Amelia Wakes Up
Amelia’s eyes opened. The room was an unknown quantity. Dislocation, sharp and sudden. Not home. Not the familiar slant of Australian sun, the dust-motes dancing in the air of her room. This was elsewhere. Japan, a whisper in her mind supplied, unbidden.
She lifted her hands. Small. Not hers. A child’s hands, pale and unfamiliar at the ends of her arms. She rose, legs unsteady, and the floor met her bare feet with a chill that seeped up through her. The mirror beckoned, a cold surface reflecting back not herself. A girl stood there, framed in the glass. Long, dark hair curtained a face she did not recognize. Brown eyes stared back, devoid of the blue she knew as her own.
“Who… me?” The English words felt thick, foreign on her tongue.
A woman entered, a soft rustle of fabric. “Hana-chan,” she murmured, her voice gentle but laced with a familiar maternal chide. “You’ve overslept again. School already. Breakfast must be quick.”
Japanese. Amelia understood. The language bloomed in her mind, effortless, impossible.
“Who… you?” The English fractured, clumsy.
“Hana-chan, are you unwell?” The woman’s hand, warm, pressed against Amelia’s forehead. “No fever.”
Understanding settled like a shroud. Japan. Hana. She was in Japan. She was Hana.
“Okay,” Amelia responded, the Japanese slipping out with unnerving ease. Memories, not hers, surfaced – a school uniform, the steam of miso soup. “Downstairs soon,” Amelia said, a smile forming, alien and practiced. The woman withdrew, leaving Amelia alone in the quiet strangeness.
A breath, deep and shuddering. How? Why? And the looming, unspoken question: what now?
Amelia Thinks in the Bathroom
Fear, a cold knot, tightened in Amelia’s chest. This family, these rooms – unknown. She was not Hana. She, Amelia, was adrift. Time to think. A fragile shield against the encroaching panic. “Bathroom to think,” she murmured to the silent room. The door closed behind her, a soft click of finality.
Small. Tidy. White tiles gleamed, clinical and cold. So different from her own bathroom, a comfortable chaos of damp towels and scattered lotions. The mirror again. Hana’s face. A borrowed face. Madness. Yet undeniably, brutally real.
“Hana-chan!” Her mother’s voice, a rising thread of impatience. “Hurry! School waits for no one!”
School. A distant irrelevance in the face of this impossible shift. Yet pretense was needed, a fragile mask to wear in this alien world.
An ache in her arm, a throb of unfamiliar pain. Sleeve rolled back. A scar. Long, pink, raised. New. Not a childhood mark, but something recent, raw. Another layer of this unfolding enigma.
“Hana-chan! Downstairs now!” The maternal command brooked no delay.
“Okay, Mom, coming!” Amelia called back, the Japanese words now fluid, too easy. Pretend Hana. Smile Hana’s smile. Go to Hana’s school. Seek clues, answers in this stolen life. But the scar, the burning question of its origin, remained, a silent promise. “Home,” she whispered to her reflection, to Hana’s eyes staring back. “I have to find my way home.”
Amelia Eats Breakfast Downstairs
Fear, a constant hum beneath the surface. But the mask of Hana must be donned. Smile. Descend. The scent of miso, the sharp tang of grilled fish, drifted up the stairs, domestic and deceptively normal.
Hana’s family at the table. Mother’s smile, a practiced curve. Father’s nod, reserved and formal. And in the corner, a dog bed, rumpled and warm. Asleep.
Amelia took her place at the table. The dog stirred. Woke. And erupted. A bark, not of greeting, but of raw, visceral anger. A sound that tore through the morning quiet. It lunged, teeth bared, towards Amelia.
“Koro!” Father’s voice, sharp with surprise. “What is wrong?” He restrained the dog, but Koro snarled, eyes fixed on Amelia, a silent accusation.
Amelia froze. This was not normal. The dog knew. Anger, yes, but beneath it, something else. A profound sadness, a desperate plea. The dog wanted to speak, to warn.
“I don’t understand Koro,” Mother said, bewilderment in her voice. “Koro loves you most, Hana. Never like this.” She attempted to soothe the animal, but Koro’s barks only intensified.
Father, decisive, moved to action. “Outside,” he said, his tone firm. He carried the still-snarling dog out to the backyard, the click of a cage door echoing back into the kitchen.
He returned, shaking his head. “No idea what’s gotten into him today.” His gaze turned to Amelia, searching. “Hana-chan, are you alright?”
