We were finally closing in on the perimeter of the Spirit Hunter Palace. The drive had been long and grueling, grinding our stamina down to the bone. Even though Haroku and I both tried to act like this was just another road trip, the reality of what we were driving toward kept us on high alert.
I glanced over at Haroku in the passenger seat and decided to break the tension. "So, Haroku... you want something to eat?"
His posture shifted instantly, leaning forward with sudden energy. "Yes! Do you have something stashed back there?"
I smirked slightly, keeping my eyes on the road. "No. But I'm thinking we should take a break at that place up ahead."
I pointed toward a small, weathered roadside shop standing alone on the edge of the dirt shoulder.
Haroku followed my finger. "Oh, perfect. Let's hit the shop."
Without wasting any time, I eased off the gas and pulled the car onto the gravel, bringing it to a halt near the entrance. Before stepping out, I turned slightly toward the back seat.
"Makeno," I asked. "Do you want anything?"
"No," Makeno replied, her voice perfectly calm and sweet. I don't but hearing her voice make me feel good.
I gave a single nod. I popped the door open, and Haroku and I stepped out onto the dry dirt, walking toward the storefront.
As we pushed the door open, the faint jingle of a rusted bell announced our arrival. The inside of the shop looked incredibly old. It didn't seem like a place that saw regular foot traffic. The floorboards were scuffed, and a thin layer of dust coated the windows, but the shelves were fully stocked and meticulously organized.
Haroku looked around the empty counter and called out. "Hey! Is someone here?"
There was no reply.
He took a few steps deeper down the center aisle and tried again, raising his voice. "Hello? Anyone working today?"
Still nothing.
A stark silence filled the store. It wasn't just quiet; it was the kind of absolute stillness you find in an abandoned building.
I scanned the walls and noticed a piece of faded cardboard tacked near the register. "Haroku, look at that board."
Haroku turned his head, spotting the sign. He walked over, squinting to read the handwritten ink.
"Oh," Haroku said, looking back at me. "It says it's an honor system. We just take what we want and leave the cash in that wooden lockbox on the counter."
I nodded. "Seems simple enough."
Haroku held out his hand. "Okay, then give me some money."
I pulled a few bills from my wallet and handed them over. Haroku moved quickly down the aisles, grabbing a few sealed food items and bottles of water. Neither of us wanted to linger.
After tossing the cash into the lockbox, we turned around and started walking toward the exit.
Just as my hand reached for the door handle, a sound cut through the silence.
A faint, whimper.
It was the sound of someone crying.
Haroku and I froze instantly.
We exchanged a sharp, shocked look. The sound grew slightly louder, echoing off the narrow walls of the aisles. Someone was definitely in here.
Haroku lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "Did you hear that?"
"Yes," I replied, my tone dropping into dead seriousness.
The crying continued. It wasn't loud or panicked, but it was constant. Rhythmic.
My expression hardened. I turned my body back toward the interior of the shop. "We have to see who is crying."
Haroku immediately grabbed my arm, shaking his head. "No. I think we need to walk out that door right now."
I frowned, looking at him. "What are you talking about, Haroku? What if someone actually needs help?"
Haroku's expression was deadly serious. "No, Symen. I've read about setups exactly like this in the underground spirit archives. A crying child in an abandoned location? It's a classic lure. It's a trap."
I stayed silent for a second, processing his warning. I understood his concern. He wasn't wrong; the paranormal world was built on deception.
But I couldn't just walk away on an assumption.
"I don't think so, bro," I said quietly. "Let's just check once. We keep our guard up. If anything feels like a threat, we back out immediately."
Haroku hesitated. The soft, continuous sobbing drifted through the store, tugging at human instinct.
After thinking it over for a tense second, Haroku slowly nodded. "Fine. But we leave the second something feels wrong."
I gave a nod.
We both turned our backs to the door and started walking deeper into the shop. Our steps were slow, calculated, and completely silent. We tracked the sound, weaving past the dusty shelves toward the back storage area.
The crying became clearer with every step. Haroku's eyes darted left and right, scanning the blind spots. I kept my focus locked straight ahead, zeroing in on the source.
Then, Haroku raised his hand and pointed toward a shadowed corner near the back wall.
"There," he whispered.
Huddled in the corner was a little girl.
She was sitting on the dirty floor with her knees pulled up to her chest. Her head was slightly lowered, her face hidden behind messy hair, and she was crying continuously.
Haroku and I stopped a good ten feet away.
I observed the scene, my analytical instincts kicking into overdrive. Something about the picture was completely wrong.
She didn't look injured. Her clothes weren't torn. More importantly, her body language didn't match the sound she was making. She didn't look scared or panicked. She was just sitting there, emitting a flawless, unbroken loop of crying.
I narrowed my eyes, studying her carefully.
Haroku leaned in close to my shoulder. "This doesn't feel right," he whispered.
I didn't reply. I kept watching her closely. In this line of work, every single detail matters. Every subtle movement is a clue.
And then, I saw it. The anomaly. The detail that broke the illusion.
I slowly shifted my gaze away from the girl and looked directly at Haroku.
Without saying a single word, I raised my hand and flashed a strict, tactical hand sign.
Retreat. Immediately.
Haroku read the signal instantly. The remaining color drained from his face, his expression turning into stone.
We didn't speak. We didn't make any sudden, panicked movements.
But as we began to slowly back away, we both knew the exact same thing.
Something in this shop was horribly, violently wrong. And we had to get out of there before it realized we knew.