Chapter Text
It’s raining by the time the night filming is prepared.
The burnt-out husk of the factory is half-dismembered from failed attempts to tear it down, leaving some spots wet and the crew huddled around their umbrellas as they file into the dry areas. Tall windows let in some moonlight, leaving eerie reflections in the puddles. The equipment has long since been removed, but some twisted half-melted lumps of metal remain.
The daylight introduction to the town and the building are being filmed tomorrow, based on what happens here. Keiji taps his fingers, middle and index, extending his senses as far as he can manage. The ghosts here are both feeding off the energy and feeding off each other, entering a sort of miserable equilibrium.
“They need new energy to keep this up. Where do they get it from?” Keiji asks Dimple, who has been hovering around him all day.
“Some spirit comes in here thinking it can chew through them, they ambush. Mass death accidents don’t leave ghosts normally, but these guys are stickier than you’d think,” Dimple whispers, matching his volume even though no one can hear him.
Keiji hates group exorcisms. His reflexes are lacking. Knowing these spirits are prone to ambushes is not encouraging.
“I can only hope they’re prone to theatrics,” he retorts, and louder, for the crew, “Stay in a group. Do not break off. Make sure there’s nothing hanging above you that could fall. This place is haunted, and they are territorial.”
He’s cold. He’s always cold, but the factory is somehow chillier than the outside, both drafty and bereft of any warmer winds. In dark this intense, the overhead light makes his eyes water. Half his wits are focused on the movements of the ghosts, and a remaining quarter at the blinding presence of his new minion.
He turns to the camera and steels himself for the filming to begin.
“This is the fallout of Japan’s expansion,” this opening is a continuation of ‘mention Japan’s post-war new development etc etc start of episode’ in the margins of the script, “unchecked growth. Unregulated growth. Un…Ah—“
His tongue failing to keep up with his words wipes the next sentence from his brain. Keiji shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and gestures to record again. He clears his throat. Finds inner peace. The presence of the spirits throbs like a migraine. His eyes still aren’t adjusting to the light.
“This is the fallout of Japan’s expansion. Unchecked growth. Unregulated growth. Perilous growth. Here is where over a dozen workers lost their lives to those who treated them—“
That’s not the word the script used. God fucking dammit.
He runs his hands over his face. His heart rate is picking up. If he works himself up about it he’s going to fuck up even more, and then he won’t be home in time to feed his mother dinner. He’s better than this.
“Take a second for yourself,” Kinoshita encourages. The rest of the crew are less enthused. They’re tired. They hadn’t gotten the break they were expecting today and Keiji knows it’s his fault. He imagines that if he were to meditate, he could feel their negative emotion seep into the currents of energy around them, like blood in the water.
Keiji continues the line under his breath. Fast at first, then slower, pacing back and forth with his head still in his hands.
“Okay. From the top,” he breathes.
He manages to clear the first set of lines, which is the first section of unbroken footage they need. He goes straight for his water bottle even though he’s not thirsty.
Dimple floats overhead. “For a TV personality, you seem to have a hell of a time acting.”
“I don’t enjoy scrutiny,” is all Keiji says. It is a weak answer and he knows it. The reality of his incompetence is too embarrassing to say out loud — Keiji’s mind is simply repulsed by banal recitation. He’s often complimented for being eloquent, he could use his own words. The problem is that no matter how well-spoken he is, he’s far too dry to make for good TV; he’d put his audience to sleep without the writers to lead him. He appreciates the writer’s skill for reproducing the speech patterns of a more charismatic man, but it’s very much a man Keiji is not.
But based on a man he used to be. He used to be better than this. The personality used to be like a second skin. How has he gotten worse over the years?
Deep breathes. It’s just because he usually has a day or two with a script, not a few hours. The compressed time frame has left him frazzled. He’s fine.
The second shot is always a panning shot that introduces Keiji as he’s walking. The visual language of surveying the area. It’s one of the more iconic cues, if the parodies he’s seen on TV are anything to go by.
The camera begins its transition. He centers himself and begins his march.
“This is what it means to slip through the cracks at Ishii Industries. A forgotten grave none dare acknowledge. To the common man, the tragedy is the— it’s—“ A lost cause, he’s already fucked it and it’s a tracking shot so every time he fucks it from this point onward they have to redo the setup all over again—
“Fuck!” Keiji barks, kicking a nearby bucket as hard as he can. It goes flying, and hits the metal supports with a deafening CLANG that rings all the way through the subsequent echoes, each somehow equally thunderous.