“Fine, Otousan,” Amelia replied, the word slipping out with unnatural ease. But she was not fine. The dog knew. And she had to know too, what Koro sensed, what he tried to convey through his frantic barks and accusing eyes.
The Walk to School
The doorbell chimed, a bright, cheerful sound against the lingering tension of the breakfast scene.
“Mei. Punctual as always,” Mother said, handing Amelia a schoolbag, heavy and unfamiliar. “Have a good day at school!”
Amelia and Mei set off, the rhythm of their footsteps a counterpoint to the unspoken unease that clung to Amelia.
“Yuhi and I, another fight last night. Epic,” Mei began, her voice already laced with weariness. “Nightmares all night, fueled by anger. You were in my dream too, Hana.”
“If fights are constant,” Amelia said, the English phrasing still echoing faintly in her mind, “why not end it? Find someone else?”
Mei stopped walking. Her gaze sharpened, scrutinizing Amelia’s face. “Yuhi is not that kind of boyfriend. He’s my brother. Hana knows Yuhi is my brother.” A pause, heavy with suspicion. “You are not Hana.” The words hung in the air, stark and undeniable. “Hana knows.”
Fear, no longer a knot, now a cold wash through Amelia’s veins. “You’re right. Not Hana. Amelia. Australia. Woke up… in Hana’s body. No explanation.”
“Oh.” Mei’s eyes widened, comprehension dawning. “That’s why…” “Dream. Strange dream about Hana last night.”
“What dream?” Amelia pressed, urgency in her voice.
“Cave. Cave paintings. Strange animals on the walls. Australian man, Japanese woman. Both there. Man, a crystal ball. Woman, a magic mirror. In the ball, Hana, sleeping. In the mirror, blonde girl, also sleeping. Then… Koro. Hana’s dog. Barking. Jumping on Hana’s bed. Trying to help. Bright light. Woke up.”
“Blonde girl – me,” Amelia breathed. “Woke up in Hana’s body. Hana… in mine?” “Cave. Where is Hana?”
“Don’t know,” Mei admitted, her voice hushed. “Cave, location unknown. Magic, purpose unknown.”
Amelia rolled up her sleeve, revealing the angry pink scar. “This. Found this morning. Hana – no scar yesterday, right?”
“No.” Mei’s eyes traced the line of the scar. “Like… dog scratch. Dream – Koro jumped on Hana’s bed… maybe… scratch in the dream?”
School gates now visible, a looming archway ahead.
“Help,” Amelia pleaded, desperation rising. “Who can help?”
“Teachers?” Mei offered hesitantly. “But which teacher?”
Visiting the History Teacher
Amelia and Mei hurried through the school gates, the ordinary sounds of morning chatter and the distant clang of the bell fading into a background hum. Classroom forgotten. History room their destination. Door ajar, Mr. Sato within, a quiet figure amidst the towering shelves. Books in hand, he turned, surprised by their sudden appearance.
“Oh, good morning, Hana-chan, Mei-chan,” a kind smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Class soon. Problem?”
Mei, breathless, spoke first. “Mr. Sato, help needed. Cave paintings.”
Mr. Sato’s eyebrows lifted, a flicker of curiosity in his gaze. “Cave paintings?”
“Dream,” Mei explained, words tumbling out in a rush. “Paintings on cave walls. Strange animals. Australian man and Japanese woman – in the dream.”
Intrigue deepened in Mr. Sato’s expression. He gestured towards the whiteboard, a silent invitation. “Tell me more.”
Mei, seizing a marker, began to draw. Strange shapes emerged on the white surface – animals unlike any Amelia recognized, lines and dots forming patterns, circles and spirals interconnected. A crystal ball materialized in a drawn hand, a magic mirror beside it.
Mr. Sato watched, his initial curiosity evolving into something akin to astonishment. “Aboriginal cave paintings. Kakadu, Kimberley region… resemblance is strong. But certainty… elusive.” He rubbed his chin, thoughtful. “Man, woman, crystal ball, mirror…” A slight shake of his head. “Knowledge… lacking.”
“Cave location?” Amelia pressed, her voice taut with urgency.
“No. Location unknown.” A pause, then a shift in his demeanor, a spark of recollection. “Wait.” “New ALT this year. Australian.”
“ALT?” Mei echoed, questioning.
“Assistant Language Teacher,” Mr. Sato clarified. “From Australia. Aboriginal art, cave paintings – knowledge may reside with her. Cave location, perhaps.”
“Name?” Amelia asked, hope flickering.
“Ms. Kelly. Teacher’s room. Help, perhaps, she can provide.” He glanced at the clock, its hands ticking inexorably forward. “Bell imminent. Teacher’s room – find her there.”
