The Curse Of The Sakura

"Sound—
That stealeth ever on the ear of him
Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,
And sees the darkness coming as a cloud—
Is not its form—its voice—most palpable and loud?"
—Edgar Allan Poe

Countless tales of the preternatural have echoed across the centuries in the Far East. Yet, the one you are about to read is steeped in a lingering horror tied to a mysterious geisha and a cherry blossom. Her name was Sakura Koyama. The story unfolds in Kyoto, on the remote island of Honshu, nestled within the valley of Yamashiro. Known for its Buddhist temples, Shinto shrines, lush gardens, canalways, and imperial palace, Kyoto radiated a distinct, otherworldly charm.

Never had I imagined that during my stay, I would uncover the darkest secret of a family’s history—truths that had long been buried beneath layers of silence. As a child, I was told that some secrets were never meant to be revealed. But there are secrets that time refuses to keep hidden. Terror, they say, wears many names and faces—often masked within ancient legends or born of human envy. Only time, it seems, can bear witness to their truth.

In October of 1920, I traveled to Kyoto to meet a Japanese businessman named Haruto Kawamura. I am Eugene Carlson, an American businessman, and this meeting was arranged to discuss the possibility of a business partnership. Mr. Kawamura and I had first met a decade earlier in Tokyo during a prior visit.

Kyoto is flanked by three mountains—Higashiyama, Kitayama, and Nishiyama. The Uji River flows to the south, the Katsura River to the west, and the Kamo River to the east. Mr. Kawamura’s residence stood on the outskirts of the city, secluded and stately.

Having long admired Japanese culture, I had spent time in Hong Kong before moving to Tokyo, and was already well acquainted with Japan. Western interest in Japan was growing rapidly, despite the global signs of economic depression. Mr. Kawamura had been expecting me in the late afternoon.

He was a man of notable reputation and wealth, gained through a series of successful business endeavors. Dressed in one of the finest Western suits I had seen, he clearly embraced Western influence. I arrived in Kyoto by train and ship, and he greeted me in the traditional Japanese manner, which I respectfully returned.

"Mr. Kawamura, it’s a pleasure to see you again. It has been quite some time, hasn’t it?" I said.

"That is correct, Mr. Carlson," he replied with a warm smile.

"You’ve hardly aged a day—you look exactly the same," I remarked.

We chuckled, and he responded, "That’s because Kyoto treats our people well. We age gracefully. Look around, Mr. Carlson—the beauty of the trees, the flowers, the rivers, and the mountains—they keep us alive and young."

"I must agree. The landscape here is picturesque. I couldn’t have asked for a better place to be."

"It is a pleasure to host you. There is much for us to discuss. Please, come inside, where you can enjoy true Japanese hospitality. I have an old tobacco set—called a tabako bon—that belonged to my late grandfather. You must try it before tea is served."

"I would be honored, Mr. Kawamura. I’m curious to sample it."

As he stepped inside to inform his staff of my arrival, I lingered a moment outside, captivated once more by the tranquil scenery.

The house itself was a splendid example of traditional Japanese architecture. Lintels and posts supported a sweeping curved roof. Thin, movable walls led to spacious verandas shaded by wide eaves, their weight balanced by elegant wooden brackets. This type of home was typically reserved for the wealthy or upper class in Kyoto. Poverty, as in any country, did exist here too, but I had not come to impose my moral compass on the Japanese way of life.

Inside, the home centered around a single room called the moya, surrounded by decorative screens. The entire structure reflected impeccable craftsmanship. A stunning garden surrounded the house, reminding me of one from my childhood in America—a garden my mother once tended with care. It had been more than a decade since I last saw that place. Memories, especially the good ones, have a way of surfacing unexpectedly.

As I took in the garden, something caught my eye. In the distance, I saw the faint silhouette of a geisha—her figure shadowy and indistinct. I couldn’t clearly see her face, but I had a distinct impression she belonged to another time. Why was she alone in the eerie Bamboo Grove, shrouded in twilight?

Inside, our conversation resumed.

"How was your trip, Mr. Carlson? I hope everything went well," Mr. Kawamura asked.

"It was somewhat wearisome, but ultimately well worth the effort," I replied.

"I’m glad to hear it. I read your letter regarding a potential business deal?"

"Yes. I’d like to discuss the possibility of a partnership between our companies. I’ve invested in the mercantile industry, and I value your experience and business insight."

