Month: March 2024

Vignette 5: Eradicating Loneliness, or Ensuring It?

The dawn of A.I. companionship has been on the gradual rise for a very long time. So long, that I think it’s fair that nobody has figured out how to hit that “sweet spot” yet – the perfect balance of functionality and compatibility. How do we make it human, with none of the faults?

The funny thing is, the majority of people actually interested in A.I. companionship are not interested in this at all. Happy suburban families or ambitious up-and-comers without a cent to their name have no interest in the investment on A.I. companionship. They are quite satisfied with Alexas and Siris, who add a little bit of convenience to their daily lives but not much else. I personally use my Siri for little more than a lullaby machine playing distant train sounds, an alarm clock that can wake me to smooth jazz on iHeart Radio, and a bluetooth speaker. Thus ends my imagination with such a “companion” device.

But now we are on the cusp of true A.I. companionship, teased through the programs used to draft writing and art through the input of carefully coded keywords. The human trick in A.I. that makes it desirable is not its perfection, or its speed, even, but its adaptability. A computer, after all, will only put out what you put into it. But it will retain that knowledge, so that, the next time you ask for something, its response will take your previous action into account. A.I. does not work as “one-size-fits-all.” It must, as humans do, begin with a child’s scope, adapting to what it thinks will please us, the parent.

Consider the “Companion Robot” in the video above. Stilted and unexpressive, breaking silence and lack of interaction with the same cutesy hand wave motion several times in a row. It is not programmed to learn or adapt with its owner, but to fit a stereotype that many lonely individuals might find appealing. It is a harmless, unimpressive display (literally just a display, less of a computing mind) when compared to what could be. Like the RPG choose-your-route dating apps; all of it is scripted, a farce you act out under the false pretense that the program is reacting to you. A.I.’s new potential in 2024 has the possibility of mimicking human neuroplasticity, proving that perfection is built gradually, not shipped out at conception. That is not to say that this wouldn’t require several paid updates to achieve, however.

So, what’s stopping us? The biggest issue, besides the mires of cybersecurity and legal precedent, would be target audience. I know it came off that I was certain what people were looking for, but one of the most deceiving characteristics of a human’s relationship with their own neural pathways is what they truly want. Do they want what is easy, predictable, restrained? Or do they want what is complex, spontaneous, raw? That we still have such a hard time mapping these desires out in relationships with other people means that companies and the A.I. themselves will find themselves at odds with what they think the customer wants. Worse yet, there is the possibility that this contentment in fruitless endeavors and relationships with an A.I. companion will wear off, or perhaps not even take on. For the psychological stimuli of “happiness” is often accompanied with a lasting physical reward registered by the one of our five senses. No hologram can stimulate more than two senses, and the brain will never accept such a pseudo-existence as a complete companion.

Vignette 4: Morality of a Monster

We are fast approaching the 10-year anniversary of the beloved cult hit video game UNDERTALE. And while I still haven’t managed to defeat the final boss of the Genocide route (yeah, try THAT on a Mac), I am at least satisfied with having seen the narrative perfection in its entirety on Youtube, and gone through the Neutral and Pacifist routes on my own. A long, long time ago. Though appreciation for its minimalistic beauty lives on, that appreciation would be less impactful if not for its statements on Posthuman morality. Spoilers of course, for those who have never played the game.

Depending on whether or not you kill or talk your way out of battles with “enemies” in the game, and counting the ratio in which you choose one or the other, the program will judge you and determine whether or not you are deserving of a happy ending or are in need of Sans’ interference. This is, of course, after you have already completed the unavoidable neutral route on first playthrough. In Neutral and Pacifist routes, the main antagonist is Flowey – a miserable little shrub who is the resurrected spirit of prince Asriel Dreemur after he was slayed by humans. Besides Sans, Flowey is the only citizen of the Underground who is aware of multiple save states that allow the player to change the outcome of their future. Unlike Sans, however, Flowey goes one step beyond being aware. He is able to lock and manipulate those external save states himself, even so far as to trap us in an unalterable state right before his final boss battle in the Neutral path.

