On Takamura’s recommendation, they all returned to the lounge car.
“No doubt you’re tired,” he said, serving them their choice of hot coffee or black tea, along with apple crumble and macarons.
However, while the warmth had put their stomachs straight into relaxation mode, the mood in the room was still uneasy. That was only to be expected: They could hardly respond to a fellow passenger’s disappearance with Oh, really? Okay! and move on.
Without warning, the room’s grandfather clock chimed, making Seiji jump. The clock’s hands were pointing to nine. They’d been on the train for three hours already.
Was time moving quickly or slowly? The one sure thing was that dawn was still far away.
Then Takamura, who’d slipped out of the room, abruptly returned pushing a two-level cart. When Mao saw the object occupying the top level, she gave an excited little cheer.
“Ooh, a phonograph! I’ve never seen one that actually worked before.”
It was a classic phonograph with a flaring horn. While the record player in the dining car had been the very latest model, this one looked like an antique.
As usual, Ishizuka snorted. “Hmph. Is that piano back there just for show or something?”
“There is no pianist on the train tonight,” said Takamura, “so other arrangements were made.”
He was holding a 78-rpm record. After setting it on the turntable in one smooth motion, he lowered the needle to its surface. “I’m aware you may find it an imposition, but I ask that you listen quietly for just a few moments.” His eyes traveled over the group’s faces, then he bowed.
And then…a voice spoke.
It was oddly high-pitched, as if it had been filtered through a voice changer, and it delivered a series of criminal accusations—or rather, death sentences.
“Ladies and gentlemen, silence, please. You are all sinners worthy of Hell’s punishment, and you stand accused of the following crimes:
The first of you appropriated a large sum of money out of wickedness.
The second killed a pregnant woman, robbing her child of its mother.
The third drowned his wife on a stormy night.
The fourth caused the death of someone they envied.
The fifth informed on others, causing several deaths.
The sixth stole their elder brother’s life.
The seventh left the corpse of a friend to rot.
I regret to inform you that none of you has room to justify your actions. However, if you confess your sin and vow to atone, I promise that you will be released from this train. Beginning now, the enforcer in your midst will conduct your executions over the course of the night. Please use your brief grace period wisely.”
At that, the voice broke off.
In the tense silence that followed, even the hands of the clock seemed to have fallen still.
Then there was a splash. Ms. Nomura’s teacup had slipped from her hands and was rolling on the carpet, spitting up blood. Or, no—for a moment, the red of her tea had merely given that impression.
“Huh? What…was that?” asked an abrupt, shrill voice. It was Mao.
Her words sparked a murmur that spread among the passengers. Seiji was rattled and confused, too. His temperature dropped, and his breath grew shaky. It felt as if wet hands were clenched around his heart.
In the back of his mind, the voice on the phonograph kept repeating one phrase.
“The seventh left the corpse of a friend to rot.”
That was Seiji’s sin.
It was why he’d once seen himself as the yokai called itsumade. He’d confessed to Shiroshi and begun working as an assistant for his proxy service in order to atone. After that, his reflection had reverted from yokai to human, and yet…
No. In the end, he’d just been under a convenient, self-serving illusion.
He might have escaped Hell’s punishment, but there was no way to erase that sin.
Takamura clapped his hands, calling for silence.
Instantly, the uneasy murmur died, as if it had never been, and a hush filled the room.
“Starting now, we will play a little game until the train reaches its destination. For the roughly nine hours that remain until dawn, I request that each of you choose either to confess or keep silent.”
Takamura was holding a stack of envelopes that he’d retrieved from the cart’s lower shelf. They were uniform in size, but their thickness varied; a couple were as thick as mail order catalogs. Their fronts and backs were entirely unmarked, but they were stamped with the same Berlin blue wax seal as the invitation Shiroshi had received the day before.
“What…the hell…? What is this?!”
“I-it’s not true! This—this isn’t…”
As the passengers opened their envelopes, screams and angry shouts went up.
Timidly, Seiji broke the seal of his own. Its contents turned out to be several photos of him in the act of tumbling out of a familiar-looking apartment.
He didn’t even have to check the date they’d been taken. They’d captured the very moment he’d discovered Inokoshi’s corpse in the bathroom and bolted, leaving everything just as it was.
“I see,” said Shiroshi. “They’ve used the Mirror of Retribution to look back in time and had photographs developed from what it showed them, as if it were a security camera. The individuals who received very thick envelopes seem to have been given more detailed investigation materials. Either way, it’s in extremely poor taste.”
Takamura resumed his explanation. “If you choose to confess, a recording of your confession and the contents of the envelope you are holding will be sent to individuals connected with the incident. Specifically, to the police and to the victims’ surviving family members. You will also be exempted from punishment on this train and will be released when we reach our destination.”