"And what, exactly, do you propose?"

"I understand the current economic conditions are challenging, with signs of deflation and instability."

"Indeed. Much like in America, but we are working to recover."

"I’m particularly interested in traditional Japanese architecture. I’ve convinced several American businessmen to relocate to Japan for investment opportunities, but they will need homes. I plan to build them residences in a traditional style."

"I know an architect who may be able to help you," he said.

"I’d appreciate that. I knew I could count on you."

We paused our discussion, and I was shown to my guest room by a young servant named Kiyoko. She was in her mid-twenties—graceful, beautiful, and reserved, as was customary. Mr. Kawamura had several servants, but Kiyoko was assigned to tend to me during my stay.

I had a strong impression that Mr. Kawamura was sincerely interested in helping me and that I could rely on his guidance. The rest of the day passed in thoughtful observation of the surroundings, and in contemplation of the days ahead. I would return to Tokyo soon, where another engagement awaited with a businessman in the textile industry. Yet that night would deliver an unexpected and chilling encounter—one that would shake my skepticism of the supernatural.

I am not easily frightened by talk of ghosts or spirits. But what I experienced that night changed me. It convinced me that restless souls may indeed walk the earth.

I lay sleeping on my futon atop a tatami mat when I was jolted awake by a chilling wail—a woman’s cry of anguish. Startled, I tossed aside my kakebuton and listened. Was it real, or merely a dream? But the wailing continued, stirring something within me. I lit a lantern and stepped outside into the cool night.

The sound led me toward the Bamboo Grove beyond the garden. A sharp wind brushed against my face, almost as if warning me. As I entered the grove, the wailing grew louder. My footsteps crackled over fallen branches. The towering bamboo allowed little moonlight to filter through, and the narrow path ahead seemed to stretch endlessly.

I do not know what compelled me to walk alone into that darkness. Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps it was fate. But something deep inside urged me forward.

Near one of the massive trees, I saw her—standing alone in the shadows. A woman dressed in the full, traditional garb of a geisha.

Why was she here, wailing in the dead of night? What sorrow held her captive?

I stepped closer and called out to her.

Fortunately for me, I spoke Japanese fluently. At first, she did not respond and continued crying, as though she hadn’t heard me. Several minutes passed before I gently tapped her on the shoulder in hopes of eliciting a response. Then, slowly, she turned around—and I found myself gazing into the ghastly stare of a horrifying presence.

Her eyes were clouded and hoary, with deep scars beneath them. Her skin was painted in a pale layer of alabaster oshiroi. Her lips were an eerie shade of amaranth, and her silky hair was black as a raven. She spoke no words, made no sound. She merely looked at me—then vanished like a specter into the interminable rows of trees.

What I didn’t realize then was that this was merely the precursor to the unbridled horror I was soon to uncover. I returned to the house and my room, still bewildered by what I had just experienced. No one had seen me leave or enter the bamboo grove, or so I presumed. When I came back, I discovered a lone cherry blossom resting on my mattress. Who had left it there? Was it Kiyoko? Had she entered the room while I was gone? Did she somehow know I had left?

The next morning, I could no longer resist the temptation to ask about the mysterious woman and the blossom left in my room. Mr. Kawamura had left early to tend to a private matter, but he would be returning shortly. In the meantime, I decided to speak with Kiyoko, the servant who had been attending to me since my arrival.

I didn’t wish to interrupt her in her tasks, yet my curiosity compelled me. I needed to know if she had any knowledge—no matter how faint—of the strange geisha and the haunting wails I had heard. I also wanted to know if she had left the flower as some quiet, hospitable gesture.

I found it hard to accept that I alone had heard the wailing. It seemed unlikely that she had missed such a piercing, continuous sound from her nearby quarters.

“Kiyoko, if I may ask—did you leave a cherry blossom in my room last night?”

“A sakura, Mr. Carlson?”

“Yes, a sakura!”

“Not that I’m aware of, sir. Why do you ask?”

“Then who could have left it?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

I changed the subject. “Did you not hear a strange wailing last night?”

“Wailing, Mr. Carlson?”

“Yes, a woman’s wailing—from the bamboo grove, I believe.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t, sir. Perhaps what you heard was a wild fox or boar? They’re abundant around here.”

