Ten Tales At Midnight - Chapter 5

? Chapter 5 ? #First Story -­ Note (4)

I opened the note with trembling hands.

What was written on the bright red paper were words I couldn’t understand.

3. 3. Give a name to the dead baby.

I frowned.

‘The dead baby.’ ‘Give a name.’

I couldn’t grasp what 15 wanted to ask of me.

“Surely not…”

And then it struck me. It was none other than the cat in my mind.

The cat that had died on the pedestrian crossing. The cat that had died with its kitten.

Kitten.

Dead baby…

Did 15 know that the cat with a kitten in its stomach would soon be hit by a car?

As that thought crossed my mind, a shiver ran down my spine.

The image of 15 gently caressing the cat’s back overlapped with the image of 15’s face covered in bruises.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

Suddenly, the note felt eerie and unsettling, and without realizing it, I dropped it.

The red note lying on the ground resembled a droplet of blood.

? ? ?

I didn’t believe in superstitions at that time.

I have always been skeptical of the phenomenon that is based on ‘intuition’ or ‘mysterious feeling’.

Naturally, I wasn’t interested in psychics or the occult.

After meeting 15, more than 15 years have passed in the blink of an eye.

The present me, who could be considered the epitome of rationality, is now teaching mathematics to children.

And despite being a mathematics teacher…

I believe in superstitions now.

I have no choice but to believe.

15 has completely changed me.

This story is both an act of atonement and a confession.

And the past that I need to escape from is simultaneously a ghost story that needs to be sublimated.

Some of you who are adept at deduction may have caught on to the meaning behind the red note.

And for those of you familiar with ghost stories, you may have guessed what happened to me afterward.

Even if you’re not interested in mystery or ghost stories, you probably noticed that something strange was happening.

Ah.

Time has come close to midnight without me realizing it.

In fact, the story begins here.

The day after receiving the third red note.

15 committed suicide.

? ? ?

That day, I made up my mind.

I had to return the red notes to 15.

1. 1. Play with the cat.
   2. Do not talk about these notes.
   3. Give a name to the dead baby.

While I might have been able to keep the second promise, I couldn’t possibly fulfill the others.

The cat was crushed under a car. Its body flattened like a rag. I wanted to play with it, but I couldn’t.

And as for the dead kitten… I didn’t want to give it a name.

Even as someone who didn’t believe in superstitions, I never wanted to do something like that.

I should not make a promise that I cannot keep.

Especially when it involves a girl like 15.

With that thought in mind, I suddenly found myself back in the classroom.

The seat next to mine was empty. By the time the morning attendance was taken, 15 hadn’t shown up.

The children regarded it as something natural.

It’s not normal to come to school with a severely injured body.

In that sense, yesterday’s 15 was definitely not normal.

But deep down, the children strangely had expectations for 15 to come to school.

They wanted to see the shocking sight of 15, who had become a mess.

They were hoping to see the scene of abnormality rather than that of normalcy.

Humans are cruel.

It is said that the more gruesome the execution method, the more spectators gather to witness it.

The horrifying sights we want to turn away from sometimes become a form of entertainment.

The desire to face death and suffering may be a part of human nature.

To be honest, I didn’t want 15 to go to school.

I wondered what kind of reaction she would show if I returned the red notes to her.

Just imagining it was unsettling.

Suddenly, the morning attendance began.

The homeroom teacher entered the classroom through the front door.

And someone followed behind the teacher. It was a big, burly man.

The teacher introduced him as a detective, and the children started whispering.

“Why a detective?”

“Why did a detective come?”

“Who had an accident?”

If it were a normal day, the homeroom teacher would have shouted at them to be quiet, but this time there was no reaction at all.

His expression was very dark. Like someone who had been diagnosed with terminal cancer.

The detective stood next to the teacher’s desk and waited quietly until the murmurs of the children subsided.

After a moment.

As the silence fell over the classroom, the detective finally spoke.

The news was that 15 had committed suicide.

The detective spoke with a casual tone, as if it was not a big deal.

The children seemed shocked at first, but soon they seemed to accept it.

Their reaction was as if they understood that it was not strange for 15 to commit suicide.

It’s not strange for 15 to commit suicide.

What kind of emotions did I have sitting next to 15’s empty seat?

Did I also think, ‘It’s not strange for 15 to commit suicide’?

What expression was I making?

I can’t remember. The memories from that time are all hazy.

While it’s true in theory that painful memories remain vivid, sometimes theory doesn’t hold true.

The confusion, the pain.

The torment, doubt and fear was so overwhelming that I was screaming silently.

To facilitate a smooth investigation, the detective requested the cooperation of the entire classroom.

It marked the beginning of some sort of interrogation.

One by one, we were called by the detective in numerical order. The temporary interrogation room was an empty science room.

There were two other police officers waiting there.

I don’t know what kind of feeling I had as I waited for my turn.

My mind went blank, and I couldn’t think of anything, but I think I was also thinking about the red notes.

As time passed, it was finally my turn.

As I followed the detective into the empty science room, I saw two police officers sitting at a long table.

As soon as I took my seat, they bluntly asked me.

If it was true that I had been close to 15 recently.