Meaning… Seiji shuddered, swallowing hard. They were basically being threatened: We’ll expose your sin.
If their crime was serious, they wouldn’t be able to avoid social sanctions and arrest. To criminals who’d managed to avoid punishment so far, that would be a genuine living hell.
“If you choose silence, you will be judged on this train at the hands of the executioner. However, if you are able to escape judgment until dawn, you will be released at our destination. In that event, your envelope will not be given to anyone.”
Hell’s punishment—the moment Seiji heard those words, the world seemed to pitch and roll, as if he’d been slugged right in his inner ears. He felt nauseated and dizzy, almost seasick. At that point, he finally realized he was low on oxygen.
It was as if invisible hands had placed a noose around his neck.
“I see. I finally understand what Takamura meant when he said this would be like our usual contests,” Shiroshi whispered. There was clear anger in his voice now. “Exposing the truth, prompting the sinner to confess, exempting them from punishment only if they accept their atonement—up to that point, it’s exactly what I’ve been doing all along. One could say that this very train is a kasha, a fiery cart transporting sinners to Hell while they still live. However, what they are doing here is indiscriminately tormenting sinners. They’re dangling the twin bait of returning alive and being pardoned, as if it were a spider’s thread.”
He was interrupted by an angry shout. “D-don’t screw with me! This is groundless—it’s hogwash—it’s nothing more than anonymous slander. Whatever your ‘mystery game’ is, if this is supposed to be some sort of event, you’d better lawyer up! I’m suing!”
It was Ishizuka. He’d flushed so deeply that his face was nearly black; howling like a dog, sending spit flying, he kicked his chair back and stood up.
“Dammit, I’m not taking any more of this! Our phones may not work here, but the engine room has to have a way to communicate with the rest of the world. Even if it doesn’t, there’s an emergency brake somewhere. I’ll force this thing to stop!”
However, before he was out of the lounge—
“I should have mentioned this earlier,” said Takamura, “but if even one of you leaves the train during the journey, all of your envelopes will be sent to the parties connected to your incidents. In your case, Mr. Ishizuka, it will also go to the police officer who suspected you. I believe his name was…yes, Masayuki Kubo.”
“…What?”
Instantly, the atmosphere changed.
Ishizuka stopped in his tracks. His lips had turned bluish-black, like slugs, and he was shuddering wordlessly. As the other passengers gazed at him, their expressions were similar. Full of wariness and self-preservation.
In that moment, Seiji knew: From now on, they would all watch one another to make sure no one left the train during the night.
Ishizuka’s choked voice broke the silence. “Wh-what’s with you people? Wh-wha—? Why would you do s-something like…?”
There was a pause.
Takamura closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were as deep and still as the night.
“To ensure that you are punished for your sins—or, I believe that is what the person who invited you onto this train would say. However, it is not for me to tell you more than that,” he said quietly. He had to be talking about Ibara.
“Well, he’s one hell of a psychotic bastard,” Kaganuma spat. He scratched his head, as if he were disgusted. “Hey, didn’t that phonograph say the executioner was one of us?”
“Yes, that’s right. They are among you.”
“So if we grab the guy and stop the executions, we’ll go home safe and sound, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s easy, then. First, we slug you and tie you up, then we make you cough up who it is.”
Hm. He had a point. His argument was primitive, but that made it tremendously persuasive. However…
“Unfortunately, that won’t be possible. There is a rather unique mechanism on this train: If I harm any of you, or am harmed by you, it will trigger a fatal explosion. Please consider me a witness who cannot affect the situation.”
Seiji wanted to write the idea off as ridiculous—but he couldn’t.
The memory of a temple gate being devoured by flames rose in his mind. If the barrier around this train was the same sort that had enclosed that abandoned temple in the mountains of Okuhida, it was extremely possible that it would go up in flames.
As the other passengers stared, speechless, Tosu spoke up.
“When Godou disappeared from his compartment, was it because the executioner killed him?” Although the others were hopelessly flustered, his expression was as blank as ever.
“I’m very sorry, but I can’t answer that.” Huh? Why not? “Please consider it an accident. The one thing I can tell you is that he was not executed as part of the game.”
“Then is he alive or dead?”
“…I can’t answer that.”
What the heck? Seiji thought, and it seemed he wasn’t the only one. Irritation crept into Tosu’s voice.
“An accident? I don’t see how that would make a guy vanish from a locked room. Was his compartment rigged somehow? Or is there someone else with a master key?”
“No, I hold the only master key. In addition, nothing was done to Mr. Godou’s room, or to any of yours. You may relax and make yourselves at home there.”