Ghostly Tricks

"Everyone, turn to page 64. Today, we're going to..."

At Suimi High School, the teacher, Yuanzhu, recited the familiar textbook by rote.

Below, some students were daydreaming, while others openly played on their phones. Only a handful listened attentively and took notes. Everyone had long since grown used to this.

Although Tokyo's average high school advancement rate was 69.6%, private high schools had a rate of 98%, and their students included the descendants of most of the island nation's elite. As for public schools—the ones that got "averaged in"—their situation was easy to imagine.

It was a bit like saying, "Kobe and I scored 83 points combined."

As he droned on from the textbook, Teacher Yuanzhu's gaze swept over the back row by the window.

Akihi Yu, who should have been a "good student," seemed unusually distracted lately.

That made sense. His parents had died, he was suspected of being bullied, and the police had questioned him. Even an adult would struggle to bear such a string of blows. The teacher hoped he could pull himself together.

As he taught, the thought crossed his mind.

But the truth was—

Akihi Yu wasn't lost in "despair." He was controlling a Paper Clone to train his ninjutsu.

"Hi, Mom. It's me."

In Itabashi Ward, inside a detached house built in the 1980s,

a somewhat hoarse voice came through the phone, which sat on a round embroidered tablecloth from the last century.

"Hm? My voice sounds off? My throat's probably a little sore."

The middle-aged man on the other end sounded embarrassed and anxious.

"Here's the thing. I embezzled money from the company, and the prosecutors are coming tomorrow. If I can't pay it back before then, I'll be fired."

"It's not much. Could you get me two million yen?"

"Okay, Mom. I'll pay you back!"

"All right. I'll send a subordinate over to pick it up. Sorry for the trouble, but please give it to him."

Not long after,

someone knocked on the door.

"Excuse me."

The old wooden door swung open, revealing a young man in a suit and tie, his hair neatly parted three-to-seven. He radiated the air of a corporate wage slave and smiled ingratiatingly from the doorway.

"You're Senior Inoue's mother, right?"

"Yes. I came because of 'that matter.'"

After hearing the young man's words, the elderly woman inside the room shakily took out an envelope.

Two million yen wasn't a small amount, but for the sake of her son's future, the thin, white-haired old woman handed it over without hesitation. As she did, she couldn't help asking, "Is my son... all right?"

In response, the visitor merely bowed and nodded, saying the words he knew by heart.

"Yes, don't worry. I'll make sure Senior gets it."

The envelope passed between two hands: one young, ruddy, and strong; the other old, withered, and wrinkled.

"Goodbye."

With the money in hand, the young man smiled and nodded, then considerately closed the door behind him.

What a pushover!

The young man turned away, unable to hide his grin.

AI-generated voices were convincing enough to fool anyone, and it was easy to find detailed information about people on social media.

A few simple words were all it took to get money from old men and women.

Easier than dealing drugs~~

"I'm helping the country put its 'pension money' back into circulation."

Maybe before long, I'll make it into management in the organization—or even become someone important?

Chuckling to himself, the young man pushed open the gate and nearly collided with an old man walking his dog.

"Woof! Woof! Woof!"

The Shar-Pei on the leash barked furiously at the young man, startling him.

"Oh, sorry."

The elderly man tugged on the leash and apologized.

"Maybe it's because you just came out of the Inoue house. My dog thinks you're a thief."

"Ah, no, that's not it."

The young man with the briefcase quickly waved his hands in denial. He wasn't a thief, but his line of work wasn't exactly respectable either.

"I know. You're a salesman."

"But there's no point trying to sell anything at the Inoue house."

?

"Why not?"

He'd just made a nice haul, so the young man in the suit didn't mind chatting with the old man.

"Because Mrs. Inoue died alone."

"Died alone?!"

The young man in the suit froze.

"Dying alone" was a social phenomenon in Japan.

In short, as the population aged and the birth rate fell, many elderly people had no one to look after them. They could die at home without anyone noticing. Often, it was only when community workers came by that they found bodies that had already begun to rot—or decompose.

Elderly people with almost no social connections were privately called "unrelated"; those who died in such circumstances were said to have "died alone."

"Yeah,"

the dog-walking old man continued, still quite spry.

"Mrs. Inoue's husband died years ago, and her only son works elsewhere and never comes home."

"She was a bit of a loner. When they found her last month, her body had already started to decompose. Poor thing."

??!!

"Woof! Woof! Woof~~~"

The Shar-Pei at the old man's feet kept barking at the young man with the briefcase, interrupting him.

"Looks like Ranmaru caught your... scent. We'll be off."

With that, the old man led his beloved dog away.

The middle-aged man stood frozen in place, his face darkening.

"Creepy old man."

"I just got money from Mrs. Inoue. How can he say she died alone last month?"

Even so, a seed of doubt had taken root in his mind. He opened his briefcase and took out the envelope stuffed with ten-thousand-yen bills.

?!

There wasn't a single banknote inside. It was completely empty!

It was as limp as the old woman's hand.

A chill shot up his spine and into his head, making him sway.

