hanamaki might be an unemployed bum without an ounce of psychic power, but if there’s anything he can do, it’s making shitposts on the internet and lying to people, which is why he’s standing in front of an abandoned building with an unamused matsukawa by his side.
“what kind of dumbass pays for an exorcism before it’s done?” matsukawa stares glumly at the building, then at his friend, who quickly taps out of his amazon app. “what kind of dumbass pays for an exorcism without asking if they’re certified?”
“well, aren’t we dumbasses for coming to do the job?” hanamaki turns to their target. he knows the building well, walked by it enough times during high school. it caught on fire spontaneously one night, and nearly all the tenants evacuated, except for one. the property was abandoned, never redeveloped, so people often sneak inside for tests of courage, only to encounter the ghost of the sole victim. at the start, the spirit was timid, but now, they’ve become malevolent, nearly set an explorer on fire.
there’d been multiple calls to exorcise the spirit, but most failed. that’s about to change.
“there’s no we. what are you going to do, throw salt?” matsukawa rolls his eyes, remains rooted to the sidewalk. hanamaki clicks his tongue.
“well, someone’s gotta protect you!” he shoves the bag of salt deeper into his pocket. “i bought some protective charms and omamori off amazon. the reviews say they work wonders.”
“the reviews were probably fake or bought or both. commercially produced items like those never work.” matsukawa adjusts the lapels of his overcoat, runs a hand through his hair. “well. after you.”
hanamaki brandishes an omamori as he eases open the door, no longer sealed after years of trespass. he blinks at the decrepit stairs, takes them one at a time. matsukawa follows closely behind him, eyes narrowed, hands in his pockets.
the air gradually becomes more ominous, still heavy with smoke and ash. hanamaki breathes through his jacket sleeve, flashes his phone at every hallway they pass, sees charred furniture, broken glass, remnants of blissful times. matsukawa remains silent, unruffled, lips pressed in a severe line. every time their arms brush, static jumps between them, the telltale sign of someone using their psychokinesis.
it’s the reason why matsukawa was relegated to middle blocker in volleyball; psychic users could only be a middle or libero, feared they might cheat. in all their years as friends, hanamaki’s only seen him use telekinesis reflexively – to catch a falling pencil, catch himself if he trips, close or open a door from a distance. he uses it more with his work, a shinigami in a suit, hanamaki likes to call him, although he doesn’t know the details. maybe today is the day he’ll find out.
they continue all the way to the fourth floor, the devil’s floor. all the units are sealed, dressed in falling caution tape, except for one. hanamaki shivers despite the warm air, glances over his shoulder at matsukawa, who remains impassive. he points at the unit, gives either a thumbs up or down. his friend gives a thumbs up. they cross the threshold.
inside is completely empty. the windows are covered, washroom door ripped off the hinges, several floorboards torn from the ground. a singular chair is the center – probably where the test of courage would take place. hanamaki can imagine it, can see himself taking part.
he takes an experimental breath, doesn’t immediately choke on fumes. matsukawa stands beside him, blinks at the chair. “where’s the spirit?”
“you have to summon them, or something. not that i can do it.”
“yeah, you can. everyone can see ghosts; just not everyone can exorcise them.” his words are bitter. hanamaki decides to sacrifice his gyoza money to buy matsukawa an extra serving of ramen noodles with his dinner after this.
“okay, okay. so, someone has to sit in that chair and they’ll appear, somehow. it’s different for each person.” he takes a step forward, hand brushing against his bag of salt. “should i…throw down some salt?”
“if you want. if the spirit managed to survive this long, i doubt salt will do anything.”
hanamaki barks a nervous chuckle, sprinkles some salt on his shoulders, anyway. he throws a handful toward the chair before sitting down, creaking under his weight. he lifts his head at the mottled ceiling, sees, looks around at the rusted sink and decommissioned stove. his eyes land on matsukawa, whose hands are still in his pockets. “are your hands cold, or something?”