“I thought that at first too, but no—it wasn’t a boar or fox, nor any other animal. It was a woman, dressed as a geisha, crying out in despair.”

“A geisha? Are you certain, Mr. Carlson?”

“As certain as I can be. At least, I believe she was a geisha.”

“I wish I could be of more help, sir, but I really don’t know what to say.”

“Do you believe in ghosts, Kiyoko?”

“Ghosts, sir?”

“Yes. Ghosts.”

“I cannot say that I’ve ever seen one.”

“But do you believe in them?”

“I’m not sure if I do—or don’t.”

“Do you think it’s possible that the geisha I saw was an apparition?”

At this point, I could sense my questions were troubling her. Her body language changed; she became uneasy. She seemed to understand what I was asking but didn’t want to discuss it.

“I can’t answer that, Mr. Carlson. If you’ll excuse me, I must return to my chores. Mr. Kawamura will be back soon.”

I allowed her to leave. When Mr. Kawamura returned, I decided not to mention the ghostly geisha. I thought it wiser to focus on the business matters that had brought me to Kyoto. How could I tell him about a ghost I wasn’t even certain was real?

I took my breakfast alone. Mr. Kawamura apologized for his morning absence. One thing I admired about the Japanese was their sense of formality and resolve. Yet, I noticed something peculiar—he never spoke of his family, nor were there any photos or portraits in the house. No signs of relatives at all.

It struck me as odd. The Japanese are, in my opinion, proud and respectful of family. Still, I refrained from prying. In the end, we finalized our agreement, and I was scheduled to return to Tokyo the next morning. Whatever I had seen in the bamboo grove would remain in the realm of uncertain memory—or so I thought.

That same afternoon, I returned to the grove to investigate further. My curiosity refused to rest. Mr. Kawamura had gone to the city, and Kiyoko was occupied with her duties. Alone, I ventured into the grove, seeking any trace of the mysterious geisha.

I searched as far as I could, though the grove’s vastness made it impossible to scour completely. All I found were dried, withering cherry blossoms scattered among the thick foliage.

Something unnatural was at play, surpassing the threshold of rationality. I had seen the image of a geisha with my own eyes—or had I? I couldn’t prove her existence. I could only wait, hoping she might return. And she did.

That night, I was awakened again by the same horrifying wail. This time, I would confront the truth—whatever it was. I sensed a connection between the geisha and Mr. Kawamura’s family. My suspicions grew, and I knew I had to learn her story.

Who was she really? If she was indeed a ghost, when had she died—and why was she haunting the grove?

The silence of the night was oppressive, pressing against the paper-thin walls of my room like an unseen weight. A steady rain then began to fall outside, tapping rhythmically against the wooden eaves. I sat at the small writing desk near the window, attempting to journal my impressions of the place—but I couldn't focus. My hands unsteady, as the room grew cold.

Unable to ignore the relentless sound, I rose, lit a lantern, and headed toward the grove. I was sure it was the same geisha. I left quietly, instinct guiding my steps.

But again, when I arrived, she was nowhere in sight. The wailing persisted, closer now—louder. I searched desperately, hoping to determine once and for all if she was human or spirit.

Still, I found nothing. Just shadows and moonlight.

As I made my way back, something strange caught my eye ahead. A lone burial mound, marked by a small stone pagoda. On it was a name, written in kanji: Sakura Koyama.

Who was Sakura Koyama? And why was she buried in the middle of this isolated grove, rather than in a traditional cemetery? The mystery deepened. Surely Mr. Kawamura and Kiyoko knew. And if they did—were they hiding the truth from me?

I returned to the house and found them both waiting at the entrance.

“Mr. Carlson. What are you doing? Where did you go?”

I told him the truth: “I went outside to the bamboo grove because I heard a loud wailing from my room.”

“A loud wailing?” Mr. Kawamura asked.

“Yes! Did you not hear it?”

“I heard something. As you know, there are wild animals in this part of the area.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Kawamura, but it was no wild animal. It sounded like a woman crying. I saw her. She was dressed as a geisha.”

“Did you not hear it too, Kiyoko?” I asked her.

“As I told you before, Mr. Carlson, the sound could have been any animal, just as Mr. Kawamura said,” she replied.

“We are used to many wild sounds in Kyoto,” said Mr. Kawamura.

“What about the marked grave I found in the bamboo grove, Mr. Kawamura?”

“What marked grave are you referring to?”