Amelia and Mei, gratitude unspoken but palpable, fled the history room, the bell’s distant chime now a pressing urgency.
Math Class
“Maybe… math class. Normal,” Mei suggested, a strained attempt at composure. “Figure things out later.”
Classroom entered. A familiar space, yet now imbued with a sense of unreality. Students, murmuring, reading, phones glowing in their hands. Mei and Amelia settled into their usual seats, a fragile island of normalcy in a sea of unease.
Bell rang. Silence descended. Ms. Yamamoto, math teacher, expected. But instead, a different figure entered. Tall. Black hair, pulled back, severe. Dark eyes, cold and assessing. Not Ms. Yamamoto.
Mei gasped, her hand a vise on Amelia’s arm. Amelia turned, Mei’s face bleached white, eyes wide with a terror that resonated, visceral and immediate. Fear, palpable in the air.
“Good morning, students,” the woman’s voice, smooth, chillingly calm. “Substitute teacher. Ms. Fujiwara.”
A shiver, involuntary, traced Amelia’s spine. Something about this woman… wrong. A primal instinct to recoil, to disappear. Mei’s terror, a mirror to her own growing dread.
Ms. Fujiwara moved to the whiteboard, a predatory grace in her movements. Marker in hand, a blur of motion. One hundred math problems appeared, sprawling across the board. Not ordinary problems. Complex. Difficult. Impossible for any student to solve in the allotted time.
“Exercise to begin class,” Ms. Fujiwara announced, her voice devoid of warmth. “Silence. Each problem must be answered by class end.” Her gaze flickered, briefly, to Amelia. Amelia, frozen, unable to move, to breathe.
Pencils scratched, a frantic whisper in the suddenly oppressive silence. Students stared, overwhelmed by the impossible task. Mei struggled, her brow furrowed, her hand trembling. Amelia, mimicking effort, pretended to work, her mind racing, her senses on high alert.
Minutes crawled by. Mei, desperate, attempted to pass a note, small, tightly folded. Amelia reached, fingers outstretched. Ms. Fujiwara moved, swift and silent. Note snatched from Amelia’s hand.
“Note-passing. Against rules,” Ms. Fujiwara’s voice, soft, yet edged with a dangerous sharpness. She unfolded the paper, her eyes scanning the words. Note confiscated.
Ms. Fujiwara looked up, her gaze narrowing, focusing on Amelia, then Mei. “Hana-chan,” she said, the false sweetness of her tone a chilling contrast to the coldness in her eyes, “Mei-chan. Stay after class.”
Amelia’s heart hammered against her ribs. Mei had been right. Something profoundly wrong. This woman knew.
Fight And Flight
The clock above the whiteboard, each tick a hammer blow against taut nerves. Sweat slicked Amelia’s palms. Mei, rigid, gripped her pencil with white knuckles. Ms. Fujiwara patrolled the aisles, her shoes clicking on the linoleum, each step echoing the rising dread.
Leave. Must leave, Amelia’s mind screamed. Scan the room. Pencils, books, lights, desks. Bag – notebooks, bento box, panda pencil case. Useless.
Mei’s note. Fujiwara had it. What had Mei written? A warning? Fujiwara’s gaze, a cold weight, settled on Amelia. She knew. They were known.
Nausea rose, a sour taste in Amelia’s mouth. Action. Needed action.
Desk slammed, the sound explosive in the tense silence. “Mei!” Amelia’s voice, sharp, deliberately angry. “Your fault!”
Mei startled, eyes wide with confusion. Amelia shoved Mei’s shoulder, a rough, theatrical gesture. “Always trouble. You make trouble for me!”
Class gasped, a collective intake of breath. Ms. Fujiwara froze, her patrol halted, her gaze fixed on them, predatory and still.
“Hana-chan—” Mei began, her voice low, hesitant.
“Stop it!” Amelia yelled, the sound echoing too loudly in the room. A slap, sharp and resounding, against Mei’s ear. Mei’s eyes welled with tears, shock and pain mingling in their depths. Chair scraped back, toppled to the floor with a crash as Mei scrambled to her feet.
“Crazy!” Mei screamed, the word raw with fear. She lunged for the door, but Amelia grabbed her arm, pulling her back, a frantic, desperate tug.
“No running!” Amelia hissed, pushing Mei towards the exit, their eyes locking for a fleeting, crucial moment. Pretend. The silent command passed between them.
Mei shoved back, hard, unexpected force. Amelia stumbled, falling against a desk, a cascade of pencils and books scattering across the floor.
