Salt Piled at the Boundary

I put cat food on a plate. For a cat that never shows its face anywhere.
With movements that no one would ever see, I gently drop about two handfuls of cat food.
I leave a little water dripping at the edge of the plate. I feel like that's the path for its presence. There's no basis for it.
Ganmodoki—that's what I call it, but I don't know if it's really a cat. But the presence is definitely there.
So, I call out to it every day.

When I repeat things like this, memories of the past sometimes unexpectedly surface.
They aren't memories connected in a flow. They are more amorphous, things that remained like isolated dots, suddenly connecting with something in the present. Like the moment you suddenly realize the true nature of a sense of discomfort you've been feeling for a while.
Or, moments where actions that shouldn't have had any meaning suddenly make sense in a different context—those moments definitely exist.
At this time too, while staring intently at the cat food on the plate, I suddenly thought, 'Oh, it's salt piled for purification.'
Not in terms of appearance or anything like that, but as an act. The logic is that there is something in common in terms of offering something to something invisible.
However, what I'm doing now isn't to ward anything off. It's not to protect myself from anything either.
Rather, it's a quiet signal to call something. I call this summoning.
In other words, it has the exact opposite meaning of that time.

That time—it was during my college days. I was working part-time at a karaoke place.
On the third floor of a building in a back alley of a downtown area, where the elevator creaked every time it stopped. My college life's murky parts are still submerged in the air that felt like a mix of damp microphones, peeling sofas, and leftover cassis orange.
At that shop, there was one comedian who I got along with strangely well, and he was also submerged in the same lukewarm air.
I knew his real name and age, of course. But strangely, those memories are already hazy.
I'm pretty sure his stage name changed twice after we stopped hanging out.
But I remember his voice clearly. A strangely friendly voice that seemed to resonate through his nose when he laughed.
However, when he suddenly went silent, it was strangely low, as if it were echoing from under the floor.
Let's call him Mr. M.

Mr. M was good at slipping scary stories into funny ones.
He didn't switch abruptly. It was as if he had been talking toward that from the beginning, and before I knew it, I had been taken to some dimly lit place.
Late-night kitchen. Taking advantage of a lull in customer orders, Mr. M would start talking. I would listen to him while snacking on fried food.
Around the time the story reached the middle, I felt like the singing voice leaking from some room suddenly faded away. The sound of the commercial refrigerator lost its outline and turned into mere air vibration.
There were several such moments. That was what delayed the dawn a little at that shop.

The invitation arrived in the summer of my second year of college. It was the end of July, when the sound of cicadas began to sound more like a construction site than wind chimes.
'I'm doing a live show with only scary stories, so come if you'd like.'
The message was simple. But I felt a strange heat in that brevity.
I've liked horror since I was young.
I think it was because the feeling that if you peeled back the surface of reality, there might be something even stranger packed underneath was interesting. It's absurd, and it has no meaning. But there is a temperature that only exists there.
So, I had dabbled in videos, books, and reruns of ghost programs to some extent.
However, the 'live show' was something I hadn't experienced.
Someone on stage scaring someone. Enjoying the atmosphere itself. Not a story, but a night told by the space.
When I imagined that, my heart jumped a little.
For once, I had a straightforward plan for the night. At that point, that was all there was to it.

The live show was held in a corner of a multi-tenant building a little way from Nakano Station.
A building where white fluorescent lights bled into the ceiling and a silent elevator moved slowly up and down. The letters on the information board were all faded, and you could tell at a glance it was 'run-down.' I don't think there were even thirty chairs in the venue.
The front row was quite empty. Yet, my feet naturally headed to the back. Walking as if pulled, I sat at the end of the second row from the back.
It's my nature to feel reluctant to go to the front. But later, I would regret that. I ruminated many times later that I should have watched from closer.
That's how undeniably wonderful the live show was.
The comedians on stage were all not quite famous. But that didn't matter.
The way they placed the blanks, the wavering of their voices, the habit of slightly slurring the ends of their sentences. A strange lingering effect was born at the edges of the words they didn't finish. That ambiguity actually brought up the 'parts that weren't told.'
Scaring while making people laugh, and going silent after making them laugh. In that order, a coldness gradually descended deep into my body.
I don't know if it was a true story or fiction. But the fact that it wasn't clear became the core of the story.
By the time the outlines of fact and lies began to mix, my own shape also shifted a little. That kind of feeling.
Inside that small box, I felt like reality was slightly creaking and taking on a different form.
It was as if there was a presence peeking at us while 'pretending to be reality.'

