Near midnight on a furiously torrential August night, Ichigo Kurosaki found shelter by the side of the road he'd been hurrying along. It was an old-fashioned store, the kind that was popular in the '70s, built into the ground floor of a renovated home. It had a covered and miraculously dry porch, and two dusty little windows, which he observed up close as he stepped into the tiny refuge.
His first impression was unexpectedly negative; the entrance creaked harshly underfoot, and the eaves were low enough that the canopy threatened to shear off the top of his head, should he have entered at speed. Relief and exhaustion followed; he slumped over, panting, and slowly took in the little porch a second time. It seemed cozier, this time. He decisively dropped the bag he'd been holding onto; he'd be staying.
A small cloud of dust rose where his bag hit the floor, and he looked at where the goods had spilled out. They'd fallen onto a small drawing. After packing his shopping away, he paced the small porch curiously, feeling up the wood and checking out the other small carvings left on the floor. Childlike sketches and misspellings were everywhere. He looked up and squinted. The roof was equally dirty, spattered with paint, but it was solid and it held, despite speckles of rust on the rivets. The rain drummed harshly against the aluminum roof, like pennies from heaven, and he could hardly believe he'd been pushing through it a minute ago.
Especially because he'd not intended to end up anywhere near here. He twisted back to observe the street with some small measure of awe. He'd believed himself familiar with all of Karakura Town's twists and turns, and yet, here it was, a street behind a street, a fresh row hidden by another, a twisting byway he'd stepped into and found not just a shortcut but an entire small community! The homes were old, perhaps some of the oldest he'd ever seen in Karakura; the majority seemed gracefully antiquated and expansive, occupying far more space than he would have expected for a suburb of Karakura, where land was quite expensive. There were only a few homes occupying the entire street, all of them eerily quiet and dark.
That this area hadn't been torn down and remodeled seemed almost miraculous.
But if there was something strange about the neighborhood to point at, it would be that the little shop he sat in seemed to be the heart of it. It was the squattest, dirtiest building on the street, but it held the centermost position, and Ichigo had the odd feeling that the other buildings had been made taller on purpose, like they were shielding something precious.
Certainly, the area was oddly dark, even for a storm. The watery lights of streetlamps were entirely absent, almost buffeted away by the stolid masses of the larger homes from where they lit up the streets not a block away, and with the sheeting rain dulling noise, Ichigo had the distinct impression of sitting inside an enormous bubble. But the moonlight was clear tonight, even if only in fits and starts as the storm continued to brew, and when he turned back, Ichigo could make out a doorway and the warmth that appeared to wait behind it. He shivered slightly, and made up his mind to go inside, no matter how dusty or run-down; so resolved, he turned to the ephemeral specter that had appeared, as silent as night, behind his shoulder and asked, "This your place?"
The shade blinked slowly, thick jawline working as he tried to find words. "You can hear me?" the ghost tried, only slight hesitation in his voice.
Something about the lack of surprise twigged Ichigo's instincts. "You've heard of me," he said flatly.
The specter shifted; with no feet, this was a rather impressive motion. "Yes," rumbled the ghost, "Sometimes we talk. The ghosts that can move, that is. That can leave. They carry news when they pass by. You're in it, sometimes."
Ichigo swore lightly under his breath, his brows coming together in a furious cloud. "You're running news now?" he said, disbelief clear, "I've been telling you guys to focus on getting to heaven—what the hell is this?"
The large specter shrugged. "Harder than it seems."
Ichigo cursed again, and sniffed. His nose was running. He shivered and held back a sneeze. His eyes darted between the ghost and the rain, then between the ghost and the entrance, before he sighed explosively and asked in a softer voice, "May I come in?"
A fleeting grin broke across the ghosts' face. "You sure you don't mind a ghost's company?"
One hand went up to roughen his orange hair. "Haven't much choice, do I?"
The ghost chuckled, lower than the thunder overhead, and waved him in.
Ichigo cast one more look outside and shuddered, before lightly grasping the doorknob and twisting.
Or trying to.