“Stop now!” Ms. Fujiwara’s voice, a whip crack of authority. The air in the room seemed to chill, a sudden drop in temperature. She moved towards them, a slow, deliberate advance.
Amelia didn’t hesitate. She surged forward, grabbing Mei’s hand, pulling her after her. Out of the classroom, into the relative freedom of the hallway.
“Run!” Amelia gasped.
Down the corridor, feet pounding, a frantic rhythm against the linoleum. Behind them, the classroom door opened, a slow, ominous creak.
“Hana-chan. Mei-chan.” Ms. Fujiwara’s voice, calm, deceptively gentle, yet laced with an undercurrent of chilling menace. “Come back.”
Amelia glanced back, a fleeting, terrifying glimpse. Ms. Fujiwara stood in the doorway, her figure silhouetted against the light, her shadow stretched long and distorted, a grotesque parody of human form.
“Faster!” Mei urged, her breath ragged. Down the stairs, legs burning, lungs aching. Nurse’s office sign, a fleeting beacon of potential refuge. They veered, diving into the small, sterile room, seeking sanctuary in its antiseptic quiet.
Behind a bed, they crouched, bodies pressed tight, breaths coming in ragged gasps. Footsteps, slow, measured, echoed above, a relentless pursuit.
“Not human,” Mei whispered, her voice trembling. “Shadow. Did you see?”
Amelia nodded, fear a cold weight in her chest. “Sorry. For hitting you.”
“Okay,” Mei breathed, the word barely audible. “Fujiwara… dream. Knows I saw. Coming.”
Footsteps halted outside the door. The doorknob turned, a slow, deliberate click.
The Nurse’s Office
The doorknob turned. Amelia’s grip tightened on Mei’s arm, both girls shrinking further into the cramped space between the bed and the wall. Frosted windows diffused the daylight, casting the room in a pale, milky gloom.
The door creaked inward.
“Up you get, you two.” A voice, low, honeyed, yet with an unexpected edge. Australian vowels interwoven with the practiced cadences of Japanese. “No time for games when a mamu’s on the hunt.”
Amelia peered over the edge of the bed. A woman, thirties perhaps, skin the rich hue of earth, hair a complex weave of braids. Her cardigan, patterned with circles and dots, echoed Mei’s cave drawings. A weathered leather satchel rested at her feet, adorned with both Japanese shide paper charms and Australian river reeds.
Mei stood first, her voice trembling slightly. “Ms. Kelly? New ALT… from Australia?”
“The very same.” Ms. Kelly’s gaze flicked to Amelia’s scarred arm. “And you – not Hana Yamato. Spirit adrift, tangled in a songline not your own.”
Amelia stepped forward, a fragile hope piercing through the fear. “You know… body swap?”
“More than know.” Ms. Kelly glanced upwards as heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway above. “Proper chat later, away from this place. Fujiwara woman, clever hunter, yes, but old magic… different story.”
Mei froze, staring past Ms. Kelly’s shoulder, down the hallway. Ms. Fujiwara rounded the corner, her shadow preceding her, a monstrous distortion stretched across the linoleum – elongated claws, a serpentine neck, jagged horns twisting upwards, a nurikabe yōkai made manifest. The real Ms. Fujiwara walked with measured steps, her human form a stark contrast to the monstrous shadow rippling before her.
“Behind you—!” Amelia choked, the warning a strangled whisper.
Ms. Kelly didn’t turn. Instead, she reached into her satchel, producing two desert oak sticks – one carved with caterpillar tracks and dotted patterns, the other plain. The patterned stick held a fragment of black, lacquered stone near its tip, bound by red thread and a fluttering shide paper charm.
She clicked the sticks together. A sharp, resonant sound, like bone resetting itself. Click.
The medical skeleton in the corner shuddered. Ribs rattled. The shide paper on Ms. Kelly’s stick glowed with a faint, ethereal light. With a jerky, unnatural movement, the skeleton lurched from its stand, jaw clacking, bones clicking as it scrambled towards the doorway – purified, momentarily animated, pressed into service.
Ms. Fujiwara’s shadow-horns twitched. A manicured hand rose, yanking the fire alarm. Klaxons blared, a deafening shriek that ripped through the school. Chaos erupted. Classrooms disgorged students, a confused, shuffling mass. The skeleton crumpled mid-stride, bones scattering as the hallway flooded with fleeing figures.
“Tch. Coward’s tactic,” Ms. Kelly muttered, steering the girls towards a side exit. “Come. Kusunoki awaits. Roots whisper stories older than hers.”
