I shoved my phone into my pocket—dead weight of uselessness—and forced myself upright on shaking legs. My head pounded, lungs burned, sweat cooled on my skin. I had to do something. Sitting and waiting was a death sentence.
I wiped tears from my cheeks, blinking rapidly to clear the haze. Slowly, I edged away from the stall walls, keeping my back pressed against the tile like a lizard clinging to a rock. Footsteps—or was it the faint hum of air conditioning?—drifted through the bathroom door. My skin crawled. Hachishakusama could appear anywhere.
I didn't believe in luck, but I decided to treat every unlocked door, every unlocked cabinet, every unlocked anything… as an opportunity. Maybe I could rig something, a trap, however crude. I was sixteen, scared out of my mind—but I still had the kind of creativity that comes from panic.
The bathroom door clicked open. Emergency lights from the hallway cast long rectangles of light across the floor. I looked both ways: empty corridor. Perfect. I dashed out, clutching my backpack strap for balance.
I needed a workspace. A room with objects heavy enough to injure something monstrous. A classroom in chaos would be ideal—tables strewn about, cabinets unlocked, books piled high. I sprinted down the hall, past the flickering gym doors and the art room where paint-splattered aprons still hung on hooks.
The art room—yes. Heavy wooden cupboards, tall metal shelves, buckets of plaster. If I could tip a cupboard onto her, maybe it would slow her down, buy me time.
I flung open the art room door. The room lay in disarray: wet clay on the sinks, scraps of paper curling on counters, broken brushes strewn across the floor. In the corner stood two tall wooden cupboards—light brown, bolted vaguely to the wall but each one only anchored by a single rusted hinge. Perfect.
My heart hammered as I slipped inside. I forced my breathing to slow. Step by step, I approached the storage cupboard closest to the door. My palms slid against the dusty surface. I pulled out my pocketknife—dad's old Swiss Army. The tiny blade felt absurd in my hand, but it was something.
I glanced at the doorway. No movement. Silence.
"Okay," I muttered. "Think."
I studied the cabinet. Two hinged doors, each with a small handle; inside, heavy glass jars filled with paints and solvents. If I could tip the cupboard forward, it would crash over the threshold. The doors would swing open, spilling glass and chemical fumes; it might even pin her.
First step: unlatch the cabinet's screw anchors. I knelt, poking the blade into the gap between cabinet and wall. Dust fell in clouds. One hinge—too rusty. I tried to wiggle it; the metal groaned, then held fast. No go. Two bolts on the floor brackets. I jammed the knife under the bracket and pried with all my strength. The wooden base creaked and shifted.
My chest tightened. My ears throbbed with the sound of my pulse. But the bracket loosened, splintering with a final crack. I yanked free the wood anchor, heart surging. One side unfastened.
Next: rig a trigger. I needed a tripwire. I rummaged through the back of the cupboard, sliding aside stacks of plywood scraps and plaster molds until my hand closed on a coil of string—maroon yarn leftover from a weaving project. I yanked it free, cutting a length long enough to span the doorway.
My hands shook so badly the string looped into knots, but I forced it straight. Then, with my Swiss Army screwdriver, I drilled (as well as a butterfingered kid could) a small hole into the bottom of the cupboard, just above the floor. I tied one end of the yarn through it, securing with a tight knot.
Now the other end: a nail in the wall across the doorway. I paced, measuring the distance, then hammered the yarn-rooted nail into the plaster with a small wooden mallet from the art room. The wire ran taut across the threshold, low enough that a tall figure's foot would catch it but high enough a teenager in a hurry might step right over. Perfect.
I knelt by the cupboard again, threading the string through the hinge of the free door. If the door swung inward, it would pull the string, dislodge the nail, and send the cupboard forward.
But I needed to weigh the doors shut so that the cupboard wouldn't topple prematurely. I grabbed an old sculpture stand—heavy metal, maybe ten kilos—and propped it against the cabinet doors. They held firm.
My heart pounded so hard I could taste it. I wiped sweat from my forehead. The trap was set.
Next: bait. Even in the flickering emergency light, my breath caught at the image of that featureless face peering through a crack. She never spoke, but that hollow stare… I knew she watched motion more than sound. I needed movement, something she'd come to investigate.
A hallway window at the end of the corridor led to the courtyard below; breeze slipping through cracked seals. If I tossed something out that window, she might follow. But I couldn't risk going outside.
Instead, I grabbed a polish rag from the shelf, dipped it in a pot of silver paint, and smeared it across the art room's windowpane. Long streaks, vertical lines—like bloody handprints. Enough to look like a plea for help, a struggling victim's final mark.
Then I dragged a chair under the window and climbed up, placing the final smear just at eye level. I stepped down, breathing like a bellows.
"Her," I whispered to no one. "She'll come."
I retreated behind a row of desks, heart racing. The rag dropped from my hand and thudded against the floor—too loud. My head snapped up. But no footsteps. Just my own ragged breathing echoing off the walls.
I crouched low, eyes fixed on the cupboard at the door. Only a few breaths until—
A soft scrape. The painted window reflected a shape—I could almost see that wide-brimmed hat framing a face like smooth porcelain. No eyes, no mouth, only a blank canvas. She paused, head tilting. She reached out a gloved hand and traced one finger along the painted line, watching the silver drip down.
This was my chance.
The second her finger pulled away from the window, I sprinted for the cupboard's side, yanking on the free door. The string jerked taught, the nail sheared from the wall with a metallic pop, and the entire cupboard shuddered.
I dove behind a desk as the cupboard lurched forward, doors swinging open, toppling over the threshold with a deafening crash. Glass jars flew free, shattering against the tile. A cloud of paint fumes and aerosols burst out, filling the room with a choking sweetness.
For a heartbeat, I saw her—just for an instant—caught in the cupboard's descent. Her impossibly long legs collapsed at odd angles, the coat ballooning around her as wood and metal rained down. But she didn't scream. She didn't move.
The cupboard hit the floor with a thunderous crack, slamming the desk I'd shielded behind. Splintered wood and twisted metal pinned the door half-shut.
Silence.
I lay flat, chest heaving, watching the wreckage. My ears rang. My vision swam in a haze of paint mist.
Then—nothing. No movement beneath the rubble. No sign of her coat or hat. Only shards of glass and spilled paint.
I dared to breathe again.
I crawled out from behind the desk on all fours, every joint aching. I edged to the cupboard, toes scraping splinters. Threw aside a broken panel. My stomach sank: it was empty. The coat was gone, the hat was gone—no trace of her.
I pressed my hand against the jagged edge of a board, careful not to cut myself. My mind raced. The legend said you could hurt her, slow her—but never destroy her. She would come again, stronger, angrier.
I took a rag, dabbing at the spilled paint, breathing deeply. Breathe in. Breathe out. I surveyed the room: broken cupboards, glass everywhere, the trap itself a ruin. Yet for the first time since this nightmare began, I felt something flicker inside me. Not relief—I knew she wasn't gone—but a spark of control.
I patted my knife back into my pocket, fingers closing around its cool metal. I'd figured something out: urban legends feed on fear, but they can't stand against action. Against a plan.
My trap had failed to catch her—but it proved I could fight back.
I stood, legs wobbling, scanning the chaos. Somewhere out there, beyond these walls, she was coming. But I would be ready.