There was a person who was responding to that presence particularly clearly. Right next to me.
A black dress. Long hair reaching her waist. When the fluorescent light shone through it, the shapes of her blood vessels stood out. Pale, or rather, bluish-white. It felt more like a different substance than human skin.
Even though she was right next to me, the sense of distance was abnormally far. It was so far that it felt more like she was 'placed' by someone than sitting there.
Bothered by that sense of discomfort, I looked at her sideways several times.
Each time, she was expressionless. Or rather, it would be closer to say she was unresponsive.
She didn't laugh. She didn't get surprised. There was no sign of her moving her hands. She just kept her gaze straight ahead.
Moreover, it seemed to be directed not at the stage, but toward the 'back' of the stage.
More than 'watching,' it was the act of 'seeing' itself—as if she were still witnessing something she had been watching for a long time.
No matter which comedian came out, she didn't change her expression at all. I don't think she even blinked.

When such an expressionless state continues, your own imagination starts moving first.
I knew it was a complete prejudice. But the story I heard somewhere that 'sometimes emotionally unstable fans mix into comedy venues' suddenly crossed my mind.
Fans who are too enthusiastic. Audience members whose emotions go up and down too much. People who move to a rhythm different from the atmosphere of the stage.
Surely she was that type too. By thinking that, I had no choice but to put my discomfort aside for the time being.
So, I decided not to look anymore. It was just as I decided that.
She suddenly raised both hands.
It was a motion like clapping. But there was no sound. Even though her hands should have touched, not even a sign of sound arose.
It wasn't like 'the sound was small' or 'I missed it,' but a silence where 'sound was rejected by the world' in the first place.
There was some invisible membrane there. She was smiling secretly inside that membrane.
The soundless smile was faint and quiet, as if crushing the air.
The clapping motion was once, and then once again. It was by no means violent, but I couldn't say it had a rhythm either. An unnatural repetition.
The only thing that was certain was where that silence was directed. It was Mr. M.
Her hands were moving only toward him. With a hand gesture that seemed to stroke the silence.

The live show was in a format where comedians told ghost stories in turns, and that was repeated three times.
Three stories per person. As the rounds went on, the audience's reactions changed little by little.
However, only she was different. From beginning to end, she didn't move as if she had paused a video.
Only her body, where the location of emotion had disappeared, was sunk into the chair.
However, when it was Mr. M's turn, she quietly put her hands together. Clapping that didn't make a sound, as if stroking the air.
—Maybe she is intentionally killing the sound so as not to break the atmosphere of the venue.
The moment I thought that, it suddenly made sense.
—Ah, she's Mr. M's girlfriend.
Thinking that, my tension rose a little.
Because I felt somewhat envious. Mr. M has 'someone' who watches him so seriously. Even if it was a bit scary because she was too enthusiastic.