Roots of the World Tree
The camphor tree’s branches, ancient and sprawling, formed a protective canopy, dappling sunlight across Ms. Kelly’s satchel as she laid out its contents on the grass: a cracked hand mirror, a river reed coiled with shide paper, the Kunkunpa-Guji sticks. Amelia traced the caterpillar carvings on one stick, her scar responding with a faint throb, a silent resonance.
“Start with why,” Mei urged, her gaze still darting towards the school gates, a lingering unease. “Why us?”
Ms. Kelly snapped the sticks together – click – and a ghostly map shimmered into being, luminous lines connecting the ochre heart of the Australian desert to the shadowed peaks of Japanese mountains. “Two paths. Ours,” she indicated red songlines weaving across the Outback, “theirs,” a tap on blue ryūmyaku ley lines spanning Japan. “Ancestors tried to bridge them. For protection.”
The Original Pact (1890s):
“Great-great-granddad,” Ms. Kelly began, her voice low, steeped in ancient knowledge, “marrngu – keeper of Tjukurpa stories. Met Fujiwara at Darwin port, onmyōji from Japan’s imperial court. Shared purpose – shield lands from Western encroachment.” She unfurled a brittle scroll, depicting a man in Heian robes holding a mirror, beside an Aboriginal elder with a crystal ball. “Tools forged: Tjukurpa stone to anchor songlines, Yata no Kagami shard to reflect spirit energy. World Root intended – bridge for shared strength, not theft.”
Amelia leaned closer, drawn in by the unfolding narrative. “What went wrong?”
“Power’s rot.” Ms. Kelly’s voice hardened, a bitter edge. “Fujiwara – greed consumed him. Twisted bridge into weapon. Emperor Meiji learned of it. ‘Disappeared’ him. Estate burned, staged as rebel act. Your house,” a nod towards Amelia, “shrine-temple hybrid once stood there. Torched in Haibutsu Kishaku – Japan purging Buddhist-Shinto blends.”
Modern Betrayal:
Mei’s breath hitched. “So, Ms. Fujiwara… descendant?”
“Great-granddaughter. And my uncle,” Ms. Kelly spat the words, laced with contempt, “her accomplice. Rogue marrngu, separatist. Hijack anchored souls – their goal.” She tapped the map with a Kunkunpa-Guji stick. Hana’s house, Amelia’s Outback home, illuminated by malevolent beams of light. “Hana’s land – spiritual wound. Severed Shinto-Buddhist nexus. Yours,” her gaze sharpened on Amelia, “songline heart. Swap souls, and…”
The map’s lines, red and blue, shifted, corrupting into a sickly, venomous purple.
“Hitobashira,” Mei whispered, her face drained of color. “Human pillars.”
“Worse. Living batteries. Suspended animation, permanent.” Ms. Kelly’s tone was grim. “Souls – fuel for their dominion. Monopoly on nations’ energy. No more yōkai, no Tjukurpa, no shrines – just their puppet strings on every world leader who kneels.”
The Race:
A cold dread seeped into Amelia’s bones. “Full moon deadline… why?”
“Bridges require anchors. Moon’s pull – cement the swap. Irreversible.”
Ms. Kelly leaned forward, camphor leaves casting jagged shadows across her face. “Ritual failed – Koro’s intervention. Last night, swap attempt. Pup jumped onto Hana’s bed. Animals sense breaches. Disrupted tether.”
Amelia rubbed her scar, the pink line radiating a faint warmth beneath her fingers. “Hana… where is she?”
“Unknown.” Ms. Kelly’s jaw tightened, a grim line. “Fujiwara hunts her soul. Thinks adrift. Drag her back to Shark Bay cave – finish the swap. Me? Yank you both home. Before moonrise.”
Mei’s grip on Amelia’s arm intensified. “Amelia’s body… empty?”
“Mates in Darwin, hospitals checked – coma patients.” Hesitation in Ms. Kelly’s voice betrayed doubt. “Spiritual possession… messy. Body dormant, perhaps. Or…” Her voice trailed off as Amelia’s phone buzzed, a jarring intrusion.
New Message (Hana’s Mother):
Come home NOW. Koro dug up entire garden. Barking nonstop. Hurry.
Ms. Kelly read the text over Amelia’s shoulder. “Cue.” She stood, brushing dirt from her slacks. “Koro’s speaking. Telling us what Fujiwara hides.”
As they hurried towards the Yamato house, none noticed the crow perched high in the camphor tree, its eyes – one gleaming violet, the other obsidian black – watching their every move.
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