"When did you say you died?" asked Ichigo, straining. The ghost rubbed at his hairless chin as Ichigo puffed and rattled the doorknob. "It must've been some time," he said thoughtfully. Ichigo was yanking on the door now, one foot up in the frame and tugging hard enough to turn pink and make thin cords stand out on his neck.
The ghost snapped his fingers. "It's only been a few days," said the ghost, "Yes, I remember. News came by a little bit after I died, it had been a day or so, and it's been a few days since then."
"This is 'a few' days dead?" Ichigo asked, pausing in his increasingly violent motions.
"No, not really." The ghost began ticking off his fingers, "A) The humidity and rain started recently, so the door probably swelled up in the frame, which is why it's stuck." Ichigo was turning red from the strain now, but he could feel the door slowly slipping, sliding out of it's damp framing. "B)," recited the ghost, "The news-ghosts don't work weekends."
It was the precise moment that Ichigo stopped to huff out a tired laugh, that the door slid from it's frame, swung wide, and landed a blow squarely edge-on between Ichigo's legs.
The ghost leaned over Ichigo's screaming form, and lowered his last finger, as dust rained down and settled on the fallen boy. "C) I didn't die here. I just like the ambiance."
"You goddamn—"
"I lived next door." The ghost shrugged. "This store's been empty for ages. Even when I was alive."
Ichigo swore and cried a little, but he crawled inside and felt a little warmer for it. Especially once he'd found his legs after a few, agonizing minutes of speechless pain, and closed the door behind him.
It opened outward, he assured himself, and turned back to the room with no small ease of mind.
Inside, the sounds of the storm were muted. While the clouds overhead continued to rumble, it was now a faraway thing. Much more real was the sense of disquiet in the air. Not of a particularly malignant sort, as people are fond of attributing to old locations, but a peaceful one. A melancholy, as they say, had settled over the place.
Ichigo tread carefully, unconsciously holding his breath as thick dust swirled in his footsteps. The entrance itself was plain, only a disused bell faintly clattering at his entrance, and the flooring was a spongy tatami. Mildew ran in thick streaks across the walls, making the shadows deepen until the edges of the building seemed to pull away into the darkness. The thin slats near the ceiling allowed only the faintest stream of light through, leaving much of the room in an almost anticipatory gloom.
The room was a large one, organized like a library, nearly ceiling to floor. Ichigo walked along one length, leaving the door at his back, seeing the occasional flash of the counter at the back. Water ran down his form and pooled on the floor, where it seeped into the gaps between each tile, and occasionally splashed into his shoes. Scum rose up from the tatami and floated to the surface, and eventually his shoes felt grimy and slick against his feet.
The shelves were no better. Ichigo ran an eye down one of the racks; they'd been emptied, but the packaging and leftover boxes indicated that it had probably been a professional moving job, and not looting. Oily residue stained some of the surfaces. A bit of stained plastic and a crumb of furry mold hinted at an abandoned lunch or two.
But for all that, the place felt homely. There was no sense of invasion to any of the changes.
"I don't know what it is," said Ichigo slowly, "But I'm glad this place isn't haunted."
The ghost behind him grunted appreciatively. "I like sitting in this place," he said quietly. "All the ghosts do, really. Old homes, abandoned places that have a lot of memories, they feel good to be in."
"Residue of a life lived," Ichigo said quietly, falling into a squat and tracing crooked letters only a child could have left on the paneled wood. "Not so different from you." Ghosts were pretty nosey parkers if you never ran 'em off, but this one was polite enough. Ichigo didn't mind the company in this derelict, and he was more respectful than some of the ghouls Ichigo'd kicked around; he'd see about getting the guy a proper shrine. The ghost probably wasn't three days passed though; the dead tended to lose time pretty easily. Ichigo had once met a young woman convinced it was 1959, and that he was a gaijin here to survey the territory. The cars, the technology, the change of lights and people and property, none of it stayed, it ran off her mind like the rain outside on oil paper. Ichigo sometimes wondered at the improbability of a ghost from 1959 still being around. How sad must she have been?
