Shin, a Japanese Vampire

By Kent Willis

A Japanese Vampire Born at the End of an Age

In feudal Japan a poor peasant & family man is turned to a vampire by mistake. He must come to grips with his new reality & help his family to survive. In the world of the Samurai he encounters creatures from Japanese mythology – some helpful, others deadly. The yakuza, the supernatural, and the unrelenting thirst for blood shape his destiny. Follow his adventures down through the centuries culminating with clashes in modern day Tokyo.

Shin, a Japanese Vampire is an unusual & compelling mixture of supernatural action-adventure and historical fiction that reveals the transformative and corrupting journey a simple man must take and how to lose, or regain, the essence of humanity.

As one review summarizes: "Shogun meets Steven King".

About the Author: Kent Willis has spent nearly six years in Japan, first in her rural mountains then decades later in the heart of Tokyo as a businessman. He studied Japanese language and Asian culture at Northwestern University. The author works as an attorney and lives with his family in the forests of Connecticut.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kent Willis
• Release date: May 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301406371

Kent Willis

Kent Willis has spent nearly six years in Japan, two in her rural mountains as a young Mormon missionary, then decades later in the heart of Tokyo as a businessman with his family. He studied Japanese language and Asian culture at Northwestern University. The author is employed as an attorney and lives with his family in the forests of Connecticut.

Book preview

Shin, A Japanese Vampire

By Kent F. Willis

Copyright 2013 Kent F. Willis

All Rights Reserved

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For Jennifer, my Kitsune

&

KJ, Seth & Alea, my Onis

Table of Contents

Prologue

Part I Beginnings

Part II Branches

Part III Visitors

Part IV Chameleons

Part V Dynasty

Part VI Destroyer of Worlds

Epilogue

Prologue

Professor Michael Beck

Office of Asian Studies

Northwestern University

603 Sheridan Road

Evanston, IL 60605

To: Dale Brown

Sociology Department

Northwestern University

506 Sheridan Road,

Evanston, IL 60605

RE: The history of Shinichiro Suzuki, a Japanese Vampire.

I doubt you are going to believe this, but if anyone does, it will be you. Vampires exist. I met one. He was a serial killer of epic proportion. He made me rich. I enclose his autobiography. I'm sure if I had presented it to the rest of the faculty I would have rather quickly found myself out of my comfortable tenured position here at NU, so I just kept it to myself. Oh sure, I added that special upper division elective class to the curriculum - Decent into the shadows: Japanese Myths & Legends, but that was the only outward concession to my experience. I suppose had I even confided in you, you would have thought me quite mad, that's why I just put this in my files and left it for you in my will. What can I possibly gain by deceiving you now Dale? I'm dead! I hope you take this seriously.

It's all true.

M. B.

It was in 1988 during the Japan Sumo Association's Osaka tournament that I met him. It was quite remarkable how it all happened, really. I was in Osaka doing research on the Shinto (native Japanese religion involving ancestor worship) underpinnings of Sumo Wrestling. It was great fun and all my expenses were being paid by the university. The bouts always got over quite early, usually right at six P.M., which left the rest of the night free for whatever other activities one fancied. One of my favorite ones was to enjoy a good meal - sushi, a savory seafood stew called Chyanko-nabe, or perhaps the wonderfully marbled Kobe beef, then take a long soak in one of the numerous volcanic hot baths so popular in the area. I had done this every night for a week, so thought I would wander around the neighborhoods instead - it was a nice night and since sitting ringside all afternoon had taken its toll on my back muscles, some activity seemed in order.

As I strolled along aimlessly, I was drawn to the bright lights of a pachinko parlor, its garish neon colors blinking and buzzing in the night air. I opened the door and was assailed with shrill whistles, bells, and the sound of thousands of tiny metal balls bouncing & sliding around inside a variety of pachinko machines lining aisle upon aisle & being fed by lines of men, almost all of whom were chain smoking furiously. That's when I remembered why I never went into the places - the smoke was so thick as to be dangerous, especially for a tall American. After just a few minutes I was lightheaded and nearly gagging. I beat a hasty retreat out a side door and found myself in one of the many winding alleyways that passed for streets in this metropolis. Only one car at a time could drive down the narrow confines, with barely a foot on each side's clearance from the small concrete ditches which flank the roads almost anywhere in the country.

