Story 11: Happy New Year! ... Karada-San

A week had passed, and the New Year was here. The compass in Jenna’s hip pocket began to heat up. The needle whirred to life, pulling her away from the celebrations and into the hills above Los Angeles.

It led her to Yamashiro, an enigmatic Japanese mansion shrouded in mystery and folklore. It was Surrounded by a reconstructed Edo-period village, its lanterns glowing softly against the starlit sky.

But Yamashiro wasn’t just a tourist attraction—it was a gateway to something greater. As Jenna stepped into the village, she noticed people who didn’t seem to belong to this time or place.

With the compass guiding her every step, Jenna navigated the labyrinthine gardens. As she went, she heard distant sounds of a string instrument, but when she turned a corner, she was met by an unexpected sight, a woman dressed in a vibrant kimono, sitting gracefully in a small garden.

The woman looks up at her, eyes gleaming with an almost knowing smile. “Ah, you must be Santa-Sama no Onna. The woman chimed half in English and half in Japanese. Her voice was oddly melodic and sent tingles throughout Jenna’s body.

Jenna takes a cautious step forward. “You know about that?” Jenna asked, incredulously. The woman nods, fingers gently stroking what looked like a fat guitar with a short neck. A Biwa, she thought it was called. “It is a guide, yes. But it also chooses carefully who it leads and where.

Before Jenna can ask more, the woman stands up with a swift, fluid motion. “Come,” she says, nodding toward the path that leads to the grand house. “The master is expecting you for dinner. And with it, perhaps ... more.”

Jenna follows the woman as they approach the grand mansion. The house itself is an architectural marvel, with sweeping curves of wood and stone that reflect the elegance of an ancient time.

She is escorted into a low, intimate dining room with sliding shoji doors and tatami mat flooring. The room smells faintly of incense and soft, flickering candlelight dances across the polished wood. A long, low table is set before her, adorned with delicate ceramics and wooden trays filled with vibrant colors.

Jenna sits cross-legged, unfamiliar with the traditional Japanese style, but she is helped into the correct position by a silent servant. Her hands rest on her lap as the meal begins, each dish arriving in perfect sequence.

First, a delicate soup, miso with a hint of dashi, the flavors rich but subtle. Then, small plates of sashimi—fish so fresh it practically melts in her mouth—accompanied by pickled vegetables and rice, each bites an intricate balance of flavors and textures.

Next, a warm, crisp tempura of shrimp and vegetables, golden and light as air. As Jenna eats, she can’t help but marvel at the care and precision behind each dish. The food is art, but it’s also an experience, a journey with every bite.

The final course comes with a small, steaming bowl of chawanmushi, a savory egg custard that surprises with its creamy texture and umami depth.

When the meal ends, the woman reappears, carrying a small, lacquered cup of sake. The liquid is a pale amber, its aroma both earthy and floral. “This,” the woman says, “is to cleanse the palate. But it may also ... cleanse your mind.”

Jenna hesitates but takes a sip. The sake warms her from the inside, and for a moment, the room seems to shift, her senses heightening.

“Now,” the woman says, “you are ready to hear why you have been summoned.” The World suddenly fades to black.

Jenna’s head throbs as she slowly blinks her eyes open, the dim light of the room flickering at the edges of her vision. She tries to sit up, but a strange heaviness presses down on her, her limbs sluggish and unresponsive.

Her body feels unnaturally still, as though she’s been immobilized, and the air around her feels thick and charged.

She tries to speak, but her throat is dry, her voice barely a whisper. Her surroundings start to come into focus, a long, low wooden table, polished to a high sheen, with delicate, porcelain plates of food carefully arranged around her.

The dishes seem familiar were vibrant sashimi, glistening sushi, and garnishes of edible flowers.

It takes a few moments before Jenna realizes the unsettling truth, she is lying on the table itself, her body stretched across its surface, naked and exposed. She’s been transformed into the very thing she had only heard of in whispered rumors: the “karada” or body, for a nyotaimori gathering.

Panic rises in her chest as she tries to move, but her body feels like it’s been weighted down by something more than just the effects of the sake. The last thing she remembers is drinking that cup, the sake warm and heady as it slid down her throat, followed by a rush of heat and dizziness. And then ... nothing.

Her eyes dart around the room, taking in the opulent, yet eerie setting. Guests, dressed in formal, traditional attire are seated at the table, chatting in low voices, their attention focused on her. They seem completely at ease as if this is an entirely normal event.

The woman in the kimono, the one who had guided Jenna earlier, enters the room, her footsteps silent but deliberate. She bows slightly to the guests, offering a serene smile. “Enjoy the meal,” she says in a voice that sends a chill down Jenna’s spine. “Our guest of honor is prepared, as you can see.”

Jenna’s heart races, panic threatening to overwhelm her. She struggles to speak, but her voice is barely audible, thick with fear. “What ... what’s happening? Why am I ... why am I like this?”

The woman simply smiles, her eyes soft but unblinking. “You are the chosen one for tonight’s offering. The compass led you here for a reason, Jenna. You were meant to serve this purpose.” Her tone is almost soothing, but the words cut through the air with an unsettling finality.