The Graveyard Apartment by Mariko Koike

their daughter with a long list of taboos derived from their own fears and concerns.
    After settling Tamao on the sofa with a snack and a pile of picture books, Misao returned to the elevator and went down to the basement alone. The children had apparently forgotten to hit the off switch when they left, because the entire space was ablaze with light.
    The first thing Misao saw, standing out in the open, was a lone tricycle—Tsutomu’s, no doubt—that appeared to have been cast aside. In front of the storage compartment marked “402” there was a stack of newspapers tied up with string, probably put there by Eiko.
    Tamao’s cardigan—yellow cotton, with a rabbit embroidered on one tiny pocket—lay in a heap next to the bundle of newspapers. As Misao bent down to pick it up, she heard a faint rustling sound from somewhere nearby.
    Startled, she straightened up and looked around. All she saw were the innumerable exposed pipes that crisscrossed the ceiling; the neat rows of large, square, white-painted storage compartments; and the mountainous pile of cardboard cartons left behind by the departed occupants of unit 201.
    â€œHello? Is someone there?” After blurting out those words, Misao felt a cold shiver of fear for the first time. I should have kept quiet, she thought. Hastily, she grabbed Tamao’s cardigan, balled it up, and wedged it tightly under one arm. She felt a sudden, unnaturally frigid gust of wind nipping around her ankles. It wasn’t the kind of draft you might expect to feel in a basement—that is, a breeze that originated outdoors, where the landscape was still bathed in warm late-afternoon sunlight, then floated through the treetops with their branches heavy with buds, and somehow found its way into the building. This current of air was considerably colder, and it carried a faintly unpleasant odor, too.
    Something rustled again, not far away, and Misao felt chilled to the very core of her being. “Must be a mouse,” she said, deliberately speaking in a strong, clear voice. She began walking down the row of storage lockers, making her footsteps as noisy as possible and peering inside each locker as she passed. Even if the noises had been made by a mouse, that creature was hardly likely to respond with “Yes! I’m a mouse!” But still …
    Once again, Misao spoke aloud. “That really isn’t acceptable,” she said. “I mean, a new building like this shouldn’t have a rodent problem already.”
    There didn’t appear to be anything amiss in or around any of the storage compartments, and there was no sign of a mouse, or a cat, or even a spider. Misao had the distinct sensation that the breeze had grown stronger, and she stopped in her tracks. It wasn’t so much that the wind had picked up speed in a natural way; rather, it felt as if the ambient air itself was somehow being engulfed or devoured by the chilly draft.
    Misao heard a familiar ga-tonk sound. Someone on a floor above must have called the elevator back up from the basement.
    She looked carefully around her once more, then continued toward the exit. I’m just being silly, she thought. Nothing has happened, so why am I panicking? I mean, come on, even little kids feel safe playing down here.
    When she got to the elevator, the indicator light above the doors showed that it was stopped on the fourth floor. Mitsue Tabata must be on her way home. But after a few minutes, during which the elevator remained on the fourth floor, Misao realized that Mitsue was probably still chatting with Eiko in the hallway while one of them held the elevator doors open.
    After a moment, from very far away, there came the sound of liquid—water, perhaps?—falling steadily onto the ground. It was like the inexorable dripping you might hear in some dank underground cavern filled with limestone stalagmites and stalactites.
    Misao turned to look behind her, then peered up