: A type of spirit summoned by an Onmyoji, usually to serve as a familiar or guardian.

Karuta: Traditional Japanese-style playing cards.

Cosplay: costume play; dressing up in costume.

Tsuihō suru: Expel!

Kogal: A contraction of kōkōsei gyaru (high school gal), which is a Japanese fashion culture that involves schoolgirls wearing an outfit based on Japanese school uniforms, but with very short skirts.

Taichou: Captain.

Ganbare Goemon: Go for it, Goemon! A multimedia franchise that began with a series of video games.

Oni: A Japanese ogre.

Kamikashi: Spirited away by gods. To vanish without a trace, in other words.

Hikikomori: Shut-in.

Nandayo kore wa nanite atarashī jigoku?: What new hell is this?

Takeshi’s Castle: An obstacle course game show.

Tatami: A type of mat used as a flooring material in traditional Japanese-style rooms.

Shi-ne: Die.

Ja mata: Bye.

Sensei: Teacher.

Anta baka: You idiot!

Hentai: Pervert (literal)/ porn (figurative)

Shikaku Usagi: Assassin rabbit/Killer rabbit

Shimatta: Literally means closed. More accurately, it is akin to Dammit!

Osamu Tezuka: Creator of, among other things, Astro Boy. Officially the god of manga in Japan.

Chabudai: A short-legged table used in traditional Japanese homes.

Kampai: Cheers!/literally Empty the cup/glass

Miko: Shinto priestess

Ofuda: A strip of paper with prayers written on it. Usually used for driving off evil spirits.

Sumimasen: Please excuse me./Pardon me.

Yasunori: Short for Kamo no Yasunori, a practitioner of onmyodo during the Heian period of Japan. He was considered the premiere onmyoji of his time.

Sensei: Teacher; literally, One who has come before. Can also be applied to a doctor or trainer.

Bakayaro: Dumb fucker!

Kyonshi: The Japanese word for ‘vampire’. Traditionally, these feed on human breath or ‘chi’––the life energy of a body. However, in more recent years, vampires in Japanese media have adopted the western idea of feasting on blood.

World 1 – 1

はなこさん 隠し

Spirited Away by Hanako-san!

It is quiet on the train.

That strikes me as odd. It doesn’t feel as if the train should be quiet. The only noise comes from the ‘clack-clack’ sound of the cars rolling over the tracks. Even that sounds muted. There are no voices—no other audible signs of life.

My head swivels to the left and right. I scan the train car, taking in the empty seats. The answer for why the train car is silent becomes clear. It is because there is no one else here. I am all alone in the vacant train car.

For some reason, the thought gives me chills.

I have the seat next to the sliding doors to myself. None of the other seats next to me are occupied, either. No one stands in the middle, holding on to the overhead strap for dear life. That is a relief, since it feels as though the train is moving very fast. I haven’t ridden a train in years, but the memory in my head tells me that this one is going much, much faster.

All of this strikes me as very odd. There should be a few people in the train car. Having the place to myself feels wrong, somehow. Unfortunately, with the exception of the earlier memory, my brain refuses to cooperate. I can’t recall why the car being empty feels wrong to me.

The lights overhead flicker. They are the only thing keeping the inside of the train car illuminated. Nothing from the outside is visible. I look out the glass window behind my seat, hoping to catch sight of a skyscraper at least, only to find pitch black.

It isn’t just that it is nighttime. I can’t see anything, be it shapes or movement. It is as if the train were moving through a tunnel.

Jiro-kun.

The voice catches me by surprise. I jump in my seat at the same time that the lights overhead flicker again. There’s someone sitting in the seat across from me now. I cannot fathom how I missed them before.

Oh, hello!I say, still surprised by the unexpected presence. For some reason, I’m speaking Japanese instead of English. Sorry, I didn’t notice you there. Are–?

The question dies in my throat. I can’t remember what it was, even.

Dad?

