And with that, he began to recount an experience he’d had in elementary school. Saeko leaned against the door as she listened to his story.
“I was born in Mishima, Shizuoka, but we moved to Mitaka, Tokyo when I was just a baby. We moved back to Mishima when I was in fourth grade. I started school there in September, right as it was starting back up after summer vacation. On my first day, they had me stand at the front of the classroom and introduce myself. At recess time, a boy with delicate features and pale skin came up and put his arm around me like we were old friends. He seemed fascinated by the idea that I was from Tokyo, and he kept asking me about life in the big city. I gave him the best answers I could come up with, and before I knew it he was inviting me to come over to his house to hang out. He seemed a bit strange to me, but I was new and I didn’t have any friends, so that day after school I took him up on his invitation.
“His house was in a quiet residential neighborhood behind the Mishima Taisha shrine. The main house was a newish western-style two-story building. But in front of the house, on the same lot, there stood an old-fashioned, one-story shack. It was surrounded by trees, and the area around it was dark and shadowy. It looked like an old woodcutter’s shack from a storybook, and it caught my eye, the way it contrasted so sharply with the fancy modern western house on the same property.
“That day, all we did was play chess and watch TV, but we got along well and from that day on, we hung out pretty frequently. Whenever I went over to his house, I wondered about the shack, and eventually I asked him what it was for.
“Right away, his face clouded over. He lowered his voice. ‘Don’t ever, ever go in there!’ he warned me.
“Naturally, I wanted to know why.
“He acted like that was the dumbest question in the world. ‘Why?’ he repeated, sounding exasperated. ‘You mean I never told you? My crazy old grandfather lives alone in there. He’s a total psycho. Don’t ever go near there unless you want him to break your neck.’
“He told me various stories to illustrate his point. The old man used chopsticks to pick the dead flies off of flypaper and collect them in a glass pot. He hated animals, and whenever a stray wandered too close, he put on wooden sandals and kicked it as hard as he could. The old man had killed two stray cats and a dog that way, my friend said. The old man also kept an air rifle by his porch and used it to shoot down crows when the mood struck him. The only thing he ate was rice with canned enoki mushrooms. He muttered to himself constantly. My friend’s mother left his meals for him on a tray in his front entryway, and the old man devoured them in minutes. It didn’t take him long, since all he ate was white rice and canned mushrooms, and he always returned his dirty dishes on the tray right where he had found them. For months, nobody in my friend’s family had seen the old man’s face. Even my friend’s mother had only heard his muffled mumblings when she left him his meals …
“As I listened to my friend’s story, a vivid image of the old man began to form in my mind. How he lived in that dark, dirty shack, rarely bathing, the hems of his garments grimy with dirt. A foul-smelling, unpredictable eccentric who should be avoided at all costs. A dangerous maniac.
“Whenever I went over to my friend’s house, I had to pass by the old man’s shack. I avoided it as best I could, but whenever I thought I heard a noise from inside, I bolted at top speed.
“My friend was good at his studies, slightly mischievous, and enjoyed teasing people. He was brilliant at coming up with ideas for new games. He was a lot of fun to hang out with, and he taught me lots of new things, so I spent a lot of time at his house, even though I was afraid of the old man in the shack.
“For two-and-a-half years, up until the time when my friend was accepted to a private junior high school in Tokyo, I spent a lot of time at his house. As far as I knew, his grandfather continued to live in the shack, though I never actually saw him. But when the wind riffled through the leaves of the trees, I could almost hear the old man gnashing his teeth. My heart pounded with terror when I imagined the old man bursting out of his house, shouting at the top of his lungs, his hair wild and messy, his tattered garments fluttering.
“Just once, I saw the old man for myself before my friend left for his private school in Tokyo.
“That day, the sky was just beginning to grow dusky as we played catch out on the lawn in the yard. My friend threw the ball and I missed it, allowing it to roll right into the half-open doorway of the shack. I remember freezing in my tracks, terrified. I looked at my friend and gulped with apprehension.
“My friend seemed amused by my fear of his grandfather. He made no move to retrieve the ball and instead shot me a challenging look as if to say, ‘You missed the ball — you go get it.’ He had a faint smirk on his face, and he stood watching me patronizingly with his arms crossed as though he were a grown-up and I was just a kid.
“You know how boys are. We’d do anything to avoid being called a coward or a sissy. I was supposed to go over to the shack like it was no big deal, slip inside, and get the ball. So I summoned all my courage and set out towards the shack, but I was so terrified I could barely walk. Still, I was determined not to let on to my friend how scared I was. Resolving to just get it over with as quickly as possible, I crept through the door into the front entryway and looked for the ball. Inside, the smell of earth was stronger than in the yard. The air was dank and chilly. My heart was pounding.
“The ball had stopped just at the threshold where the flooring began. It was right next to a pair of carefully placed wooden sandals, their toes stubby with wear. Those are the sandals the old man must have worn when he killed the strays, I thought. Just then, right as I was reaching for the ball, a grimy pair of feet stepped into the sandals. Their toes and their tops were pasty white, and the toenail of the little toe on each side was a gnarled lump. Two ankles peeked out from underneath a disheveled kimono, revealing a gigantic mole right on the bony protuberance of one ankle bone. I looked up, too terrified even to speak.
“There he stood, exactly as I had imagined him. In the dim light of the entryway, he wore a dingy kimono and his face was bleary and lifeless. With a vacant stare, his jaw pumped up and down, as if he were trying to speak, and food dribbled out of it. For the first and last time in my life, my legs completely gave out. I crumpled to the floor, landing on my rear and supporting myself with my hands behind me. My throat seized up and I couldn’t find my voice to call out to my friend.
“The old man raised one foot and kicked the ball towards me. It rolled straight towards my hand. Somehow, I managed to pick it up and crawl back out of the house. Then I ran, stumbling, out into the yard where my friend was waiting. At this point, I was way past the point of worrying about looking cool. I didn’t care who called me a wimp. I dropped to all fours in the grass, panting like an animal.
“My friend knelt down next to me. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. His smirk was gone, as was the arrogant stance. In fact, he seemed vaguely frightened as he placed a hand on my shoulder.
“ ‘I … I saw your grandfather,’ I finally managed to say.
“My friend looked up towards the old hut and was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘You couldn’t have.’
“ ‘He rolled the ball back to me with the toe of his sandal!’ I insisted, tossing the ball over as proof.
“My friend twisted sideways, dodging the throw.
“ ‘He couldn’t have!’ he said again, this time more forcefully.
“I didn’t get it. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.