Most players prefer to focus on Chara as the main antagonist – the game’s interpretation of our own corruption as we kill characters we have become attached to, never letting us forget past many saves that the ones whose company we enjoy we have erased in previous saves. But this is not entirely fair, since many of us will return to the Pacifist route afterwards to leave things in a better state than they were, having only ventured down this dark path for completionist’s sake. What’s more, we are still conscious that this is but a game – the characters only exist on one side of the screen, in a scripted and programmed reality. Chara is the bad end – we can’t even fight her. She is the extreme moral warning that the game throws at us to make a “relevant” moral statement about our relationship to expendable pixels on a screen. The old “violence in video games makes one violent in real life” argument.

Flowey is much more poignant as an example of this posthuman relationship between man and media. He has only stretched out to torment us, insult us, and try to kill us, AFTER he has already done this hundreds of times in his own world. Flowey, in death, became the gamer on the other side of the world, playing his own game despite our interference while we are playing ours despite his. Flowey is the mirror image of the player, manipulating and abusing both his own reality (UNDERTALE) and the reality outside his own (our reality). But he is not just an end game finality, but an active and constantly destructive force; after all, the player cannot become Chara until after they confront Flowey in his absolute form. Then, they must choose to either take his place or bring him back to the light via emotional breakdown.

The secret to Flowey’s connection to the player is in his death – Asriel was killed by humans. Undertale, to prove allegorical points, uses killing and death as blanket extremes for much more precise ways of negatively affecting those around us. Asriel might have been killed, but it was the violent social rejection that turned him into the monster that is Flowey. “It’s kill or be killed” is his mantra, a moral line so blurred that it can easily change to “It’s lie or be lied to,” “It’s betray or be betrayed,” “It’s abuse or be abused,” “It’s manipulate or be manipulated,” and so on and so forth. Our empathy connects us to these characters’ stories, the words of real humans written in a way to speak to and affect other humans – that is why we feel bad when we kill them for the sake of playing the game. But such is the script – following it does not make us a monster.

But to delight in putting these characters through pain, in exerting power over those who cannot resist our control…can we see that played out in real life as well? Not in the act of murder, perhaps, but in how we view people as means to an end, as tools to be wielded and discarded at will, as NPCS in a video game where we are the main protagonist? This Solipsistic dilemma is where the Floweys of the world show their true thorns – and why not take objective morality off the table when you’re god of your own little world?

Just Another Night at the Ryokan Mottainai

Deep in the verdant mountains of Japan’s Gifu prefecture, on the outskirts of the traditional city of Takayama, there was a hotel. A Ryokan, specifically, the traditional kind of Japanese inn passed down through generations, with staff living on-site and an onsen right outside the sprawling three-story polished building. For such an old place, it was in extraordinarily pristine shape – unexpected, considering how long it takes to go out of your way to get here. 

Yet, here I was. Ready for a long weekend, relaxing in the hot springs and dining on traditional Japanese cuisine. Because Japan is all about tradition, is it not? And if I find their traditions enjoyable, perhaps I’ll honor such delightful excursions as traditions of my own.

The owners were a lovely old couple, one short greying woman and one short grey man. I took my shoes off in the lobby and placed them in the cubbies at the entrance. The place was bedecked in a hard, muted red, browned from either age or the saturation of the air outside, the perfect color for matching the bamboo tatami mats lining every floor panel. There was a shrine to some ancestor or other in an adjacent room, where an incense stick curled one single plume of smoke around a complete set of shogun armor, and an empty incense plate hung from the ceiling. I inhaled long and deep…monkō, I believe they call it. Listening to the incense. 

The elderly man gave my key to a young woman, who beckoned me in the direction of my room. The couple were all smiles, the creepy kind, where the incessant number of wrinkles become ever evident as they pile upwards until completely obscuring your eyes. The help, however, all had the same painted white faces, wearing traditional kimonos, and gave no impression of expression whatsoever.  This was less creepy, I suppose. More the kind of professionalism I was expecting from a traditional inn. 

The room was surprisingly modern, clinical. A bathroom near the front door, complete with electronic heating toilet and built-in bidet. A futon lay on the ground, with an ornate, puffy cover, not far from the sitting area with a table, chair, and single minimalistic calligraphy piece. I recognize the form as Kanji, but am not completely sure what 健康 translates to.

he first day passed without incident. I was terribly tired from the drive, and the onsen had been calling my name the whole way here. How could I deny it any longer? There were a few others out and about the ryokan, but we all kept our distance. The water was dark against its bottomdrop of grey stones on one side and the sharp red glare of hanging lanterns on the other side. It was an interesting choice, almost like being in a darkroom, and the figures of other guests waded about in the steamy water like false photographed stills of the Loch Ness Monster. Hm…Another exotic place I need to visit…