My father is sitting in the seat across from me. He is exactly how I remember him—a pair of kind eyes framed by an impish expression. Dad always appeared to be laughing at some hidden joke. It was a trait other people found annoying, but I loved that about him. It was like we shared some big secret with each other and no one else, not even Mom.

Jiro, my father says, addressing me by my first name. I’ve come a long way. You’ll have to be ready when the time comes.

I have no clue what my father means, but that isn’t important. It’s been such a very long time since I’ve laid eyes on the man. Seeing him here and now makes my eyes tear up.

Don’t cry, he tells me.

I want to do what he says, but it’s impossible. The tears roll down the sides of my face. They feel like hot streaks, burning trails along my skin.

Dad, I––

Yamada-san!

A sharp voice cuts me off. My father and I turn to the left––his right––at the same time. No one called me by my last name when he was around. The title became mine after Dad’s funeral. At some point, I got used to it.

We both look at the same spot on the train. Three women stand a short distance away. They look to be in their teens, several years younger than I am. All three are dressed in school uniforms, though I do not recognize the style.

They are all Japanese, and while their features are different, I can guess that the three are related. Their faces share enough similarities to make me think they are siblings. The one to the right has the longest mane of hair, following all the way down past her hips. The one on the left has done her hair up in several lengthy tails using hair clips and elaborate ribbons. The last one, in the center, is the one with the shortest cut. It barely touches her shoulders.

You are not supposed to be here, Yamada-san, the one in the center speaks, using a crisp, no-nonsense tone.

Her voice makes me think that she is used to be obeyed. I’ve never heard that sort of tone come out of a Japanese schoolgirl before. It gives me cold chills.

You should leave now, says the one on the left.

Don’t make us regret the oath that we took, the one on the left warns. Leave now if you want to miss the sunrise.

That strikes me as a very odd thing to say, especially to a total stranger. I can’t tell whether or not Dad knows these three. They don’t look like anyone I remember meeting when I was young.

The inside of the train car is suddenly bright. Light from the outside shines through the windows, blinding me. It’s bright enough to extinguish the flickering lights above our heads. Though, as I think on it further, that isn’t hard.

I turn in my seat, figuring that we must have come out of the tunnel we were in. I’m curious to know where we are, and which direction the train is going. I can’t remember if I even kept my ticket stub. All of that fades to a distant memory once I get a good look outside.

We’re in Tokyo!

I can’t believe that I’ve come to my father’s home country. He’s told me stories about it for years, and the work that he used to do. My heart leaps into my chest, threatening to burst with joy.

The sensation doesn’t last, however. As I look out across the landscape, a sick feeling twists my stomach. The mega-city has been devastated. There’s just enough left of the city for me to recognize certain landmarks. The rest of the city is a barren necropolis.

Buildings for hundreds of miles have been flatted. Skyscrapers are reduced to rubble, or have been hollowed out to resemble skeletons. I can see ruined houses that look as if they were smashed flat by some great weight from high above. Whole sections of the city are utterly unrecognizable. Others bear only the vaguest resemblance to what they once were.

Worst of all, though, is that I don’t see any people. There’s more rubble than there are buildings left, but all of it looks deserted. I can’t hear the sound of people crying.

Even the children are gone.

Dad?! I hear panic rising in my voice, and now there’s music in the air. Dad, what happened?

Dad doesn’t answer, because the train car is empty. He and the three young women have vanished into thin air. I’m left alone with the harsh daylight streaming through the windows and the nightmare that is waiting for me outside.

The train is starting to slow. I can hear the signal warning passengers––though there aren’t any––to stay back. And that music keeps playing.

It feels as if something is vibrating in my pocket––

That is enough to make my eyes snap open. Dude, your phone’s ringing, says a voice next to me.

Blinking away the sleep from my tired eyes, I dig into my pocket for my smartphone. The number on the screen is one that I recognize. I don’t need to see the name above it to know who it is. With practiced ease, I swipe my thumb across the right icon to answer it.

Hey, Mom, I say, trying to sound cheerful.