"It was a nice place, long ago," the ghost said faintly. "Kinda glad I'm the only one that normally hangs around in here, honestly."
"That seems counterintuitive," Ichigo observed with some surprise. "Aren't you ghost types lonely?"
"Well sure," the ghost said shiftily, "but it's also kinda depressing, you know? 'Cuz they're dead."
"Makes sense." Ichigo was uncomfortable with the fond look the ghost was giving him. He knew that the ghosts were terribly starved for affection, and he did want to do his best for them, but he couldn't live his life for their sake, now could he? He already owed it to his sisters. And Goat-Chin, he supposed. He could toss the old man a bone or two.
No, the best thing was to try and send ghosts off to the afterlife sooner. So Ichigo fell silent, and moved deeper into the shop, and the ghost was content to follow along quietly, positively giggling with the novelty.
The counter was a high wooden stoop behind the rows, with a little cash register sitting upon it. The register was shut, and slightly dusty. However, in places, the metal had rusted through, and there were holes just large enough to peek through. Ichigo squinted and looked inside.
Cobwebs, a whole morass of spiderwebs, and one fat, quite pregnant spider sitting inside. Its bulging abdomen was massive, and appeared riddled with pustules that were just ripe to burst open with thousands more of the breed. She skittered about inside, as though she could feel the weight of his stare, moving to a corner he couldn't peek into.
Ichigo shuddered slightly, and backed away. "Nothing," he chuckled whimsically. He doubted he would've taken anything, even if he'd found some coins. It felt wrong, somehow, to take anything from this st—
Something blurred past, liquid black, and the ghost shrieked in surprise.
Ichigo shuddered violently and hopped back, head spinning. "Wha—"
It was only a cat. It licked at it's grey footpads and eyed him with brilliant amber eyes. The ghost coughed nervously behind Ichigo, and Ichigo relaxed, until he noticed where it's paw was placed.
The cat had curled up onto the counter, but shifted the register out of its worn housing, onto the wood of the counter. "Hey," said Ichigo, growing alarmed, as the cat's continuing self-ministrations slid the register closer to the edge. "Hey, get down from there." He rubbed his fingers together. "Pspspspspspsps," he tried.
The cat blinked at him dully, stretching out one foot and moving the register half-off the counter. It's golden eyes tracked Ichigo's focus on the metal contraption, and it began batting at it playfully.
"You goddamn..." Ichigo grumbled, "N—!" He lurched forwards as the cat began rocking the machine back and forth, blinking at him, "Good kitty..." he mumbled, slowly moving forwards. He was slightly scared of getting closer, but he didn't want the register to...well, he couldn't really explain it, could he? It was like passing wind in a church, or standing on a fountain. It didn't feel right. It was a part of the store. He wanted to protect it.
Ichigo stretched out some hands, mildly distressed. "Here?" he tried.
The cat, unimpressed, shoved the register off the counter. Ichigo half-dove for it, but recoiled as it smashed loudly, metal bits ringing loudly and going all over the place. His hands reflexively went for his eyes. He felt something hot tug at his lips, and felt a trickle slide down his bottom lip.
When he looked again, the cat was gone, and there was nothing but shining bits of metal and cobwebs all over the floor.
"Well," tsk-ed the ghost. "That was messy."
Ichigo walked over to the mess, unable to help the mild sense of guilt he felt. His hands itched for a dustpan of some sort. "Do kids play here?" Ichigo heard himself asking. Warm blood was staining his lips, and he licked it away; a slight pain told him where it was coming from.
"Sometimes."
That made his mind up. "I'll be here tomorrow. I'll clean this up." He frowned deeper. "Can't let some kid trip on this. Might mess up their feet or something." He rubbed his hands together, already thinking of what he needed. Bleach, papers, bags, some tongs...he was here, might as well make this place less of a hazard. There must be all kinds of mold growing here. He could pull Keigo, Mizuiro had a 50/50 of showing up, Chad...hard maybe. The massive boy would be a damn good help for sure. It would've been worth waiting for him, just for the sheer help he would be, if not for the smashed pieces of the register.
