Whispers of the Yūrei

By Simran Shoker

During the night, she would stand in the spring. The illuminated water cascaded down her

arms, hands and chest, its trickles of moving water, like a glimmer of stars scattered across

the night. She closed her eyes, breathing in the cool air, letting herself feel the soft water

against her skin.

But even in such a tranquil moment, just like every other night, she was awoken by the same

dream.

A floating white corpse, a draped white kimono, long dishevelled black hair. A poor,

agonising soul was how she viewed the being. A ghost condemned to wander in limbo for

eternity was the life of a Yūrei. Never to reach the afterlife. Never to reach the end. She

wished she would never become a Yūrei. To be trapped in a repetitive existence, caught

forever in the same day, with no resolution. As she opened her eyes, she looked at the figure

standing at the other end of the spring, a chilling echo of her dream. The Yūrei did nothing

but stare back with its hollow eyes and pale and elongated face, its tattered kimono moving

gracefully against the waves of the water. It gradually melted under the surface, becoming

one with the spring, and the way in which it drowned itself for some reason made her think of

her lifeless job.

She would sit at her scratched grey desk, shunned by the strokes of light from the slightly

cracked windows. Her black hair tied in a messy loosened bun, buttoned shirt crinkled and

stained, uneven socks underneath her boots.

"Click clack. Click clack."

The rhythm of her typing was a monotonous symphony, attempting to anchor herself into the

waking world of an office worker. Its mechanical echo was the only thing that could be heard

amidst the rows of cubicles that stretched throughout the building like an uninspiring maze.

What was the point of anything, she mused, as she typed away with no care. No lover awaited

her at home, no friends to share her burdens, a good enough income to make a dent in her

mounting debt. The mundanity of her job was a hollow routine that sapped all the colour

from her like the colourless, dusty keyboard she typed on.

She lived this unending cycle day by day, a lost soul in a sea of anonymity,

wondering when the moment would be where her patience finally ran out.

After the Yūrei left, she lifted her arms up out of the water to get out, as her fingers were

creased for being in the spring for so long, but as she lifted them above the surface, her breath

hitched as she noticed the drenched white sleeves of a kimono sticking onto her arm, her

fingers reflecting a translucence. The kimono hung from her in tattered ghostly wisps, her

skin nothing more than a skeletal contour. She stared; disbelief morphed into horror. The

laughter that bubbled up into her throat was jagged and foreign. Panic had clawed at her

insides; this was not a mere trick of the light. After catching her breath mere moments later,

she looked down at the water below her, and leaned towards the reflection of her face, now

pale and luminescent, where her features appeared sharp and hollow. There was no warmth to

her breath that created distortions of her image.

She leaned closer and closer,

until she was fully engulfed and consumed by the depths of the spring.

(John Moran/Pinterest)

About Simran Shoker: Simran Shoker (she/her) is a Communications student from Australia with a deep passion for storytelling. Her hobbies, including video games, reading, and sipping iced tea as she reflects on new ideas, fuel her creative process. Her work explores the transformative power of narratives and immersive worlds, inspiring her to experiment with diverse forms of expression, which are not limited to fiction, reviews, and articles. Eager to continue honing her craft, she is excited to share her voice and perspective with a wider audience as she grows in the world of writing.