Then the microwave door swung open, and inside, where the turntable should have been, was a single photograph. A young woman. Same sharp bob. Same librarian glasses. But this one was smiling—a real smile, unforced, warm.
“You’re not here to document me,” Risa said. Her voice came from everywhere and nowhere, like a radio tuned between stations. “You’re here because IESP sent you to clean up their mistake.”
I turned.
Today was Wednesday.
She pointed at the microwave. At the numbers. 458. 247. 11.
The microwave beeped. The turntable began to spin, empty now, but the air pressure dropped like a diving plane.
“What mistake?”
The faucet wasn’t dripping water. It was dripping something darker. Thicker. I didn’t need to scan it to know it was ectoplasmic residue—the psychic sweat of a ghost trying too hard to be seen.
The file photo showed a woman in her late twenties: sharp bob, librarian glasses, a smile that looked more like a wince. Deceased eleven months. Cause of death: unknown. That was the first red flag. In the IESP, “unknown” usually means the victim figured out something they shouldn’t have.
I heard breathing behind me. Not a whisper. Not a wind. The wet, rhythmic inhale-exhale of someone standing too close. 247 IESP 458 Risa Murakami Apart
Nothing. Then the kitchen faucet turned on. Drip. Drip. Drip-silence-drip.
Apartment 458 was on the fourth floor of a building that smelled of boiled cabbage and regret. The door was already unlocked. Inside, the air was cold—not the chill of bad insulation, but the kind that starts at the base of your spine and whispers.