When I dried off and returned to my room in just a towel, the meal was already spread out on a low sitting table – an assortment of miso soup, rice, smoked salmon, fried tamagoyaki, a hodgepodge of unidentifiable vegetables, and sake. Dressing in the rental kimono hanging in my closet, I heartily devoured the meal which gave me just enough energy to finish writing my daily travel blog by the window. The bamboo forest was serene, the harsh hum of cicadas heralding the sun as it reclined behind mountains until its red rays lay flat as a blanket; then night prevailed. Sleep came to me somewhere in between.

Daylight brought with it an itching sensation near my ribs. I inspected the reddened, puffy area closer…a mosquito bite, perhaps? This might call for a trip into town later, grab some ointment, after I complete my morning exercise routine and hop in the shower.

As I was returning to my room from a relaxing run through the cedars, I noticed a short curtain hanging from a sign that said something in Katakana. Steam flowed freely from within, and I concluded that this must be one of the public baths on site. Not usually one for privatized public nudity, it was an experience I would expand my comfort zone for, at least once. 

The dressing room was empty, as was the bath area. The place was decorated with wood, from the floors to the basin to the seats below the showers. There was a panel of glass at the far end of the room, a small outdoor area surrounded by thatched walls that featured two large red barrels – tubs, filled to the brim with hot water pouring from bamboo spouts. Grimy from the humidity outside, I lathered, rinsed, and relaxed in the sprawling heated tub. My mind was eagerly melting into that woozy complementation of soreness and heat after about fifteen minutes, which meant it was probably time to go. I rose, and, no sooner did I step out of the basin, then I was immediately conscious of a pair of eyes on me. Studying me…Sizing me up…

No one had entered, I was certain of that – they must have evaded my initial study of the room. Scanning one last time, for peace-of-mind’s sake, I caught sight of a figure in one of the red barrels outside. He waved at me, slowly, with a friendly smile on his face, so at least it was clear he had not been meaning to avoid me before. I opened the sliding glass door and stepped onto the pebble pathway outside, which led to the barrels.

“Ah, a fellow foreigner,” he welcomed me in a thick Australian accent. He was a portly, tall man in his late 40s, with a high-ridged nose jutting from a saggy rectangular head topped by a Kappa’s haircut. His protruding belly pressed against the tub, an iceberg in that steaming water abducted from the onsen, and he raised one hairy arm to beckon at me like one of those lucky cat statues in restaurant windows. “Come, come, park your carcass, have a chat.”

I obliged – again, as a one-time experience, might as well try out everything the public bath has to offer. So I slipped into the other red barrel next to him, water seeping out and trickling through the cracks of the stone garden.

The Australian was a laid-back, casual fellow, an intellectual and worldly traveler who always returned to Japan when he fancied being surrounded by nature at its least exotic and most mystical. He enjoyed the public baths in the afternoon because they were usually empty, and the serenity of listening to the water pour from the fountains, trickle across the floor and into the ground, gave his ears a front-row seat to the cycle of comfort undisturbed. It soothed his nerves as a politician, a position in which following the trail of money was hardly ever satisfied with a conclusion or clear line of sight.

“Then again,” he lolled, sinking back into the faucet so that the water clapped against his back and sprayed off his slouched shoulders, “Ryokan Mottainai is not always the most relaxing place. There have been strange occurrences, yes…spooky things that go bump in the night or steal your left sock.”

“What,” I chuckled, “like ghosts? That wasn’t on the website.”

“You think it would be? You think mentioning haunts and spirits would attract more customers?”

I shrugged. Far be it for me to pretend I have any experience in advertising. “But anything could help. Place seems pretty dead.”

The Australian laughed, “You’ll see how dead soon enough. Things pick up for the spirits on Saturday nights.”

“Not funny,” I said, though it was certainly interesting. “What kind of spirits are we talking about here? Malevolent, environmental, deceased…”

“Flip of the coin, mate. Never can tell who might you interesting yourself. Though…There is one…”

He gave me a sideways smirk and sank deep into the bath, blowing bubbles on the surface. It was a little gross.

