陳清揚奇幻極短篇之3
《出租女友》
被同事戲稱為「最後處男」的蔡世男，來自南台灣的鄉下囝仔，生活節儉個性木訥寡言，在科技業工作二十年，因不善辭令且不喜歡交際應酬，爬到襄理的位置後就原地踏步，以致幾個以前的同事和部屬都陸續爬到他的上面去了，可他生性樂天並不以為意。
公司裡的同事多半清楚蔡世男的底細，「在室男」絕非浪得虛名，他潔身自愛，從來不鬧緋聞，更不涉足夜店等風月場所，女同事在他眼裡都無性別且無差別，就連同事們要幫他牽紅線，都被他一概婉拒。可他絕對不是「同志」，因為他對女人男人同樣不感興(性)趣，就這樣孤家寡人過日子。直到有一天，他接到老爸打來的電話，說他老媽罹患肝癌，只剩半年壽命，要他無論如何得在老媽離世前，找到對象結婚成家，還交代他一個月內把女友帶回南部老家。
這通電話給了世男莫大的心理壓力，可他不想讓任何同事知情，他覺得這是件尷尬的醜事，一旦有同事知道，肯定會傳揚開來，然後他就成為被人取笑的話題人物。世男想到網路上有「出租女友」，應該可以解他的燃眉之急。他從孤狗搜尋引擎中找到一家「線上男女朋友出租公司」，撥了電話去詢問，接電話的服務生回答他，「本公司貨色齊全，請專程前來公司挑選產品。」
蔡世男穿著休閒服戴起墨鏡，出現在該公司的產品展示櫃前，他詳細端詳了幾樣產品，終於挑選了其中一個。
女售貨員從倉庫裡扛出一只長箱子，放在世男面前的大辦公桌上：「蔡先生，你相當有眼光，這款賢妻良母型女友，是本公司的主力商品，除了不能幫你生小孩，其它的服務都能令你滿意。」
「這租金怎麼計算？」
「您是要月租還是年租？」
「就先租一個月吧！」世男心想如果產品的確好用，再決定年租。
「月租是一萬五千，高貴不貴耐操好用，您等於家裡多了個女傭。」
「如果使用期間，產品發生故障呢？有沒有提供售後服務？」
售貨員信心滿滿地回答說：「當然有完善的售後服務，不過，本公司的產品可靠度百分百，從來沒有顧客因產品故障而送回來維修的紀錄。」
「這麼神啊！」蔡世男心想：「如果真是這樣，這筆租金就很值得。」
「保證物超所值啦，蔡先生，請移駕到腦波設定室去，本公司產品一旦啟動後，必須聯結你的腦波，完成產品功能指令設定。」
蔡世男跟在售貨員身後，進到腦波室，按照設定員的指示，躺在一張床上。售貨員將那箱產品打開，雙手環抱抬起一具光溜溜的「女偶」，熟練地把她擺在另一張床上。
設定員將腦波儀上的感應線貼布，貼在蔡世男腦殼上的兩端太陽穴，隨即把兩條端子線接上人偶後頸部髮叢間的插孔，先啟動人偶，接著開始傳輸蔡世男的腦波。約莫半小時，設定員完成整個設定程序。售貨員搬來一箱衣服和配件，帶著那只人偶進到更衣室，一刻鐘後就把人偶打扮成一位俏麗的輕熟女，穿著長裙套裝，模樣相當可人，令蔡世男眼睛為之一亮。
「她這樣摩登的外型和裝扮，跟在我身邊，感覺我很老土，能不能……」蔡世男立即反應心中的疑慮。
「蔡先生，這部分你不用操心，她會幫你重新設計造型，讓你外表上跟她很速配。」
「好吧！」，蔡世男很輕易被說服了，跟著售貨員離開腦波室，三人來到櫃檯，世男取出信用卡刷卡付帳，然後領著這具「女友」離開。