A dark Mercedes slowly rolled past as I contemplated heading back in the direction of my hotel. Suddenly, I heard a scuffle from the direction of the Mercedes. Turning, I noticed several men grappling with each other, and the gleam of metal. Before I really knew what was happening, there were shouts, several shots rang out like firecrackers, and the men started to scatter. I looked to my side and saw a young boy in his grade school uniform and trademark yellow hat and red leather backpack which they were all required to wear. He must have been returning from one of the evening study centers most children went to - cram schools forcing in useless facts forgotten as soon as the tests were taken. He stood there, his eyes wide, as a body slumped against the car and more shooting erupted. I grabbed his frozen shoulders and yanked him into the doorway of the pachinko parlor. There were a few more shouts and then the squeal of tires as the Mercedes sped away.

Moments later we were nearly bowled over as patrons poured from their seats at the games to take in the spectacle. The youth came to his senses and began to run, I supposed toward home, his red leather book bag flopping on his thin shoulders as he went. I was too stunned to do more then shuffle woodenly over toward the body, which had apparently been dragged a few feet under the car as it made its escape. It was a youngish middle aged man, perhaps forty, with rather thinning hair swept back in a style vaguely reminiscent of Elvis. There was a schemer of blood shining dully on his jaw and some gravel from the road was sticking to it. His associates milled about him, one of them apparently checking for a pulse while another spoke urgently into a nearby phone. The man checking the body looked up and shook his head as the others lit cigarettes and tried to strike unaffected poses.

One didn't have to know too much about Japanese society to recognize the men as minor functionaries of organized crime - the yakuza. They were well known for their involvement with pachinko and the attendant gambling rackets. They were actually quite easily identified by their short permed hair or crew cuts, dark suits, sunglasses, and strutting Hollywood inspired bravado. Their superiors were typically more difficult to spot, but the underlings were almost laughably obvious. In a few minutes some police arrived on the scene, and by then most of the thugs had melted away. The one who had been on the phone remained and began speaking to the police.

Just as I turned to leave I was approached by a very serious looking fellow who ask me in polite Japanese: Excuse me, are you capable of understanding Japanese? I answered in the affirmative and he identified himself as a police detective and asked what I had seen. Shortly after I began my story he asked me not to move, then rushed to what must have been a superior, who strode over with a more authoritative air about himself. As he inquired into specifics on the incident and to see my passport, his assistant scribbled furiously into a tattered notebook. After noting my personal information and story, they told me they would be in touch, and one of their cars escorted me back to my hotel. I wondered when I would hear more from them, as murders were quite rare in Japan.

I didn't have to wait very long to find out. Later that same night, as I prepared for bed, there was a knock on the door. I opened it to a dark suited bald man with heavy framed glasses flanked by two burly associates, obviously underlings, with very closely shorn hair. He politely inquired as to whether he could speak with me for a few minutes regarding the events in front of the pachinko parlor. I knew he wasn't from the police, they would have had on uniforms, and there would have been a dozen of them at least. My visitor was quite composed and I was more then mildly intrigued by the prospect of speaking with a lieutenant from the yakuza.

I invited him into my room, and after nodding to his associates, he stepped inside while they remained in the hall. Bowing, he removed his shoes at the entryway (even most hotels have a token area, much smaller than, but identical to those found in actual homes, called a genkan, for the purpose). He politely seated himself at the low table I motioned to. He declined my obligatory offer of some refreshment, then began to speak. Identifying himself as an employee of the pachinko parlor, he began with some inquires into my purpose in Japan and actions leading up to the occurrence. After telling him all the details I could remember about the incident, particularly about the descriptions of the men and their Mercedes, he stood and bowed, thanking me for my time. After he departed, I took a few notes and retired for the evening.