“One…Well, what?”
“There is one pretty persistent spirit, the dangerous kind.”
“Where are they usually? Guess I should avoid-”
“Oh, you can’t. You won’t. All you can hope is that she passes by your door without peeping in. But if you wake in the night and smell someone smoking outside, or the sweet, sweet odor of burning flesh, so strong it burns the insides of your nostrils and brings tears to your eyes…Better hold your breath and stay as still as possible. Unless you fancy smelling like an overcooked sirloin yourself when she gets her hands on you.”

I wanted to ask more, but my head was feeling woozy and that darn mosquito bite was itching like mad. The Australian gave me his beckoning wave in farewell – I guess it translates both as greeting and goodbye – and I left him there half-submerged in the comfort of his dark rusted barrel.

Hiking to the bus stop was a bit of a slog, as the clouds came in and drizzle came down. But I made it there, and had the bus all to myself. I must say, I must say, that it was such a relief when I got off in Takayama and was surrounded by locals. Sure, it’s been like, what, a day? But I was already feeling too isolated at the Ryokan Mottainai. 

Popped into a convenience store, snagged an umbrella and some Kinkan anti-itch ointment, and settled down for a bit in a small cafe near the open-air market. Even in the rain, set up on the edge of the Miya-gawa river thundering down its man-made ravine twenty feet below, the stall owners weathered the storm to sell their wares. They had come prepared for a storm like this; now if only they had come prepared for customers not to be prepared, as they fled helter-skelter for shelter’s sake.

Oho! Another group passes by my little cafe window, a tour group off to see the sights – and none with umbrellas! They’re standing at the edge of the bridge, and I can see the tour guide gesturing out into the mists below. I applied the ointment to my bite (hoooowow, that stings!) and hurry back into the rain before they move on and leave me behind.

“When they found the body,” the tour guide hunched over, hammily narrating the events of what sounded like a post-drowning, “both of his eyes were missing. Some locals say, if you see a fisherman lurking on this bridge late at night, casting his line into the darkness below, then better for you to find another way around. He’s hunting for the fish that sucked out his eyes, and it might be hard for a blind, desperate man to determine the difference between you…and a fish.”

A bizarre shudder of unenthusiastic laughter rippled through the crowd. I got chills, probably from the rain, and laughed along with them. No one seemed to notice me as we trudged through cobblestone streets, stopping here and there for the tour guide to put on a larger than death performance that only I seemed to appreciate.

“It was at this shrine that a venomous snake spirit struck out at Hirata as he bowed his head for fortune in the New Year. He didn’t live to see the morning, and now both his spirit and the snake lurk about the grounds, entreating you to act with either productivity or slouch in your hearts on New Year’s Eve. For, as the snake would argue, why bother showing restraint when your final night begins with a bite?”

“And here we have the final resting place of Ike, who took etiquette one step backward outside of the house to take his shoes off and contracted a lethal foot fungus. If you see green mold growing near your shoes, it means he might be lurking about, waiting for the opportune moment to snatch your shoes and throw them into the street!”

“Infamous mobster Bando Bunko died of food poisoning at this Yakitori shop. Oddly enough, this actually brought in more customers than dissuaded them. Suspicions of ‘fowl’ play only heightened as the ghost of the deceased diseased mobster sometimes vomits on customers as they leave during a rainy day like today. With a grudge against women who don’t believe the unjust deserve justice, right around that corner, still wearing his dapper Yakuza suit…LURKING.”

The tour was very edutaining, and I was very pleased at seeing my rainy afternoon pass by quickly, when we arrived at a crumpled heap of rubble…What used to be a house, allowed to rot and ruin right there between two perfectly fine homes.

“We’ve got two more stops on our tour, folks. This next one-”

All of a sudden, someone in the crowd broke out crying. It was a little girl, grasping tightly for her mother’s waist as she looked with unblinking eyes away from the house and the crowd. The mother said nothing. The tour guide said nothing. Everyone just looked kinda sad and stared at the rubble while letting the girl just go on and on and on. Someone needed to teach her some manners.

“Excuse me,” I proclaimed loudly, for the whole group to hear, “but maybe you should take your child somewhere else if a pile of burnt wood is too much for her.”

No one responded directly, but I did see the tour guide’s ears pick up at my voice.

“Wait a moment,” he murmured, scouring the rubble with his eyes. “I sense something…”

I felt tingles on my fingles. Couldn’t he tell us the backstory before whatever it was haunting us jumped out without any guesses as to how it would do so? Tell us, tour guide, hurry, how the spirit lurks in this place! My thoughts blurted out in a few incoherencies…I don’t know why, maybe the moisture was getting to me?