The following silence is so thick even the rain can’t wear it down. He instinctively checks on the ghosts. The filming crew is nowhere near where the spirits are clustered, and though they do stir, they don’t feel the need to investigate just yet.
Keiji’s eyes slide over the crew, huddled in on themselves in the chill, all looking frightened in a resigned sort of way. It brings back memories he doesn’t like.
“Didn’t think it would be that loud,” He says hoarsely.
The tension leaves them, and laughter bubbles through the group. Relief, that he’s not truly angry. He taps his index and middle finger against his thumb, back-and-forth, back-and-forth.
He needs to review the script again.
It’s a waste of time, but better than redoing it over and over. When his heartrate slows and someone’s passed out coffee to warm everyone up, Keiji allows the take to start again.
“…To the common man, the tragic history is what weighs down this place. They lost brothers, fathers and friends here. But to an exorcist, there is a second tragedy. All those tormented souls remain imprisoned on this property, held fixed in place by the trauma of their death.”
They’re going to interview the family tomorrow. They will hopefully be more amenable if Keiji manages to talk to the workers before they pass on.
Another trademark of Spirit Walk is next; Keiji stands in place doing a pose where he pretends to be expanding his senses while the camera wheels around him to create rapidfire pans, cuts, zoom-ins, and zoom-outs. The footage is sped up in post, and some of the shots require adjusting the camera on its stand; it takes nearly fifteen minutes to get the footage.
“This is the stupidest shit I’ve ever seen,” says Dimple.
Keiji ignores him. He knows.
This next part he’s allowed to ad-lib when there’s a real spirit. Without anything to dryly exposition about, he tends to speak with a sense of gravitas the script writer often fails to replicate.
Keiji extends a hand out. He’s had some time to think of how to describe this case. “I feel them here. They are huddled together. They rely on each other. They are driven by their survival instinct. They died desperate to persevere. I sense that in them. I also sense the hunger.”
He turns to the break room, where the spirits vibrate uneasily.
“They aren’t satisfied in stewing in their misery. They fight for survival as they once fought to escape.” Keiji knows this will be inter-spliced with footage from the reenactment. “They drive out trespassers who venture too deep. And as for whatever evil spirit makes the mistake of crossing their path…”
He pauses for effect.
“…In death, these workers are no longer helpless.”
He stops the monologue there, so they will have the runtime to fit the interviews with the family earlier in the episode. He suspects the aggregate tragedies will string together into a satisfying emotional arc. Keiji gestures for the cameraman to follow, with the staging crew trailing after.
The ghosts begin to descend. They retain very little of their previous features, manifesting as silhouettes wreathed in flame. Faces forgotten in the scope of their deaths.
“Hello boys,” Keiji greets.
“What’s he doing here,” the leader rasps. His voice is faded to almost nothing.
Keiji follows where the leader is looking to…Ah. Dimple.
Dimple zips right behind Keiji. “Me and him are partners. Not trying to push on your turf or anything. Totally harmless. Right Kei-chan? Tell ‘em.”
Keiji huffs at the display. “Not the thing I’d say to a group of ravenous ghosts.”
“What’s that now?” Kinoshita calls.
“Cut it in post, I’ll do something good in a bit,” Keiji drawls back.
“Who are you…” The leader narrows the glowing embers that form his eyes. He’s picked up on Keiji’s steadily unfurling aura. “Exorcist?”
“I want you to let go of this place. I can do it by force, but I prefer not to.” There is only so much that dazzling special effects can add to a real exorcism. “Please. Tell me what binds you here.”
Unrest ripples through the workers. Their forms waver with the pulse of emotion like candleflame. "That…bastard…the company…all of it.”
“An individual?” Keiji prompts. Voice actors will fill in the information for the audience afterwards.
“We told him it was dangerous…He locked us in…he locked us in!” The leader’s body bubbles outward, expanding in a thick membrane.
“And where is that man now?”
“Dead.” The leader deflates back into flame. “We’re all dead.”
A sympathetic sort of hollowness forms in Keiji’s chest. Nothing they can do. The selfish idiot had brought the whole building down with him in his negligence and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. “I can feel your frustration. What happened to you wasn’t fair. It was cruel. You didn’t deserve this.”
A wail goes through them, howling in an empty chorus that sounds more like the wind than voices.
“…But you can’t stay here.”
“You can’t tell us…we’re not hurting anyone…we…This is our…trapped here…” The spirit loses stability.
He’s trying to compose new thoughts, and it’s eating through him. Keiji resists the urge to monologue about how unstable and de-personed a ghost truly is, more of a facsimile of a desire than a truly conscious being, because that material has long since gone stale.