The following day, as expected, I was asked to come down to the local police department, where I endured a full day's interrogation into every aspect of the previous night by a parade of detectives who seemed to all pattern themselves after late 70's American television shows, right down to the trench coats and scowls. Especially strange was the fact that I, a witness, was fingerprinted and photographed as if I were the accused. Perhaps in protest, I decided to remain silent about my visitors from the night before; they were certainly more civilized and professional then this lot! I was finally released that evening, well after the day's sumo tournament had concluded. I wanted a shower before I ate, perhaps to wash away the stink of the detective's cigarettes, the ink on my fingers, or just the slightly violated feeling I was fighting. A police car dropped me off at my hotel, but before I could mount the stairs to my floor (it was a small place, no elevator) the manager was upon me with an elegantly folded traditional envelope. Inside, in English and written in a most beautiful hand I read:

To: Professor Michael Beck

Dear Sir,

Thank you for meeting with my associate last evening. As a token of my appreciation, please accept these tickets to the remainder of the sumo tournament, as well as more convenient lodging.

Respectfully,

金森

K. Kanamori

President

Matsubara Industries, Ltd.

P.S. The concierge has all the necessary items.

Intrigued, I stepped back to the manager who had returned to his station. He handed me another beautiful envelope, this one thicker. It contained tickets to the restricted level of the municipal stadium and a computer key with my name for a room at the New Osaka Prince Hotel, which stood directly across the street from the stadium. I had been lodging at a second tier hotel (Northwestern was supportive, but only to a point), and the prospect of staying at a five star hotel was too good to pass up, even if the yakuza were footing the bill. I decided to decamp immediately and quickly stuffed a few things into a bag. I told the manager I would be back the following day, and he advised me not to worry, my bill had been paid in full already and my things could be packed and sent to the New Osaka immediately. I suppose I should have been a bit leery of his knowledge of my situation, but I was just tired & hungry enough to let that wait until later.

I stepped outside to hail a taxi, and noticed a dark Cadillac limousine pulled to the curb. One did not see many American automobiles in Japan then; those who had them were either rich, well connected, or both. Waiting outside the car was a well turned out driver with broad shoulders and a pressed suit. Bowing courteously, he proceeded to open the rear door and gestured inside with a polite "Dozo, Beck Sensei. I noted that he addressed me with the title sensei", reserved for doctors and teachers, both highly regarded in this society. Taking my worn bag, he ushered me politely into the car.

As I slid into the leather upholstered cabin, I realized I was not alone; someone was seated directly across from me. The seat was occupied by a stunningly beautiful woman, perhaps thirty, but it was always hard for most Westerners to tell with them; she could have been twenty or even fifty for all I could tell. She addressed me in beautiful English, slightly touched with a British accent, Thank you for accepting my employer's invitation. I was slightly taken aback by the presence of this young lady, and didn't speak as the car pulled away.

Would you like something to drink? she inquired, motioning to a small bar. I nodded in assent and she smiled as she inquired and what is your pleasure. I responded lamely a soft drink would be fine. She gracefully served me a Coke, poured from a tiny six ounce bottle. I took a sip and smiled weakly. She proceeded to engage me in light conversation about the next day's sumo matches, and before I realized it, our car pulled up to the hotel and a uniformed employee opened my door. My two escorts bowed deeply as I entered my new lodging.

The New Osaka Prince Hotel did not disappoint. Even the stately old Orington Hotel in Evanston fails in comparison. The suite was immaculate, and the room service menu so extensive that I simply dined in my room after a long bath. The view from my window showed the banners of the tournament waving in the spotlights of the stadium. I stretched out in the king sized bed and, full of steak and lobster, slept like a baby.

A knock on my door at ten the following morning brought a large tray of breakfast foods that I hadn't ordered. Standing in my hotel robe, too short due to my size, I pointed out that I hadn't called room service. Undeterred, the valet stated that the hotel manager himself had directed that he wait until ten o'clock and, if I hadn't ordered anything yet, to bring up his finest selection. As I eyed the tray, I decided that, although breakfast wasn't my normal habit, today would be a good day to make an exception.

I arrived at the stadium for the day's bouts eagerly, I would sit in the spaces normally reserved for the inner circle of sumo's elite, or those well-heeled enough to be their top level sponsors. A junior sumo, probably from one of the larger stables in Tokyo, examined my pass and conducted me to a private box containing four cushions and a low table. On the table was a small bag containing a program of the day's bouts, a thank you note from the Japan Sumo Association, and a small sumo keychain with a bell - a sort of thank you gift.

As the lower ranked sumo started their bouts, a young woman in a beautiful