All of their heads turned, directly towards me. Not their bodies, still pointed straight ahead at the ruined house – just their heads. Like owls, they swiveled to glare in my direction, all eyes milky white, like those of the blind, silvery dishes glinting in their skulls.

“You,” whispered the tour guide, “are not one of us.”

“So?” I blurted. I refused to be discriminated against just because I was alive, or hadn’t paid the tour fee. “I’ve been following you for the past half-hour, and you’re just now having a problem with me?”

“You’re disturbing the other spirits,” said the guide, as his head started to float like a fruit underwater, neck extending in a faint wisp to keep it anchored to his body. “I’m trying to give them a little peace, and one of our more sensitive participants is coming up on his first encounter with how he died.”

A little boy began to cry in the crowd. He was just staring at me, mouth open, crying sounds spilling out but no tears, no pained expression to show he was otherwise “disturbed.” It was annoying, really – he was probably mocking me. Then his head began floating, too. 

“Yeah,” said some sharp-dressed man with tattoos on his neck and some gross liquid dribbling down his chin, then down his nose as it orbited a full one-eighty and schlooped back into his nostrils, “This is an exclusive club, and you ain’t got no membership!”

All of their necks were stretched to the limit now, intertwined as their heads bobbed like balloons on strings. It felt like an unfair advantage; like they were looking down on me, and I was the one in the wrong.

“Fine,” I shouted, exasperatedly throwing up my hands and pacing a tight little circle, “I’ll go, if you’re all going to be rude about it! But I’ll have you know-“

They were gone. I took my eyes off of them for one second and they had spirited away under the cover of rain.

“Assholes!” I yelled after them with hands cupped around my mouth, hoping they hadn’t gotten so far that I wouldn’t get the last word in. I was too loud, though, and some angry little Japanese grandmother threw open her curtains and started yelling at me in her own language. I smiled with about twenty embarrassed “Sumimasen” before I managed to disappear under the cover of rain as well. And it wouldn’t be until I got back on board the bus that I had a hard time remembering if the old lady was leaning out of a perfectly serviceable house that stood exactly where the rubble of that burnt pile of wood was scattered. But I wouldn’t necessarily classify that as something worth double-checking, especially if at risk of bumping into that rude tour group again.

The rain cleared up by the time I was dropped off at the Ryokan. The smiley owners welcomed me back, asked me how was I feeling…Honestly, not too hot. I feel like a cold is coming on or something, my skull is a slurring scramble right now and my side is raw from scratching (I think rain washed the ointment off). If anything can help the headache, I’d put money on the onsen out back, so I quickly changed and stumbled into the warm, natural waters.

The warmth rising under my chin and ears helped relax my head and neck, which is what I was hoping for. What I wasn’t hoping for was for the onsen to be so crowded…there were about eight to ten people wading about nearby. I could not see them that well, just shadows slowly moving around under the warm lanternlight that hung from the trees, casting weak spotlights on the surface of the water. One of the shadows passed around the light cast in front of me, and came to rest his back against a rocky outcropping that was little more than an arm’s stretch from me.

“I’m sorry, but do you have to be so close? I know it’s crowded, but there’s still plenty of room on the other side.”

The man didn’t answer me. Heck, he didn’t even look at me. What was with the Japanese and their abhorrent lack of manners? I always thought they were a courteous and overly-neurotic about saving face. This was the exact opposite of what I was expecting.

“Are you listening? Either move, or tell me you won’t so I can make you move. But sitting there ignoring me is just asking for trouble!” 


He didn’t even turn to look at me, so I splashed him. Then I kicked around under the water, swung my arms wildly, looked over the edge in the trees – because, somehow, the personal space invader had vanished into this air as soon as my tsunami washed over him. It wasn’t that powerful, surely he didn’t get washed away to a different part of the onsen, but then…where the heck did he go?

I thought I spied him at the other end of the onsen, just kind of bobbing about, but I determined it must be a shadowy lookalike. Come to think of it, all of these shadows look alike. So I approached another one to strike up conversation.

“Hi! Some crazy rain we had today, right? Pretty spooky!”

No response.

“I’m sorry, do you not speak English?”