“something,” matsukawa intones dryly. “how does it feel, over there?”
“not bad. i can see why this was a test of courage spot.” light streams in through the open door, and the air doesn’t threaten to give him asbestos. he could last five minutes, easily.
until the door slams shut. matsukawa’s eyes flicker over his shoulder, startled. hanamaki crinkles the omamori in his hand. okay. but the air-
he starts to overheat. sweat dots his forehead, skin clammy. he unzips his jacket, rolls his sleeves, starts to tremble despite the heat. fire…there’s something on fire, but he can’t see in the darkness. his nose wrinkles at the scent of burnt plastic, bile rising in his throat. he has to get out before it’s too late.
his panic vanishes at the resounding clap, head lifted at matsukawa, whose arms are straight in front of him with gloved hands, black like the robe of a shinigami. “i think it’s time for you to pass on,” he says, “don’t you think?”
those words aren’t aimed at hanamaki. he twists around, nearly falls off the chair at the spirit hovering behind him, a ghastly, twisted apparition that is no longer human. their voice is akin to nails on a chalkboard. “many have tried before you, child with a third eye,” they hiss. heat emanates from them, hotter than a furnace. “you think you’ll succeed?”
matsukawa returns his hands to his pockets. “makki already got paid, so if i don’t, he’ll get into even more debt. i’m not that kind of friend to let that happen.” god bless matsukawa issei, hanamaki thinks, only for his remaining thoughts to be lost in a wave of heat.
the spirit screeches, sets the entire room ablaze. hanamaki releases his omamori, burnt to bits, throws salt at the flames, instead. it only fuels the fire further. “shit!” he curses. “mattsun, what-“
his friend is unfazed. he crosses the room in two strides, puts his hands together in a resounding clap. it stuns the spirit; in that half second, his prayer beads slide between his fingers, becomes enveloped in a dark purple hue. “by the powers of matsukawa,” he declares, “i banish you from this place!”
light bursts from the spirit. hanamaki raises his arm to shield his eyes, feels warmth wash over him. as it subsides, he opens his eyes, blinks at matsukawa who claps his hands quietly twice, bows his head in prayer. the moment is over instantly, his friend turning around to him. “all good, man?”
“i…yeah. yeah, man. fine.”
“we better go before you get asbestos.” matsukawa is back to his unruffled self, a hand on his shoulder to guide him out. hanamaki doesn’t have the strength to resist.
“what, you won’t get any?” he tries to joke, following on shaky legs.
“nah. i protect myself from that with my psychic power, but you can’t. i’ll check over you once we’re outside.”
“i thought you were a shinigami, not a doctor.”
matsukawa gives a wry smile. “i can be both.” and wow, if that makes hanamaki’s heart skip a beat, no one needs to know but him.
the inspection is quick, with matsukawa promising to brew some tea later to clear any lingering impurities. on the walk to the ramen joint, he’s on the phone with someone from the city, arranges to seal the building once and for all. hanamaki watches and eavesdrops all the while, gears turning to conjure his next great scheme.
his friend seems to catch on, looking at him skeptically once he hangs up. “i don’t like the look on your face.”
“you ever consider a side gig, taking jobs like these?”
“but it’s not like you get work every day! well, this stuff isn’t consistent either, but the pay is good! i’ll do all the talking, you just need to show up and do your thing. it won’t take more than half an hour, after what happened today.”
they stop in front of the restaurant. matsukawa puts his hand on the doorknob, glances at him. “i’m not gonna do it, but if you wanna pretend to be an exorcist and then ask me for a favor to exorcise spirits, i won’t say no, since i’m not that kind of friend.”
“so long the favors are buying you ramen after each exorcism, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
matsukawa doesn’t say anything, just opens the door and steps inside. hanamaki grins, follows after him. no longer will he be an unemployed bum without an ounce of psychic power, but an unemployed bum with connections. the door closes behind them.