蔡世男給女友取名「陳玉蓮」，這名字是他小學時的同班女生，曾經也是唯一令他動心過的女生，可後來她舉家移民美國。玉蓮勾著世男手臂，兩人像一對熱戀中情侶似的，走在高檔的商店街騎樓，引起一些路人好奇的目光。兩人走進一間男裝服飾店裡。半小時後，兩人走出服飾店，世男的衣著果然煥然一新，變成一個很稱頭的摩登紳士。接著，玉蓮又把世男帶去理髮店，徹底改頭換面。
兩人手上拎著大包提貨袋回到世男的住家，位於郊區的一座寬敞的別墅型透天厝。
玉蓮很有效率地把這些用品歸定位後，就圍起圍裙下廚準備晚餐。有了女主人，這座透天厝果然有了家的雛型。玉蓮打理家務，動作迅速，雖然蔡世男仍舊對她不冷不熱，但是溫柔體貼的玉蓮，卻會主動地找機會跟他討摟抱，態度就跟新婚妻子沒兩樣。
週一上午，蔡世男回公司上班，他的時髦外型立馬成為同事的焦點，有同事主動探問他是否談戀愛了，他都笑而不答，同事們因而更加狐疑。當天傍晚，蔡世男向人事經理告假，要把先前累積的特休假用完，原因是他得回南部老家，探視臥病在床的老媽媽。
蔡世男換了一部嶄新的双B房車，帶著陳玉蓮回到南部老家。老父母和妹妹一家人，看見蔡世男挽著一位外型亮麗的輕熟女進到家門，眾人都驚訝到眼珠子差點掉下來。
晚餐餐桌上，妹妹頻頻以各種話題探問「未來大嫂」，想摸清楚對方來歷，玉蓮應答得相當得體，掰出一段感人的「當哈利遇到莎莉」的故事橋段，家人聽得津津有味，為世男終於找到一個美好的「歸宿」而感到欣慰。只有蔡家的小黃狗，不死心地一直跟在玉蓮腳邊，東嗅西嗅……。
《角色體驗藥水》
科技業是許多人羨慕的工作，「研發工程師」更是「科技新貴」中的寵兒，優渥的待遇讓我很快地買房買車，可亮麗的經濟條件背後，卻是日以繼夜的身心煎熬，燃燒身體健康換取報酬。
週末，好友小邱硬拉我去教堂做禮拜，介紹我認識神父和幾位教友。以往，我是啥教都不信奉，只信「倒頭睡覺」的。在教堂裡，當神父主持禱告儀式時，我不免趁這機會向上帝發牢騷，還鐵齒地嗆聲說：「除非你能助我脫離苦海，否則我不會相信你存在。」
那箱藥水，是在一次奇幻的夢境之後出現的。夢裡一位長著翅膀的美女天使，說是上帝聽見我禱告時抱怨，特地指派她送來這箱神奇藥水，讓我體驗各種角色。
「當你在體驗過幾種角色後，如果你喜歡某個角色，並決定停止體驗別的角色，那麼就把剩下來的藥水，倒進那只空的藥瓶裡即可，它就會變成解藥。」
「可如果，我想回到原本的角色呢？」
「那你喝一口解藥，就能回復原本的樣子。」
於是，幾天後的某個晚上，我決定開始一段體驗不同角色的奇幻歷程。第一瓶引起我興趣的藥水：「美才女」，我一口喝下後，照著說明說，躺到床上閉眼默唸許願，昏沉沉睡著。次日上午，鬧鐘叫醒我，我揉著惺忪的眼睛，發現我的房間裝潢完全變成女孩家的樣式，牆面掛著我演唱會時的登台海報，連身上穿的睡衣都是粉色系鑲蕾絲滾邊。
「我，現在的角色是個歌星嗎？」還在猶疑時，手機響起：「小魚，一個鐘頭後我帶化妝師去接妳，中午那個飯局很重要，郭董是我們的大咖贊助商，你得好生按奈喔！」
「你是誰啊？我幹嘛得去陪人家吃飯？」我搔著臉頰，大腦還在開機狀態，沒好氣地反問。
「我是你的經紀人小邱啊！你又亂買鎮定劑來吃？都跟你說別亂買成藥，搞得整個人精神恍惚……」我懶得聽他叨唸，順手按掉電話。
中午的飯局果然比午夜惡夢還驚悚，模樣長得跟大肚魚沒兩樣的「郭董」，臉上的肥肉滿到堆往下巴，簡直就是大公豬的頭。他不但頻頻伸出鹹豬手捏我屁股，甚至還想碰觸我那對車頭燈，要不是我及時出手架開。這樣的老豬哥，竟然開價要包養我！我故意吊他胃口，說我會認真考慮，費了一番功夫才脫離現場。