Ignored again. So this time I reached out and personally grabbed them in a big ole bear hug, and POOF! Gone! Not a real person, hahaha, am I hallucinating here? Wading frantically through the onsen, I just start grabbing shadows. Anything that looks like a person, one of them has got to actually be a person! But they all just disappear, merging with the rising steam as soon as I come into contact. I’m out of breath pretty quickly for dashing after spirits, and my head feels worse than ever, so I turn for the stairs. Maybe I’ll find the Australian in the public baths – I need someone to tell me I’m not crazy.

Which I’m seriously starting to doubt, as another shadow catches my eye at the far end of the onsen, where the steam is the thickest. And next to them is another shadow, and another, and another…okay, double the number of shadows that were here when I arrived, to make a long story short. And they were all lined up, focused right at me.

I tried to spook them first, gave a little fake out jab with my arms to establish dominance. I’d already grabbed, like, eight shadows. Was it light, or was it handsy people, who were the true enemies of the darkness? But then they started gliding through the water towards me at an alarmingly speedy pace and I was the only scared one here. I desperately dashed for the shore, tripping and going under twice, then rolled out over the edge. Heaving myself up, I saw all of the shadows, still in the water, right at the edge where I just was. My guess was that they couldn’t leave the onsen, so I flipped them off in victory and marched back inside.

Turns out its not Japanese people, just Japanese ghosts who are extremely rude.

Entering the public bathroom, I was relieved to see my friend the Australian already waiting, beckoning to me with his lucky cat paw from the barrel outside. My relief almost distracted me from noticing that the bathroom was not the same – all of the wood had been replaced by dark stone, mottled with different shades of grey and giving the steam a miasmatic quality.

“Ah, that,” explained the Australian as I settled into my barrel next to him, “is the result of equality. The women get the wood bathroom tonight, then tomorrow it will return to the mens side. They just switched the sign.”

“Weird…I just walked to where I thought I was last night. Pretty sure this is the same bathroom.”

“Well, now, that would be utterly ridiculous, wouldn’t it?”

“You’d be surprised…”

I recounted my encounters, of the tour and the onsen, and the Australian listened with compassionate interest.

“It reads to me that you aren’t in the greatest of circumstances, mate.”
“You’re telling me.”
“I am. And I’m also telling you, this means that you will be especially susceptible to seeing her tonight.”
“What, the burn victim?”

“Oh, she’s no burn victim,” he laughed, shimmying his hairy chest under the fountain, “but what ailed her in life now ails her in death. There was something that weighed on her spirit so much, that it withstood the purification that comes with passing out of the body.”

“Hm. Got any suggestions?”

The Australian shrugged, so I bid him farewell before he ducked under the water. Drying myself off, I was preparing to leave when it finally struck me just how odd it was that the Australian knew so much about this angry ghost girl. So I decided to open the bathroom door and go back for one more round of what might turn out to be crucial questions for tonight. The bathroom was still empty. Just the drip, drip sound of condensation and the tub basin continuing its endless recycling and filtration.

I could see through the steam and the glass that the only occupant had not left yet – but I could confidently say, whatever it was now, it was not Australian. Sitting in the barrel where my acquaintance had been, was a grossly massive beast covered in black-tinged rust-colored fur that stuck out in every direction. Its face was resemblant to one of those traditional Oni masks, complete with fangs, horns, a snarling smile, and glowing eyes, hunched down between its gaping shoulders. The demon’s eyes glinted as it caught sight of me, raising a gnarled elongated hand to give me that lucky cat wave once more; but I was certain, now that I had seen him for what he really was, to stay would put me in a very unlucky situation. So I just waved back, slid the door shut, and returned to my quarters without the information.

Getting to sleep was a futile and sweaty affair. My side still itched like the Dickens, and I was worried that this ghost girl the Yōkai warned me about would pop out of nowhere without warning. How could I defend myself against her then? I was almost relieved as my nose started to burn from the smell of roasting flesh and my eyes started to water from the effects of smoke that was freshly pouring in from under my door. My fear swapped places with annoyance, the main theme of this trip ever since ghosts decided I was to be their primary source of entertainment.

Rising, I decided to get this over with. Not like I would be getting any sleep tonight, anyways.

“MONTEBAL!” shrieked the banshee without even waiting for a “hello” from me as soon as I opened the door. Her entire body was burning, blackened skin stretched tight on her wasted frame, with dark sunken holes in her skull where eyes once were. Fire surrounded her, dripping down from her hair and razing the walls and ceiling around me. It was pretty impressive, though perhaps only because the speed of her showmanship caught me by surprise.