“The one with the name Sakura Koyama. Who is she? Why is she buried there?”

His face shifted immediately to an expression of dismay and disbelief. It was clear he knew exactly who the woman was. “You would not understand, Mr. Carlson.”

“Understand what, Mr. Kawamura?”

“The woman buried in that grave.”

“Who was she?” I pressed.

“She was Sakura Koyama, my grandmother,” Kiyoko said at last.

“Why is she buried there? And how did she die?”

“She was buried there by my late grandfather,” Mr. Kawamura replied.

“She was born in Gion. Her family was poor, and she was sold into the geisha district before she was ten. She trained for years—music, dance, etiquette, the tea ceremony. But even then, she knew what awaited her. For some men, geisha were little more than ornaments. For others... prey.”

She paused, her voice cracking.

“She met my grandfather when she was only twenty. He was powerful, wealthy. He told her he loved her. Promised to take her away from that life. But when he returned to Tokyo, he left her behind. A year later, she bore his child—a secret she was forced to hide. That child was my mother.”

“That doesn’t answer how she died.”

“She was killed by my grandfather.”

“Killed? For what reason?”

“Surely, you understand our culture, Mr. Carlson. My grandfather was having an affair with her. He was a prominent man, and she was only a geisha.”

“I see. But you do realize that was murder.”

“Yes, I know. But Kiyoko and I have accepted this terrible legacy. We want it to remain a secret, within our family.”

“Who am I to tell you what to do,” I said, “but why does her ghost still haunt the grove?”

“Because she has not yet found what she seeks, Mr. Carlson.”

“And what is that?” I asked.

“Peace,” Kiyoko replied.

“And how is she supposed to achieve that?”

“By unburying her. They buried her under the bamboo grove, far from the city, so no one would ask questions. My mother was told she died of illness. It wasn’t until I was eighteen that I learned the truth. I found her diary. I know every word she ever wrote."

Her words stunned me. Every answer they gave sent shivers through me, confirming the chilling truth—that the spirit of this murdered woman still lingered. And yet, both of them were hesitant to exhume her remains. They wanted to keep the truth buried—literally.

“Then we will unbury her,” I said firmly.

“I’m afraid we cannot do that, Mr. Carlson,” Mr. Kawamura declared.

“Why not? You said she needs to be unburied to find peace. Why oppose it now?”

“It would expose my grandfather. The authorities would become involved. It would bring disgrace to our family. Surely, you understand my reluctance?”

“I do, but this isn’t about your grandfather anymore. Would you rather let her tormented soul haunt the grove forever? For heaven’s sake, how long has she been dead?”

“Fifty years,” said Kiyoko softly.

“Fifty years is too long for any soul to be restless. You owe it to her memory to set her free. This cruelty must end!”

Mr. Kawamura pulled out a pistol and pointed it at me. “I wish things were different, Mr. Carlson. But I cannot allow you to involve the authorities. It would ruin our family’s honor. You must understand. We are a people of dignity.”

“Are you going to kill me too? If so, you will only deepen her agony and your shame.”

At that very moment, the ghost of Sakura Koyama emerged from the shadows of the bamboo grove. She had come for retribution—and to save me from the fate that Mr. Kawamura had in store.

At first, I didn’t see her, but I sensed a change in the air. Mr. Kawamura grew tense. Kiyoko turned pale and stared into the darkness behind me. They both felt her presence.

They had feared this moment for years. They had avoided her wrath by keeping her buried, but they didn’t know that I had already unearthed her grave. After discovering the tomb, I had dug through the soft earth until I found her skeletal remains—fragile and decayed, the last traces of a once-beautiful life.

Unknowingly, I had released her. Now she stood before us, tall and unyielding, her ghoulish white eyes staring without mercy. Her face bore deep scars, her skin pale and sunken. Blood stained her lips, her makeup, and her once-elegant geisha attire.

She was the dreadful embodiment of a spirit wronged by human cruelty.

With a sudden gust, she disarmed Mr. Kawamura and took the pistol from his hands. Then, with her ghostly strength, she seized him by the throat and strangled him. He gasped and struggled, until he collapsed to the ground—lifeless.

It was horrifying to witness.

But Kiyoko was spared. Perhaps it was her bond with Sakura that granted her mercy. The vengeance was complete. Sakura Koyama had been imprisoned for fifty years beneath the soil of betrayal. Her justice had been fulfilled. Her soul could now rest.