After the show, when I stood up from my seat, I realized that I had been tensing my shoulders without knowing it.
The silence of that place still remained deep in my ears. The lingering effect of the silence, rather than the laughter, was clinging somewhere in my body.
At the exit of the venue, Mr. M called out to me, 'If you'd like, let's go to the after-party.'
There was no particular reason to refuse. Somehow, I decided to follow him.
At a nearby yakitori restaurant, surrounding a cheap table, I think there were about six people.
It's rude to say, but the comedians all felt a little slow to become famous, and that conversely led to a sense of security in the place.
With beer, lemon sours, and even bottles of shochu lined up, the conversation continued while loosely derailing. Someone sprinkled salt instead of shichimi on the stew, or someone else suddenly started acting out the continuation of the ghost story they performed that day. While the lingering effect of the toast still remained at the edge of the table, laughter slowly overlapped. That feeling was strangely comfortable.
However, I was at the edge of that circle, thinking about something else alone.
About the woman in the black dress. The existence that was clapping while wrapped in a membrane of silence.
Was it just my imagination before the drunkenness set in that I felt a certain beauty every time I remembered that silence?
While I was dazed, someone lit a cigarette and muttered.
'That woman in black clothes who was in the audience—'
With that one word, the atmosphere of the place changed suddenly. Everyone reacted at once.
'Ah, she was there. The one who looked like a model.'
'A girl who looked super cool, right?'
'Yeah, yeah, the one who was expressionless the whole time.'
As if confirming the accuracy of each other's memories, the words connected.
The young comedian who served as the MC also said he 'saw her.' He said she was expressionless the whole time, but he clearly remembers only the clapping for Mr. M.
'Somehow, she looked happy only when Mr. M was talking.'
From there, the speculation that 'she must be Mr. M's girlfriend' naturally popped out.
'Seriously, where did you meet?' someone teased. Everyone must have been envious somewhere. Following that voice, teasing words continued, turning into laughter.
However, only Mr. M's expression was clearly different from those around him.
'No, I don't know a girl like that. Really.'
He said that in his usual tone.
The moment after someone tried to chime in with 'Come on—'
'But, I feel like I've seen her somewhere. That girl.'
That word, which fell like it was being driven in, sank heavily on the wave of laughter.
'It's not like she's an acquaintance, and it's probably not that I saw her at a live show either.'
It's not that it was tense. It's not that it was gritty. But certainly, for one beat, the breathing of the place stopped.
'That's strange. There's no way I'd forget such a beautiful girl.'
The hand of the comedian next to him who had lifted his mug stopped in mid-air. His mouth, which had started to laugh, remained half-open.
Someone laughed with a drawn-out voice, and finally the temperature of the place returned.
'Isn't that a pattern where it was a stalker?'
'That's the kind of person you have to be careful of on the way home.'
The teasing continued in a joking tone. Laughter also mixed in.
But only Mr. M didn't laugh. Somewhere around his mouth, a snag remained. That was probably not a joking face.
'I asked K today.'
The connection of the story is unreadable. But the moment the name came out, the air tightened a little.
K—a young comedian who was known at the time for having a sixth sense. He was tall and his bangs were strangely long. He was also at the live show that day.
Just as everyone was about to remember 'Ah,' Mr. M continued the story without even confirming.
'After the live show. I asked him lightly if things like that tend to gather when you do ghost stories.'
I actually intended to make it a funny story, Mr. M said.
Without anyone noticing, postures changed. The sound of putting down chopsticks, the sound of a stirrer touching ice. Only those small signs were strangely noticeable to my ears.
'K, he said it after being silent for a bit.'
Mr. M said those words as if tracing them. Low, and thoroughly flatly.
'He said, "You should sprinkle salt when you get home."'"
In the glass, one piece of ice cracked with a sound. It was a dry sound. As if it were aiming for that moment.
'Does that mean she was there?'
The voice that leaked from the edge of the table might have been intended as a joke. But no one laughed.
Mr. M didn't respond to that either. Just while tracing the edge of the table with his fingertips, he continued the story little by little.
'I asked too. "Was she there?" Then K, he muddied it by saying, "No, I don't know."'"
K's tone at that time was probably also snagged.
To make it a funny story, the pause is too deep. I felt like one pause was connected directly to the cold floor.
Everyone didn't say it, but they were imagining the same thing. The woman in the black dress, maybe—that kind of thing.
'Why don't you ask K directly about the woman?'
Someone said lightly. But the moment that word stroked the air, I felt the sounds of the shop become strangely distant.
I was looking at the bottom of the glass. One sunken lemon peel was quietly stuck to the water surface. Only that outline left the weight of reality. Everything else felt like it was floating somewhere.
Mr. M takes his smartphone out of his pocket.
'—I got it.'
He said that quietly and switched to speaker mode.
The ringtone was strangely small. But that conversely remained in my ears. When I was listening to that sound, I had the feeling that the sound of mugs clinking and the metallic sounds from the kitchen were gradually peeling off from the surroundings.
Sounds were becoming not sounds. The buzz of the izakaya became a membrane, and inside it, only the phone's ringing tone remained.
'...Yes, hello.'
The moment K's voice came out, temperature was born in that room. It was muffled and a bit distant, but still, there was a living touch.
Mr. M started talking, pretending to be in his usual tone.
'Thanks for today. I'm at the after-party now.'
However, that lightness lasted only a few seconds.