"How many people live in the neighborhood?"
"Not many." The ghost shrugged. "It's all yours." That he wouldn't mind the company went unsaid. That was fine. Ichigo found himself warming to the idea. Chad would appreciate the place as well, if they could fix it up. A nice place to practice his guitar or something. His neighbors had been getting on his case recently.
"You know," the ghost's voice intruded on his thoughts softly, his tone catching Ichigo's attention. "You don't need to do all this." He shuffled footlessly. "It's nice," he said hastily, "but really, it's fine."
Ichigo waved him off. "It's fine," he grunted. And honestly, it was. If Ichigo was being entirely honest, he just liked the place. It had a pleasing shape and ambiance. He could use somewhere to lurk where the student cops wouldn't try to bust him for random crap too. They'd found his spot below the bridge. "We can get you a shrine too. See if we can't get you moving to heaven."
The ghost's jaw worked a few times while Ichigo tried to kick the sharper bits of metal closer to the wall, before firming. "It's nearly stopped raining." He said abruptly.
Ichigo's ears twitched at that, and he quickly walked over and peeked out one of the grimy windows. Gonna need some cleaning fluid. Scrubber too. The rain was indeed petering off, the first bars of moonlight breaking through.
"Huh." He turned back to the ghost, whose face had taken on a slightly unreadable cant. "Thanks."
The ghost nodded.
Ichigo turned back to the store with a slight sense of wistfulness, and slowly moved to the back. "Might as well put the register back, at least," he muttered. He'd been hesitating because he didn't want to walk around with grimy hands, but he was leaving now anyway. Besides, he was slightly curious about the register. It had been oddly intact. How could no one have tried to peek inside?
He picked his way back across the broken bits of metal. Frayed threads of web were everywhere, and he felt a brief throb of guilt over the poor spider mother. He shook it off; he didn't even like spiders. But despite himself, he still tried to avoid stepping too carelessly. Just in case.
There wasn't much to see anyway. His first impression seemed to be right;
the owner had been wise enough to clear house. Perhaps other people had done as he did, and been satisfied with peeking inside the register through some hole or another. He whimsically kicked over bits of the drawer, but all that scattered was bits of wood and metal, and small clouds of light blue paint. "What am I even doing?" he muttered, terribly embarrassed. He obviously wasn't cleaning a damn thing. He shoved the larger pieces closer to the wall, where he'd kicked over the glass earlier, and hastily stepped away. He'd come back with proper bags—
"Wait," the ghost said, "you missed something."
Ichigo turned, and frowned. "I'm not really interested in taking anything—"
"It doesn't look like a part of the shop," the ghost interrupted. "It's new. And weird."
Ichigo, curious, followed the ghost back to the wreck of the register, and at his prompting, turned over a bit of the till with his foot gingerly. Beneath it, something gleamed, slick and red. A card, of some kind. The ghost had been correct, that looked distinctly strange.
"Weird, huh? I think it might've been in the register."
"That's pretty weird," Ichigo agreed absently. Stooping down, he swept it up, and held to the thin bar of moonlight pouring in through the ceiling slat. It shone, spotless. It was oddly heavy as well, and when he flipped it over it had nothing but a magnetic strip on the back, no description at all. "Weird..."
"Any idea what that is?"
Ichigo shrugged and pocketed it. "Not a clue. Maybe a cash card of some kind?"
"Maybe," said the ghost dubiously. "I feel like I've seen that type of card before. It must've been a long while ago..."
Ichigo snorted. "Whatever, old man. I'll hold on to it for now, lemme know if you remember what it is." He cracked his neck and moved back to the front door, shivering at the chilly greeting as he pushed it open, and bent down to sweep his bag back up.
"I'll be back tomorrow!" he called back, before slamming the door shut, leaving the lonely ghost to ponder in the moonlit storefront.
"…I think it was a telephone card?" he wondered aloud. "Weird place to keep one. I hope I remember to tell him..." The ghost frowned slightly. "What was his name again...?"