I decided against informing the authorities about Mr. Kawamura’s death. Who would believe the real story?

However, I did inform them of the location of Sakura’s grave. I felt it was my duty. Her remains were later moved to a proper cemetery, where her family could honor her. Kiyoko’s silence had been born from fear and resignation—not malice.

She was not charged with any crime. I believe her relief at her grandmother’s release outweighed her guilt for not speaking sooner.

I understood her hesitation. She had also been threatened, after all. Before I left, she gave me a photograph of Sakura—her only one. It had been taken in the very house where she was murdered.

It was difficult to believe that I had been a guest in that same house.

Sakura was striking: black hair, dark eyes, and a smile that radiated gentle warmth. It was heartbreaking to know how she died, and why—murdered at the age of twenty-five.

As I prepared to leave Honshu, I returned to the bamboo grove one last time.

The season had changed. The oppressive heat of summer had folded into autumn’s quieter chill, and Kyoto’s streets glowed with a different kind of melancholy. Leaves blushed crimson on the maple trees, and the evenings came sooner, wrapped in mist and silence. Yet something pulled me back, as though unfinished business was still caught in the folds of the grove’s shadows.

I had dreamt of her again the night before. Sakura Koyama. She stood beneath the moon in a white kimono, her face blurred as if veiled in water. She didn’t speak—only raised a pale hand to beckon me. And when I awoke, heart pounding and drenched in sweat, I knew what I had to do.

I waited until twilight. I told no one—not Kiyoko, not my translator, not even the hotel staff who had learned to offer me polite glances and distant bows. Some places should be visited alone. The grove was one of them.

The path leading into the bamboo forest was almost unrecognizable. Nature had claimed back much of the earth we had disturbed weeks ago. Where once the soil had been torn and churned, there now lay a bed of fallen leaves, delicate and papery. The grave was gone—rebuilt, reinterred, perhaps even atoned for. But the air still remembered. The grove breathed memory.

As I stepped into the dense hush of the bamboo grove, it felt like entering the lungs of another world. The tall stalks swayed softly above me, creaking in time with some invisible rhythm. Dusk settled between the trunks, pressing in close. The sounds of the city—bicycles, vendors, distant traffic—faded like the memory of a dream.

I found the clearing easily. My feet remembered it better than my eyes. The place where she had been buried—the place where we had disturbed her long silence. I stood at its edge for a long time, listening.

There was a whisper in the leaves. Or maybe not leaves. Maybe breath.

“Sakura?” I asked aloud, my voice barely more than wind.

And then she was there.

There was no screeching wind or bone-snapping gestures. She simply emerged from between two stalks, gliding as if her feet no longer acknowledged the earth. Her kimono was white again, though now less bloodstained, less tattered. Her hair hung loose, no longer matted, but still draped in a sorrowful shroud over her shoulder.

Her face.

For the first time, I saw it clearly in person.

She was beautiful. Not the beauty of photographs or films, but a haunting kind of grace—like porcelain that had cracked and been mended with gold. Her eyes were dark and deep, and behind them burned something not quite human. Grief, yes. But something older. Like longing.

“You came back,” she said.

Her voice was quieter than before. Not the scream that had shattered night skies. But a hush, like an echo in snow.

“I had to,” I said. “I couldn’t leave things like this.”

She tilted her head slightly. “What is left to mend?”

I swallowed. “You never got justice. Not in life.”

“I don’t need justice,” she said. “I need memory. I need to be remembered.”

The words hit like a tremor in the chest. I looked around the grove, at the sacred quiet, the tall green shafts that caged us in, and thought about all the ways the world had chosen to forget her. How Mr. Kawamura had buried her twice—once in soil, and once in silence.

“I see you,” I whispered.

Her gaze flickered. And for a moment, her form shimmered like heat rising off a summer road. She stepped closer. I didn’t flinch.

“Why did you dig me up?” she asked. Not angry. Curious.

“Because…because you deserved to be known. Because you were buried with shame that was not yours.”

She blinked slowly. “Do you know what shame feels like in death? It rots slower than flesh. It clings.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “For everything.”

She smiled then. A tragic, broken thing. “You are not the one who hurt me.”

“But I profited from your story,” I said. “I wrote about it. I chased it. I made you into a curiosity, a footnote.”