回到錄音室，心情並沒有變得好一些，一首新歌試唱了兩回，總覺得詮釋得不夠到位。
「歌女生涯原是夢」，折騰了一個多月，就在唱片即將灌錄的前一晚，坐在窗前，我對著梳妝鏡裡的自己，細細回想這個月來的生活點滴，總結出歌女的角色並不適合我。於是我取出那只藥箱，挑了一瓶「大老闆」，一口喝下後，照著說明書，躺到床上閉眼默唸許願，昏沉沉睡著。
次日上午，管家來敲房門。女僕阿桃姐幫我打點門面，吃過早餐後，我讓司機
帶我去公司，主持各部門主管會議。每個部門的經理，都準備了ppt檔，各自在十分鐘內報告該部門的業務執行情形，我耐著性子詳細聆聽，一個冗長的會議總算開完。「大老闆果然不是人當的」，辦公室桌上一堆等待批核的公文，下班後和週末還有一些同業之間，大老闆們交際應酬的行程。
我忍不住問特助說：「為什麼每天我得跟打陀螺似的這麼忙碌，幾乎沒有自己的時間？」
特助委婉地說：「老闆，因為這是您的事業啊！」
「你能否幫我安排一次休假，十天半個月，讓我出國旅行散心？」
特助面有難色說：「這…，可能有些困難，除非您放心把公司業務交給邱副總…」
「邱副總…」我心想：「這傢伙不夠精明，把公司交給他，那些經理恐怕每個都樂得逍遙，這顯然行不通…」。
周而復始，上班批公文主持會議，下班週末交際應酬，酒店三溫暖。兩個月後，我發覺自己真的很厭倦了，於是我決定再換一次角色。
這次的角色「旅行作家」，替旅遊雜誌撰寫特約稿，似乎感覺還不錯。大學時代讀過日本小說家川端康成的《雪鄉》，小說裡的男主角島村就是個簽約小說家，每年冬季固定到冰天雪地的雪鄉裡，找藝妓廝混，從那之後，我就嚮往著這種神仙式的生活。穿著風衣夾克和吊帶長褲，身上揹著數位相機和一部小筆電，還有高階手機，這趟旅程是介紹日本的三個古都：京都、奈良和鎌倉。雜誌社指派一位精通日語的助理小邱給我，她是個台日混血的小精靈，很機靈又善解人意。
我們兩人默契很好，旅途期間感覺像一對新婚夫妻前來度蜜月，讓我開始有了想要成家的念頭。這回的角色體驗，讓我做出最後決定，不再羨慕什麼大老闆，也不想當一部日夜操勞的科技業工作機器人，我活著就該為了讓自己自由快樂，而不是為了事業或財富，犧牲掉自由和快樂。
《不倒翁併軌》
家在京都的日本朋友大田德一，是我相交近三十年的老朋友，早在我大學時代就認識，當時他是我室友，兩人經常一起去陽明山或北投泡溫泉，跟我是「坦誠相見」的麻吉。我跟他時相往來，他來台灣時我招待，陪他全台走透透；我去日本旅遊時，多半會繞到京都見他。
京都祇園附近有五條花街，大田的家就在熱鬧的「花見小路」上，以販賣「和菓子」營生。這回我去日本石川縣金澤市，面見市長、北陸新聞社長和電視台長等幾位重要人物，洽談台日合作拍攝「台灣水利先驅：八田與一」連續劇。在金澤盤旋兩天，再度遊歷位於市郊的「兼六園」後，回程就搭乘高鐵如約抵達京都。大田特地開車來京都車站接我，才見面他就哇啦哇啦笑我又變得更胖了，肯定是「人逢喜事、春風得意」。
我有感而發地抱怨說：「案子才剛在談，成否還未定數，你們日本人做事一板一眼，態度嚴謹龜毛到不行，脾氣再好都會被你們搞到起笑…。」
略通台灣話的大田當然聽得懂「龜毛」和「起笑」，以前我常使用「龜毛」這個詞語叨念他，他的個性溫吞拘謹，典型的日本人，做啥事總是慢條斯理，非得考慮清楚才會做出決定。