Impossible!

How could this happen... I clearly just—

He whipped around. Beyond the wall, he saw:

a "For Rent" sign posted on it, and through the sliding glass doors, an empty room.

"Pant, pant, pant~~"

The young man stumbled into a park, took off his suit, and set his briefcase beside him.

He dropped onto a bench and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. His neatly parted hair had become a matted mess.

He took out his phone and reported what had happened to the "company." The response came soon after.

"Ah, that's right."

"Everyone who lived there is dead."

The "company" member in charge of intelligence laughed and replied without a care in the world.

"Sorry, sorry. I got it wrong."

"B-but I really did get the money!"

The young man's face was pale. He tightened his tie. The sun was bright overhead and sweat ran down his body, yet he felt inexplicably cold.

"But when I checked afterward, the money and the person were both gone."

"Oh, wow. That's scary~~"

His "colleague" on the phone gave a perfunctory response.

"Anyway, that's it. I'll let you know if there's more work."

With that, the other person hung up.

"What the hell?"

The young man lowered his phone, his expression growing even darker.

Had he hallucinated?

Beep, beep, beep—

Just then, his phone rang.

He picked it up and checked the caller ID.

"Inoue"?

Wait, no—did anyone in the company have that surname?

He swiped the answer button with his thumb and put the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Is my son... all right?"

An old woman's voice came through the phone, and the young man sprang to his feet.

That was—

It was the old woman's voice from earlier!

His thumb pressed hard against the red hang-up button. Cold sweat broke out all over him, and his pupils contracted violently.

Impossible. Impossible. This world was governed by science!

That's enough for today.

His mind in chaos, the young man picked up his suit and briefcase and headed for his apartment.

Hm?

When he reached his apartment, there was a letter tucked into the front door.

He picked it up and glanced at the sender's name. The young man froze.

Inoue—

Rip, rip, rip—

Overwhelming terror seized him, and he tore the envelope to shreds without thinking.

He hurriedly fumbled out his keys, unlocked the door, and rushed into the apartment. The familiar surroundings gave him a faint sense of safety. He leaned against the door and gasped for breath.

A ghost?

An Evil Spirit?

Or what...?

Ding-dong.

The doorbell rang suddenly, making the already terrified young man jolt. His eyes flicked to the side.

On the doorbell monitor, a hunched figure appeared and disappeared, repeating the same words over and over.

"Is my son... all right?"

Bang!

He rushed into the kitchen,

grabbed a hammer, and smashed the doorbell monitor.

Before the young man could catch his breath, the landline in the living room began ringing on its own:

"Is my son... all right?"

He rushed over and yanked out the phone cord. But the old woman's questioning voice continued outside the door, murmuring just as it had when she handed him the money.

"Is my son... all right?"

"Ahhhhhh!"

"Please, just leave me alone—!!"

Edogawa Ward,

one of the three districts with the lowest incomes in Tokyo,

was, like Adachi Ward and Itabashi Ward, considered the absolute countryside by Tokyoites.

If someone asked which ward you lived in and you answered with one of these places, even Japanese people with excellent poker faces would secretly think, "What kind of country bumpkin calls himself a Tokyo resident?"

All the people who lived there could do was praise the fresh air and beautiful scenery~~

Inside another detached house from the 1980s, a middle-aged man with graying hair and a cigarette in hand watched television.

Ding-ding-ding,

the cordless phone rang.

He picked it up, and the voice on the other end turned out to be:

"Son?"

"What's going on? You haven't contacted the family at all. I've been worried sick about you!"

At the familiar voice, the middle-aged man set down the cigarette he'd been holding. The weak voice on the other end also made him sense something was wrong.

"What happened to your voice? You sound really unwell."

"Yeah. I fell ill."

A weak reply came through the phone.

"Cough. Never mind that for now. There's something I never told you before."

"Actually, I was fired from my company a long time ago,"

Living in Tokyo was no easy feat.

Countless young people from across the islands dreamed of coming to Tokyo to pursue their ambitions. Even the locals flocked to the "core six wards."

But how could ordinary people afford to live in the "Minato Ward," the economic powerhouse; "Chuo Ward," packed with major corporations; "Chiyoda," where countless bureaucrats gathered; or "Bunkyo Ward," filled with schools? And what about "Shinjuku" and "Shibuya," where there was no shortage of places to eat, drink, and have fun?

"Because I ran out of money, I got involved in a scam."

Hearing his son's feeble words, the middle-aged man sprang to his feet.

"A scam?!"

"What the hell, you idiot! How much did they take you for?"

"Taking advantage of you like that—they'll pay for it! If you need money, you should've talked to me—"

"No, Dad."

The voice on the other end grew weaker still.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't the one who got scammed. I'm the scammer."

"Scammer!"

The next second,

an old man's voice suddenly came through the phone.

"My son. Is he all right?"

???

"Hey, you idiot!"

"Are you okay? Answer me—"

His elderly father's frantic voice came from the dangling receiver. But the young man hanging in his room, the telephone cord wrapped around his neck again and again, no longer had the strength to reply.