'After today's live show, you said "Sprinkle salt when you get home."'"
With that one word, the atmosphere of the place changed again.
There was a little silence before K replied, 'Ah... yes.'
'Does that mean she was "there" after all? Like, she was there, right?'
This time, a longer pause occurred. During that time, the sound of the air conditioner echoed strangely loudly. Cold wind was blowing as if licking my skin.
'...No, well.'
K's voice returns. No covering up, no emphasis. Just, that voice was placed as it was.
Mr. M becomes a little fast-talking.
'No, there was a slightly strange girl in the audience today. She was wearing a black dress and was expressionless the whole time. She only clapped when it was my turn.'
He was probably trying to talk calmly. But his impatience was coming out like seams in his words. He was repeating the same story over and over in a slightly shifted order.
But suddenly—
He said, 'I didn't say it, though,' and fell silent.
Everyone was looking at Mr. M. Sweat was seeping onto his forehead. Seeing that, I realized I was also sweating.
'I was making eye contact the whole time. That girl was looking at me and laughing a lot.'
By that time, the expression had already disappeared from Mr. M. As if being dragged by something, he continued the next words.
'Everyone says she was expressionless, but the whole time. She was laughing.'
Someone's finger placed on the table was trembling slightly. No, maybe it just looked that way. I think that at that moment, before understanding, the air itself was distorted.
K's reply doesn't come back easily. Even during that time, the silence slowly increases in thickness. The buzz of the shop and the flow of time are gradually disappearing.
'...Um, this... I didn't intend to say this.'
K's words are finally placed in the silence. However, something heavy was snagged on the end of that 'but.'
'That person... I don't know if she's a ghost, but...'
Mr. M responds shortly, as if gasping.
'...Yeah.'
K was no longer hesitating. As if words spilled out before he could choose them.
'That woman, she was clapping with the back of her hands.'
A moment of silence.
'It's called "reverse clapping."'"
The atmosphere of the place sank one level deeper.
Before understanding the meaning of the words, everyone's body had already felt 'it.'
'It's sometimes called a curse, but... that's actually something dead people do.'
The voice becomes low once more. We couldn't resist where that voice was falling.
'Dead people wear clothes inside out, don't they? It's said that they do the opposite of living people... so, clapping too, not with the palms, but with the backs of the hands. There's no sound. You mustn't make a sound. Because she's an existence from the other side.'
I clearly heard the sound of someone inhaling. For some reason, I was certain it wasn't my own breathing.
A dampness that clung to the back of my throat. A faint smell of iron was mixed in.
One piece of ice in the mug made a sound. Just that sound, 'clink,' drew everyone's hearing to one place.
'That's why I said it.'
Through the speaker, K's voice echoes again.
'Please sprinkle salt when you get home. Also, you should pile salt for purification.'
It wasn't so much that the words wouldn't stop, but a tone of voice that wasn't trying to stop them.
'If the piled salt is damp the next day, it might be a little dangerous.'
For a moment, K's breathing touched the microphone.
'If the color changes the next day or something. If it turns black or reddish.'
The way he said it avoided reality somewhere. It was like he was running away, but he hadn't escaped. It was a tone as if he were telling himself.
'...If it happens, what will happen?'
Mr. M's voice reached out as if to cut that off. It was a way of speaking that confirmed the backing of a feeling rather than words.
A very short silence. The weight of one breath sinks into the air.
In that gap, K's voice fell with a thud.
'—Go get an exorcism immediately.'
At that moment, as if something heavy had slipped off, time had stopped.
The sounds that should have been heard—the shop staff's calls, the metallic sounds of the kitchen, the laughter from distant tables—for some reason, they were no longer established as sounds.
They reach my ears, but they don't touch my senses. They slip through the moment I try to touch them. That's how the density of the space had changed.
Only inside my own body did I still have reality.
Sounds, meanings, light, everything had moved one step ahead, and I felt like only I had been left behind.
No one replied immediately. But they understood something. Even deeper than body temperature. Before thought.
I didn't want to know. But I knew. The feeling of crossing that boundary was surprisingly quiet.
However, it certainly exists.
Deep in the stomach, between the nails, behind the eyelids—a kind of understanding that remains only in places where consciousness doesn't usually reach.
A 'realization' that stays somewhere in the body, not in words, was gradually expanding.
We can't go back. No one said that, but only that realization was sinking on the table.
And then, Mr. M moved. Not suddenly, but with a naturalness as if his turn had come around.
As if to delay, he placed only one word.
'...Is there salt?'
Only that word indicated the next action.
There was no impatience, no performance. Just as a daily procedure, he reached out to the center of the table.
What his fingertips touched was the seasoning container common in izakayas. That wooden, unremarkable cylinder.
At that moment, I definitely felt like he looked this way for a second.
However, was that gaze directed at us? Or was it 'someone' behind us?
Mr. M slowly lifted it. Without a word.
And, he sprinkled it—*whoosh*—on his own head.
No one made a sound. It was too polite to be a joke.
Only the understanding that some ritual had now certainly been performed caught up to my chest a little late.
The next moment, a scream went up. Everyone, almost at the same time.
From Mr. M's forehead, sewing through the gaps in his bangs, red powder was falling.
It ran down his cheeks and spilled onto the collar of his T-shirt. The powder was red, a little black, and strangely fine.
At that time, it wasn't reason that moved first. Faster than understanding, reality had reacted first.
—It was shichimi.