大田聽著靈機一動，出主意說：「這樣好了，我帶你去我家附近的八坂神社，見一位高僧，聽說他供奉一座非常靈驗的不倒翁，你就拿你的案子問他，請他幫你卜個掛。」
「好吧！客隨主便，反正我也想去散散心。」這時我的確也沒有更好的主意。
晚間，在大田的書房裡，他和嫂子一起陪我喝清酒，品嘗他店裡的幾道新產品。
「非哥，你不是可以從教職退休了嗎？兩年前就聽你說要退下來享清福。」
我長嘆一口氣說：「唉…計畫趕不上變化啦！去年執政黨除了大砍軍公教退休人員退休金成數，八月初一突然宣布取消多項公教退休人員福利，其中一項就是子女教育補助金，我家三隻小鴨子正在讀大學，我若退休下來，這項補助金就會被取消，一年得多負擔將近六十萬日圓的學費。」
大田說：「這樣啊！我還盤算著等你退休，咱們兩對老夫妻一起環遊世界呢，看情形得延後幾年囉。不過，我們身體很健康，等上幾年無所謂的。」
次日上午，大田帶我去神社見到那位老和尚。高僧鬚髮俱白，一派仙風道骨，看來應該九十歲以上。才一見面，高僧就盯著我端詳良久，大田以日語跟他說明我的來意，高僧也說了一段話，我約略聽見他提到「夏目漱石」。
大田正色地轉達說：「師父說，他看見你的前世，是我國的小說家夏目漱石，日本將會是你發展事業的福地。」
我神情黯然說：「可我現在遇到麻煩，先見承諾我促成這件合作案子的中川會長兩年前過世，能幫我的貴人如今不在了。」
大田安慰我說：「師父說他知道你所遇到的困難，如果你願意誠心向不倒翁祈願，願望之神一定會助你一臂之力的。」
隨後，我按照一旁執事僧的指示，雙手合掌低頭膜拜那尊不倒翁，老和尚點起束香為我施法祈願，說來真是靈驗到不行，原本紋風不動的不倒翁，開始跟著老和尚的法咒搖動起來，而且搖動的幅度越來越大，竟然翻倒過去，倒在神桌上還不停地左右搖晃。除了老和尚，在場的眾人都面露訝異。
我轉頭低聲問大田：「不倒翁併軌(注1)，這馬是啥米款情形？」
大田按耐我說：「我也不知道，以前從沒見過不倒翁翻倒過去，等一下師父應該會有開示吧？」
果然，老和尚隨即面向我，一臉慈藹地說：「你的祈願，願望之神允應幫你，可祂要你承諾，等這部連續劇在日本播映時，你必須把這篇故事以小說形式，在日本本地出版，讓日本國民有機會知道，曾經有一位仁民愛物的日本官員，為台灣奉獻心力，留下許多影響深遠的利民建設。」
我大致聽懂老和尚的意思，以台灣腔日語向他鞠躬致謝。
老和尚又說：「夏目漱石跟你一樣，曾經是學校老師，而且還是個剛正不阿的老師。這一世，你走的同樣是文學道路，只可惜台灣人不懂得珍惜你的成就…。」
老和尚這席話，的確觸動我的內心深處。
「夏目漱石，你知道我活得很，很鬱卒嗎？」這句話在我的心中如空谷回音般，盤旋迴盪著…。
注：「併軌」，台語諧音，原意為「翻倒過去」。
《借身還魂》
「公證結婚」後，原本規劃帶著新婚妻子去趟歐洲蜜月旅行，可計畫趕不上變化，不巧遇到「八仙樂園塵爆」，院裡一晚上抬進來三十來個燒燙傷患者，我雖不是皮膚科專科，也被主任派去支援，協助處理患者清創和植皮，而且還得兼顧外科手術檯的工作，一時間忙得不可開交，蜜月旅行當然就取消了。