Sakura stepped close enough now that I could see the faint outline of cherry blossoms stitched into her sleeves. “And yet…you listened.”

I felt relief then, unbidden and unashamed.

She reached out and placed a hand—cold, but real—against my cheek. The temperature of winter’s first frost. Her fingers left no mark, but I felt their weight all the same.

“There is something I must show you,” she said.

She turned, and I followed.

She led me deeper into the grove, farther than I had ever dared go. The bamboo thickened until it nearly blocked out the sky. The path was invisible, but she moved as though it had always existed.

Finally, we arrived at a small clearing I had never seen before.

There, in the center, was a stone. Old. Moss-covered. Unmarked.

“This was my real grave,” she said.

My stomach clenched.

“They moved me after the scandal,” she explained, voice drifting. “Buried me in secret, far away from the district. But I had already been here, in spirit. I returned. I always returned.”

She looked up at the canopy above.

“I used to walk here before my performances,” she said. “To calm my nerves. To speak to the trees. They never judged me. Even when the men did.”

She knelt before the stone and placed her hand gently upon it.

“I come here often now. It is quiet. No one interrupts.”

A gust of wind passed between us, and for a moment I saw—truly saw—what haunted the grove. Not just a ghost, but a woman who had become the soul of this place. Her pain had fed the roots. Her voice had seeded the wind. She had not merely died here—she had become here.

I knelt beside her.

“Will you stay?” she asked.

“I can’t,” I said. “But I’ll remember.”

She nodded. “Then that is enough.”

She turned to me one last time. Her form began to fade—slowly this time, with grace, like the receding tide.

“Sakura,” I said before she vanished completely, “are you at peace?”

She didn’t answer.

But the bamboo whispered. The wind stirred in a low, melodic hum. A few stalks bent in unison, bowing.

Then the grove was empty again.

I remained there until the moon crested overhead and poured pale light upon the stone. I whispered her name, again and again, like a prayer, like a promise.

Some spirits do not need to be exorcised.

They only need to be seen.

Among the tall trees, I noticed something strange. Scattered across the ground were cherry blossoms.

I picked one up and placed it on the spot where she had been truly buried. I felt her presence nearby.

Then, something—or someone—tapped me on the shoulder.

Who was it?

That, dear reader, I leave for you to decide.

The sakura, once a sign of sorrow, had become a symbol of love again. In Japan, the cherry blossom reflects life’s impermanence. It blooms briefly, then falls. It speaks of life and death, beauty and tragedy.

Sakura Koyama embodied all of these. She was beauty in life—and her death, unspeakably violent.

I traveled to the crumbling theater alone. Kiyoko warned me not to go.

“It’s not just the place,” she said. “It’s what it remembers.”

But I needed to see it—the place where Sakura had once stood under painted lanterns, her feet brushing against the grain of a stage worn by centuries of ghosts and applause.

The building leaned with exhaustion. The once-vivid reds and golds had faded to brittle grays, and the awning was collapsed in one corner like a broken wing. But there was still a strange gravity to it, as if the space itself retained the muscle memory of performance.

Inside, the light was green and dim. Dust hung in the air like a curtain. The stage yawned before me, silent, and the empty seats faced forward like watchful eyes. I could almost hear the shamisen, faint and ghostlike.

I stepped onto the stage.

Something clicked in my spine. Not a sound—but a sensation. I stood where Sakura must have stood, arms raised, body poised. A moment held in the air. I tried to imagine her—young, graceful, perhaps still naïve.

Then I heard it.

A whisper—barely audible—trickled through the rafters like rain through a crack. “Hana...yurete...” A phrase from a forgotten play. A line spoken too many times. The whisper became two voices, then three. Overlapping. Repeating. Weaving around me.

I turned.

The audience was no longer empty.

Faint outlines sat in the rows—half-formed figures in elegant robes, faces smooth and blank like noh masks. They watched me with their eyeless silence. Not hostile, but expectant.

I stepped back. The floorboards groaned.

The spirits of the theater were not cruel. They were simply still watching, still listening. Perhaps waiting for a final performance. I bowed, quietly, and whispered, “She was more than what you gave her.”

As I exited, the wind stirred the tattered curtain.

Behind me, the whispers stopped. The only sound that echoed was the whistling wind that had entered with an eerie reminder of the presence of the ghostly wanderers of the earth who no longer wished to remain anonymous.

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