“The time of your reckoning is here, Montebal,” yelled the ghost, pointing a crusty finger accusingly at me, talking over my insistent spluttering that she had the wrong guy. “These fires you see around you consume, never to give, as you did in life – and now they shall consume you. Your neglect of what is important, the ruin you left in your wake, I have come to deliver the consequences upon your head. Blood is thicker than oil, father!”

I decided that was my cue to deliver a bucket of salt directly on her head. The smell of burning oil was unmistakable, but also the hardest type of fire to put out. I had prepared a few options depending on what kind of fire she was: a regular fire, electrical fire, oil fire, etc. My hope was that salt, though not too terribly effective against oil fires, would be doubly effective due to her being a ghost as well. So I hinged my bets on a bucket of salt, and thusly dumped!

The fires immediately schlooped back into the ghost girl, like juice up a straw.

“What the Hell was that?” she chattered, shivering like she had just been doused with ice-cold water.
“My name is not Montebal!” I shouted loud and clear, before she had a chance to start up another tirade.
“What? It’s not…no, but it has…who are you, then, and why are you in Montebal’s quarters?”
“Quarters? This is a hotel room in the Ryokan Mottainai!”
“Ryokan…Where the Hell is that?”
“Japan!”
“What?! But how did I get from Gibraltar to here?”
“Listen I’m just a guest here, and a live one to boot. How should I know?”

I didn’t think her face could look more ghastly – boy, was I wrong. Oil burbled up inside her eye sockets and streamed down her sunken cheeks. She hunched down over her knees in the doorway, sobbing.

Feeling pity, I placed a hand on her back and burned myself. She understood the gesture, though, and rose to follow me inside. I warmed her a cup of canola oil and we sat down together as she spilled her guts over the relationship between her and her father, Montebal, who sought his fortune on an oil rig off the coast of Gibraltar while leaving his family behind to suffer the abandonment. She had been overtaken by disease, until the only thing left beating in her frail body was hatred for her father. It was a touching tale that I admit I had no good advice to give, how she could pass on or be at peace. But I tried my darnedest anyways.

“Look,” I began, “I came here for a relaxing trip, to take in the sights, smells, and salivations of Japanese culture. Instead, I have been bombarded on all sides by obnoxiousisms of the phantasmic sort – it’s got me all discombobulated and in a downright foul mood. I have finally come to terms after talking with you, that the realm of the deceased-but-not-done is beyond my control. I can’t do anything about it. So why bother bothering over all this nonsense when I have just a little time left to enjoy myself here? Better to move on with my own plans, and let the things beyond me pass by.”

She smiled and patted my hand, burning me a second time.

“Thank you for taking the time to listen to me, if that’s truly how you feel. I think your advice is good…for another time. For now, if I don’t want to end up more lost than I already am, it’s probably for the best that I have a purpose in mind, you know?”

The ghost girl downed the cup of oil and thanked me for my hospitality. I showed her to the door and bid her goodnight, before she floated up into the ceiling. There was a loud knock, a door sliding, a booming “MONTEBAL!” Then a lot of screaming from the guests above me. I chuckled and shook my head, and was able to sleep soundlessly as a monk after that.

The morning came, and I was feeling better than ever! No more itching, no more headache, a drawling, happy feeling of elevated nausea bringing warmth to my muscles and heart. I checked out with the smiley couple at the front, who smiled even more than they had when I first arrived, and took the bus to the airport.

My trip to experience a Japanese onsen had some ups and downs, sure, but I think it made me a more resilient man. Plus, it’s not every day one relates with and to the dead, so I had to approach whatever recollection I planned to retain of my stay at the Ryokan Mottainai with respect, if not with fondness. For I learned it was not good for me to dwell on things that I did not change, simply for lack of knowledge or ability. These things exist in the realm of shades, where the dead and realities that could have been find a brief tangibility in the waking hours of understanding.

All that to say, I needed a very good reason to not fly right back to Japan, once whatever drugs the owners had pumped into me wore off, and the burning itch in my side returned worse than before, and I scratched it to find my fingers running up and down the long ribbed stitchings of a scar where that “mosquito bite” had been. A fresh, puffy scar that burned like fire, crossed directly over where my left kidney used to be, my one lasting takeaway from a stay at the Ryokan Mottainai.