I’m still on a train, but a different car than the one from my dream. Daylight has come, but it isn’t the same searing light. I can make out buildings all around us, and skyscrapers in the distance. All of them are intact, occupied, and in no way damaged.

Yes. I'm sure, Mom. We're having a great time.

I’m grateful for the quiet, since that meant I can talk to my mother without having to yell. The noise from inside of the train car is bad enough. Even worse, this particular train feels old. It shakes something fierce while rumbling down the tracks. I’m not used to taking public transit and it shows.

Yes. We've already made it to the hotel.

Unlike most American males, lying to my mother is not something that comes without consequences. My stomach clenches like it is being squeezed by an iron hand. I feel sweat pop out of the pores on my forehead.

One eye wanders over to the man sitting next to me. Dexter Ward has his hands full with the Nintendo 3DS that he always carries with him. The casing is cracked and the screen is smeared with several years worth of fingerprints.

And yet, Dexter refuses to replace it. It has been his security blanket since he left home. No matter where we go, my best friend always keeps it in his pocket. I’ve watched him pull it out to play while we wait in line at movie theaters, or even at the post office.

The man is never bored so long as he has that.

Very tired, I said in answer to her question. The flight from Beijing to Tokyo had turbulence. I couldn't sleep a wink.

Our train car chooses that moment to shake hard. I am nearly thrown out of my seat. Without looking up from his game, Dexter hand reaches out to take hold of my arm. I am grateful since, despite it being daybreak, the floor of the JR Line bound for Shinjuku doesn't look particularly clean.

"No, the hotel is a Western-style chain. We might check out an onsen when we head north in a few days. I swallow the lump in my throat and keep going. Listen, I'm going to let you go."

It has reached the point where I cannot lie to her anymore.

I love you, Mom. I promise. I'll call soon.

The phone gives off a soft 'beep' as I end the call. I stare at my reflection in the black surface, looking just as guilty as I feel. Wisely, Dexter waits a moment before speaking up.

You sure it was a good idea to lie to your mom like that?

I scowl in response. Better that than admit to her we're broke, homeless, and missing most of our luggage.

Dexter hasn't looked up from his handheld the whole time. He makes a face at my answer, but keeps right on playing.

Meaning, you're not going to ask her for money?

It isn't an accusation. In fact, Dexter doesn't sound the least bit upset. He is taking our situation in stride like he does most things in life. I am the one that has been freaking out. My voice was calm throughout the phone call with Mom, but that was because I had forced myself to not panic. Now that she has hung up, the familiar feeling of anxiety washes back over me.

I am a grown man. There is no reason for me to remind Dexter of this, seeing as we are the same age, but I do it anyway. Twenty-one years old. Fresh out of college. And ready to take on the world.

Or, at least Japan, Dexter corrects––again, without looking up.

Figure of speech, I come back with. I do not need to call my Mommy in a panic begging for help every time something goes wrong.

That's very brave of you, Dexter notes as his thumb repeatedly mashes a button on his 3DS. Meaning you have a plan?

I hesitate, feeling my stomach knot up for an entirely new reason. Not as such, no.

This gets Dexter to raise up. He actually sets his handheld console down.

Sorry, what?

It is a fair question. We've got, what? I ask. A couple hundred dollars between the two of us?

Dexter nods. Something like that. I might have a few extra bucks in my carry-on bag. Dexter gave the travel bag resting by his side a pat. For emergencies.

Which would be right now, I point out dryly. Since, as of this moment, it's the only money we have to our names.

Not true, Dexter reminds me smugly. We still have our credit cards.

Both of which are maxed out. My eyes narrowed into slits. I blew mine paying for our plane tickets. You spend yours on our hotel.

An edge has entered my voice. The one you were supposed to make reservations for. The one you were supposed to call and confirm that we had. The one that, it turns out––

Okay! Okay! I'm sorry. Dexter holds his hands up in surrender. But I did contact the website. The hotel chain, I mean. Not cheaphotels.com!