The police officers’ eyes looking at me were full of pressure.

Perhaps the other kids had mentioned it. The fact that 15 and I had been exchanging notes recently.

I honestly answered exactly as it was. There was nothing to hide.

Then they asked a strange question.

If I had any physical relationship with 15.

As soon as I heard that, I felt as if I had been struck by lightning.

A physical relationship?

That couldn’t be possible. The relationship between 15 and me was ambiguous, to the point where we couldn’t even be considered lovers, let alone friends.

I barely managed to raise my head. My throat felt tight.

The following questions were trivial.

And as the interrogation reached its final stages, I took something out of my pocket.

It was the three red notes.

“… These are the notes that she left for me.”

That’s what I said.

It took a lot of courage to do that.

I thought that there might be some clues within the promises that 15 entrusted to me.

In the end, it was a breach of the promise ‘2. Do not talk about these notes’…

The police officers, showing no enthusiasm, accepted the notes I handed them and quickly glanced through them.

And as they read the last note.

Their eyes lit up.

? ? ?

… I’m sorry.

My throat feels tight.

This part is really difficult to say.

It’s as if someone is squeezing my heart.

But I will continue.

15 committed suicide by hanging herself.

There were two fatalities.

Two.

She was not alone.

Earlier, the police asked me if I had engaged in a physical relationship with 15.

The reason they asked that question was because there were signs of sexual assault on her lifeless body.

I already had a suspicion that 15 was suffering from severe domestic violence.

Perhaps everyone in the classroom, maybe even the entire school, had already anticipated it.

The perpetrator was none other than 15’s parents. By the way, she had no siblings.

Her parents didn’t stop at just inflicting violence upon their own daughter.

Her father raped his own daughter.

And that happened multiple times.

If she resisted, he would hit her with his fists and press down on her body like a demon.

Her mother reportedly looked the other way.

When 15 became pregnant, their actions became even more malicious.

They would stomp on her belly or beat her entire body in an attempt to induce a miscarriage.

They committed acts that were unimaginable for humans without hesitation.

In that hellish environment, 15 eventually snapped and broke.

She hung herself with a rope, leaving with the baby inside her womb.

I remembered.

The image of 15, vomiting in the corridor.

Her hands clutching her lower abdomen as if in pain.

The traces of brutal violence that covered her small face.

Should the dead also have names?

15 asked me that in the note she gave me.

Now I can understand its meaning.

Before the suicide, she had been worried.

Whether the baby in her womb, who would die together with her, needed a name.

3. 3. Give a name to the dead baby.

The phrase ‘dead baby’ in the red note didn’t refer to a kitten.

It meant the life 15 had conceived, the baby that departed with her.

She wanted me to give a name to the baby who had left.

Everything fell into place.

I felt as if a hammer had struck my head.

1. 1. Play with the cat.
   2. Do not talk about these notes.
   3. Give a name to the dead baby.

The red note 15 handed me wasn’t just a simple list of promises.

It was her will.

15’s last will.

Perhaps I had known it from the beginning, but I simply wanted to turn away.

I watched as the noose slowly tightened around her neck. But I merely stood by as a mere spectator.

I couldn’t extend a helping hand in the end.

What must have been going through 15’s mind when she entrusted her will to me?

Her mind is too deep for me to fathom.

Moreover, I couldn’t keep a single promise from her last will.

The cat died.

I handed the note over to the police.

The name of the dead baby, even after 15 years, I still haven’t given it.

All that came crashing down on me was a sense of guilt.

I trembled in anguish, and every night I was haunted by nightmares.

When dawn broke, I would wake up screaming. Every time, my body was drenched as if I had gone into and come out of a bathtub.

I covered my face with both hands and murmured.

This is the punishment I deserve.

I said.

The fact that the cat, which was run over by a car, had its kitten nearby was no mere coincidence.

It was as if 15 was hinting at her fate to me. At least, that’s what I thought.

I, who used to never believe in superstitions, became a believer in the occult because of that incident.

Since then, I sought solace in temples and churches.

Memories of 15… I thought I could forget at least the intensity of those painful moments.

The serene atmosphere of religion provided me great solace.

They say time heals everything.

I, who was once drowning in guilt for a lifetime, found myself attending a prestigious university.

Of course, I did not completely forget 15. I was still interested in psychic phenomena.

But I regained my everyday life. No more nightmares or trembling in anguish.

In fact, becoming a teacher was a conscious choice, influenced by my thoughts of 15.

At first, I thought about becoming a theologian. But my thoughts changed, and I wanted to become someone who could provide practical help to others.

I considered becoming a police officer… but I kept thinking about those two police officers who interrogated me in the science room.

The gaze they had directed at me remained as a trauma. So being a police officer was also put on hold.

After much deliberation, I chose to become a teacher.

I wanted to guide children and, if there were any children suffering like 15, I wanted to save them.

Maybe it was fate that I became a teacher.

Just like I was reunited with her in college.

It was during my second year. As I was heading to class, someone called my name from behind.

A bright, clear voice. When I turned around, I saw a face I hadn’t seen in a long time.

She smiled at me.

“… Long time no see. How have you been?”