Free Ring by Kôji Suzuki

them had died under mysterious circumstances. Only those four, according to his research. Maybe if he dug deeper he'd find more, but at the moment that appeared to be all. Thus, simply being here wasn't the problem. The problem was what they'd done here.
    So, what did they do here?
    Asakawa then subtly rephrased the question. What could they have done here?
    He'd found nothing resembling a clue-not in the bathroom, not in the bath, not in the closet, not in the fridge. Even assuming there had been something, the manager would have disposed of it when he cleaned the place. Which meant that, instead of sitting here drinking whiskey, he should be talking to the manager. That would be quicker.
    He'd drained his first glass; he made his second a little smaller. He couldn't afford to get drunk. He put a lot of ice in it, and this time he cut it with tap water. His sense of danger must have been numbed a little. He suddenly felt foolish: stealing time from work, coming all the way up here. He took off his glasses, washed his face, then looked at his reflection in the mirror. It was the face of a sick man. Maybe he'd already caught the virus. He gulped down the whiskey-and-water he'd just made and fixed himself another.
    Returning from the dining room, Asakawa noticed a notebook on the shelf beneath the telephone stand. The cover said Memories. He leafed through a few pages.
     
    Saturday, April 7
    Nonko will never forget this day. Why? That's a
    s-e-c-r-e-t. Yuichi is wonderful. Hee-hee!
    -NONKO
     
    Inns, B&B's, and the like often had notebooks like this in the rooms, so that guests could write down their memories and impressions. On the next page was a crude drawing of mommy and daddy. Must have been a family trip. It was dated April 14th-also a Saturday, naturally.
     
    Daddys fat,
    Mommys fat,
    So Im fat too.
    Aprul 14nth
     
    Asakawa kept turning pages. He could feel some sort of force urging him to open the pages at the end of the book, but he kept going through them in order. He was afraid that if he messed up the chronology he might miss something.
    He couldn't say for sure, since there were probably a lot of guests who didn't write anything, but it seemed like there were only people here on Saturdays until summer started. After that the time between each entry shrank. By the end of August there was a steady stream of entries lamenting the end of summer.
     
    Sunday, August 20
    Another summer vacation come and gone. And it sucked. Somebody help me! Rescue poor little me!
    I have a motorbike, 400cc. I'm pretty good-looking.
    A bargain!
    - A.Y.
     
    This guy looked like he'd decided the guest book was a means to advertise himself, maybe find a pen-pal. It looked like a lot of people had the same ideas about the place. When couples stayed here, their entries showed it, while when single people stayed, they wrote about how much they wanted a companion.
    Still, it made for interesting reading. Presently his watch showed nine o'clock.
    Then he turned the page:
     
    Thursday, August 30
    Ulp! Consider yourself warned: you 'd better not see it unless you 've got the guts.
    You'll be sorry you did. (Evil laughter.)
    S. I.
     
    That was all there was to the message. August 30th was the morning after the four had stayed here. The initials "S.I." would stand for "Shuichi Iwata". His entry was different from all the rest. What did it mean? You 'd better not see it. What in the world was it? Asakawa closed the guest book and looked at it from the side. There was a slight gap where it didn't close tightly. He put his finger there and opened it to that page. Ulp! Consider yourself warned: you 'd better not see it unless you 've got the guts. You'll be sorry you did. (Evil laughter.) S.I. The words jumped out at him. Why did the book want to open to this exact page? He thought for a moment. Perhaps the four had opened the book here and set something heavy on top of it. The weight had created this force that remained even now, trying to open