He does glance at Dimple, though. The little blot of green fog has an incredible verisimilitude to him. Exorcising most spirits is like disentangling an imprint, but this one has subtlety. It’s no surprise he has the influence he does.
Keiji’s focus returns to the workers. “I can free you, if only you will let me.”
The unrest ripples through yet again. Their voices whisper over each other.
“No…” “We can’t…” “Won’t leave…” “Don’t forget…” “They can’t forget us…”
Ahh. “Forget? Gentlemen, this is a television program.”
“Can’t you be a little more whimsical?” The director sighs.
Whatever. They don’t need this part of the footage anyway. Keiji looks over the stirring spirits dispassionately. “Ishii Industries dodged prosecution through manslaughter charges against your dead manager and a settlement to the families, but as long as we don’t contradict them, we can make a lot of noise without getting in trouble with legal. I’m a big name, even without the numbers. Any case I look over goes back into the news cycle with interest— the show makes things personal. The story won’t just slip through the media’s fingers this time, they’ll hear about you. They’ll hear about your families. Everyone will know the pain you went through.”
The energy of the ghosts waver. Features are beginning to develop on their vague forms.
“Won’t be forgotten…”
And now a transition for the editors to cut to. “I won’t allow anyone to forget you. Your legacy won’t stop at safety reforms. I want people to know who you are. Who you were. Who you left behind.”
Cool light shines through their bodies, like muscles relaxing after clenching for fifteen years. Spiritual energy no longer coats their souls.
“Pass on.”
The final hand gesture, the best way to telegraph the exorcism is happening according to the director, two executives, and a choreographer for a minor idol company. Wide gesture to make the movement seem fuller (pulling the energy gently away), snap to break up the next gesture, an open-palmed swish to his shoulder (dispersing it in a wave of almost-colour), a bob for length, and a full sweep of the arm as a final closure. Filmed by two cameras, one for the wide shot, the other for close-ups and slow-motion.
This is another favourite of parodies. The obvious gag is to waggle the hand randomly all over the place, a convenient visual cue of ‘someone who’s only experience with ghosts is watching Mogami Keiji’s show’. That’s fine. Perfectly harmless. But he wants to rip the arms out of the sockets of any comedians who do it.
The worker’s faces emerge when Keiji tears the energy away, all peaceful as they relax into whatever realm awaits them. He marks them carefully. A little disappointing how easy this was considering how voracious they were, but in an episode that will no doubt be brutal on the editors, perhaps that’s for the best.
Exorcism done, he performs the final ritual; a solemn spray of salt, with the lights focused on it to make the crystals shine.
“Cut!”
Thank god. He’s exhausted. Performing adlibs is no less difficult than performing a script.
“We’re going to need to get emotional with this one,” the writer says quietly. “This is going to piss the editor off so bad.”
What’s done is done. Keiji stands up straighter, commanding respect. “It’s going to make good television. You think the average viewer can be satisfied with a few well ‘isn’t this spooky’ locales, especially with copycats airing on every second channel? We need ratings, and if we have to be a newsmag broadcast by way of soap opera to get them, then that’s what we’ll do.”
“True crime is hard to research fast, and we have such a small team…”
“Well it’s a good thing we’re an exorcism show and not a true crime show. If there’s a mysterious ghoul in the woods, we can fall back on that.” He adjusts his jacket with a snap of finality. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning for the personal interviews.”
Dimple takes the exit from the building as his cue to make his presence known again. “You got a whole trailer and you’re not sticking around?”
“I don’t do overnights,” Keiji says curtly.
“So I’m guessing you want me to scrounge out more of these…sentimental places,” Dimple ventures.
Keiji glances at the blob of energy. “If you can’t find any, that’s fine. Anything real is going to be a more organic watching experience.”
“So you said. But don’t you underestimate me, Kei-chan! Tell me from the start what you really want, and I’ll deliver.” Dimple gives an exaggerated wink.
“Then deliver. You heard her. Research takes time, and here you are wasting mine.” Keiji bats the ghost away.
It’s late enough to be dark, but not so late there’s no trains left to pick him up, thankfully. Keiji gets one not long after he arrives at the station, which means he’ll be at home on time.
He leans forward and blows warmth onto his freezing fingers. Touching Dimple hadn’t helped.
The episode composition was successful. He didn’t end up running late despite the last-minute changes. His plan is already paying off. It’s guaranteed to go well with the executives as long as they don’t think it requires paying for additional labour. The crew was under more pressure than usual, but he didn’t flub as many lines as he could have. It went better than he could have ever hoped.
It’s going to come together. Mogami Keiji’s Spirit Walk will last exactly as long as he fucking says it does.