And? Something occurs to me at that moment. Wait, cheaphotels.com?

They've got good rates! Dexter makes it sound as if I am attacking him personally. Anyway, the woman who spoke English told me the website took my credit card, but then never made the reservation with the hotel.

Making that the second time for the duration of this trip that we've been ripped off. It is impressive in a weird kind of way. We might be setting a record.

Dexter seems to like that idea. Just wait until the travel agencies hear about this. Hey, we might get cast in a credit card commercial!

I have every intention of letting the people responsible for this fiasco know what I think. Though, it will most likely not be in the way that Dexter is talking about. Something tells me the language I use isn’t going to be suitable for a general audience, here or in the United States.

Plus, Dexter adds, things will be alright once we find our luggage.

Moments such as this put me in awe of Dexter's optimism. Dexter, I begin, speaking very slowly. If we were in America, and someone had stolen our suitcases––which had most of our travel money inside of them––out of the lobby of the hotel we were supposed to be staying in, what do you think the police would do about it?

Dexter spends a long thirty seconds thinking this over. The JR train has had time to stop and pick up the first load of passengers we’ve seen so far. Fortunately, no one makes us give up our seats. Dexter, being the tall and lanky soul he is, has pale skin that marks his Caucasian heritage. The most unusual thing about him is the curly mane of auburn hair that falls well past his shoulders.

Me? I had inherited my father's features and slightly tan skin tone. The average Westerner couldn't tell that I am only half Japanese. Except for the hair, of course. I have the same bright red hair as my mother along with her vivid green eyes.

Together, the two of us draw quite a few looks. I might have been able to pass off my hair as a dye job, but there is no mistaking the eyes. No one from my father's country has green eyes like mine, not unless they were of a similar mixed heritage as myself.

And Dexter? He stands out like the proverbial sore thumb!

Speaking of, Dexter shakes me out of my thoughts, and away from the nervous glances people are giving us, by loudly declaring, Absolutely nothing!

If I thought people were staring before, it is an entirely different story now. The nervous glances have vanished. People are openly glaring now. Granted, they are glaring past me at Dexter.

Dexter, however, doesn't appear to notice. It makes me uncomfortable regardless.

Right, I say, keeping my voice low and in English. So what makes you think it'll be different here?

Little by little, the truth of our situation sinks in. Oh, is all Dexter can manage.

I want to be angry, but the blame can't be laid solely at Dexter's feet. True, he is the one who suggested we come to Japan, but I agreed to it.

I say, 'suggested', but it was more like 'woke me up at 3 o’clock in the morning with the announcement that he wanted to go'.

We had gone to a bar the night before. It had been a few months since we both graduated. A few extra courses here and there, plus some summer semesters, meant that we were both ahead of the rest of the senior class.

Dexter and I did the Walk of Shame in December to collect our college diplomas. Though, in Dexter’s case, it had been more like a Stumble of Shame. Being taller, it was a lot harder to find a graduation robe that fit Dexter’s long, lanky frame. The poor guy had wound up with one that showed off his skinny ankles. A classmate had offered to tailor it for him, but ended up making the robes too long. Dexter kept tripping over it the whole time.

We were both proud of ourselves. Mom had given us a cash deposit with the stipulation that we not spend it all at once. Dexter didn’t received anything, sadly. He hadn’t laid eyes on his family since he moved away to attend college. It had to to with ‘religious differences’, according to him.

The next couple of months were spent working dead-end jobs while we hunted for better ones. There had been the usual struggles as well: making ends meet, paying rent on time, putting money away for a rainy day.

It was spring break before either of us realized that we hadn’t actually done anything together to celebrate. Thus, an evening of debauchery was planned. We sent out requests for all of our old college friends to meet us at a nearby pub. Dexter and I got there first and started putting away beers. Then, to keep himself awake while we continued to wait, Dexter downed several energy drinks.

At around ten or so, we got the text messages from everyone. They all had the same excuses. Real life had gotten in the way. Some had to work on the weekends