What was sprinkled on Mr. M's head was not salt to exorcise spirits, but a Japanese-original mixed spice.


The moment I realized that, something in the place burst.
'Well, shichimi has a sweating effect, after all.'

Mr. M said that while holding his mug in one hand, picking up the red grains that had slipped off his shoulder.
He carried it to his mouth without any hesitation and started saying, 'It's surprisingly not bad.'
No one stopped him. There was no reason to stop him.
After that, everyone went home separately.

Damp wind passed by as if licking the nape of my neck. It was a night with a little less sound than usual.
When I got home and unlocked the door, my feet stopped.
I took off my shoes and went straight to the kitchen. I pinched just one pinch of salt onto a small plate.
Nothing happened that day after all. And after that, even now, nothing has changed.

I haven't heard that anything happened to Mr. M. Just that he quit his part-time job about a month later. Whether that was a sign of something or not, I don't know.
Sometimes I think about it.

I think that to maintain a state where 'nothing happens,' nights like that are probably necessary.
Someone touches a presence that can't be named well, gets a little scared, or laughs at a strange timing.
I feel like the night secretly wants that way of consumption.
It's a modest transaction.
Like a small commission to draw a boundary line between 'exists' and 'does not exist.'
I still don't know the meaning of that clapping.
However, the time she was looking at Mr. M that night, it certainly 'existed' there.
Soundless clapping beaten with the back of the hands.
I think that was probably a reply. A faint shape left behind by an existence that couldn't make a sound, but still wanted to convey something.
Ganmodoki also sometimes gives similar replies.
The air wavers slightly, or a strangely warm presence strokes my back.
It says nothing. It does nothing.
But it leaves behind only 'I'm here.' Even though there is no sound or words, only that existence faintly seeps into me.
I've come to think that such a faint reaction might be the true reply.
I remembered the clapping when I looked at the plate earlier. The plate for Ganmodoki was tilted just a little.
Through the gap in the plastic wrap, it also looked like the cat food had decreased slightly.
It might be the wind, or another cat might have come. Or maybe I ate it while half-asleep.
Well, any of those is fine.
I put food on the plate once more.
That is probably the same thing as placing this text here.
Somewhere in the world, someone—something—might quietly give me a reply.
I don't mind being made a fool of for believing that.