妻子是我醫學系學妹，從大二跟我拍拖到現在，每年寒暑假我們都會去偏鄉支援醫療實習，順便趁假日遊山玩水。妻是個多愁善感的小女人，陰性的性情跟一隻貓似的，大學時代沉浸在文學裡，自行去選修新詩和小說，經常在副刊和文學雜誌上發表作品，活脫脫就是個文藝青年。跟我鬧彆扭時，就在詩行或小說裡暗罵我。選科時妻挑了精神科，問我意見，記得當時我只回應她三個字：「不意外」。
塵爆發生當晚，妻下班後趕來急診處，看見我忙得團團轉，立即主動穿上醫師袍過來幫我。當晚，第一個全身燒燙傷超過90%的小女孩，嚴重吸入性嗆傷，在燒燙傷病床上失去呼吸心跳，我盡力施救了，但仍回天乏術。妻表情哀憐，伸出手幫小女孩闔上眼皮，隨後坐在一旁掩面啜泣。
我和妻忙到次日深夜，兩人已經精神恍惚，急診科邵主任要我們先回去休息半天，下午兩點才回來。回到家門口，親友祝賀的鮮花擺滿走道。兩人蓬首垢面，妻先進浴室洗澡，等我洗完澡，她已經睡得連打呼聲都跑出來，梳妝台上擺著一杯喝剩的開水。我知道她一遇到突來的精神壓力就容易失眠，必須短暫依靠安眠藥助眠，也就不以為意。
我躺上床拉來被子，沉沉睡去。
次日接近中午，我被哭泣聲吵醒，尋聲來到客廳，妻邊講電話邊啜泣，我繞到她面前，她卻轉過臉去，但我已瞥見她淚流滿面。
我關切地問：「妳怎麼了？貓咪…」貓咪是我喊她的親暱稱呼。
妻不理睬我繼續講電話：「爸媽，我暫時借住在一個大姐姐的身體裡面，我好想你們，好想見你們…我應該聽你們的話不要去八仙的…」。
「蛙哩嘞！這馬是在演哪齣啊？」我滿頭霧水。
「貓咪，妳按怎了？」我伸手想去摸妻的額頭，卻被她一手撥開。
「醫生，請你的手放尊重些！」妻竟然對我怒目相向，嗆我。
我驚訝到登時變成皮諾契特：「我，我是兔子老公啊？妳別鬧我了，好不好！」
「我連男朋友都沒有，哪來老公？你，昨晚為什麼跟我睡在一起？你有沒有對我怎樣？你離我遠一點啦！色北北，你很噁耶，…」妻指責我時一臉認真的表情，我被她嚇唬得目瞪口呆。
我按照她的指令，和她保持距離，等她講完電話。然後，她跟我要求送她去醫院太平間，說她跟她爸媽相約在那裡，我聽得一愣一愣的，只能說「好」。
她轉身回臥房，大聲喊我：「醫生北北，你老婆到底會不會穿衣服啊？都是些大嬸套裝洋裝款式，你就不會幫她打扮得漂漂亮亮些嗎？」
「你挑一套衣服穿上吧？先別抱怨了。」我邊回她話，邊想著這是不是傳說中的借身還魂，如果是，那麼我妻子的靈魂又跑哪兒去了？如果她一直這樣，我該怎麼跟同事還有雙方的爸媽解釋清楚？
我開著房車把妻送回醫院，進到太平間，果然一對夫妻和一個小男孩在那裡等著。
妻主動上前跟他們說話，然後哭泣著相互擁抱，被她晾在一旁的我，簡直呆成木頭人。接著，妻向管理員要求打開冰櫃，一家人圍著冰櫃裡的女孩哭泣拭淚，喃喃說了一些話。整個道別過程裡，管理員納悶地望著我，直到她們一家人離開後，管理員拉住我問：「陳醫師，死者是你的家人嗎？」
我乾咳兩聲為難說：「是，是我老婆，的堂妹，堂妹啦。」
管理員說：「不好意思，陳醫師，請節哀。」
我趕緊轉身離開太平間，追上妻他們「一家人」。
在醫院門口，妻目送三人離開後，轉身向我招手。我隨即風一般飄到她身旁。
妻臉上露出陽光般的笑容說：「兔子，我們一起去餐廳吃午餐吧？我想喝碗牛肉湯，你也該喝一大碗，補充體力。」
我驚喜地問：「貓咪，你回魂了？」
妻笑罵著：「大笨蛋，我一直都在啊！又沒離開你過。」
「可是，可是剛才妳…」我一臉疑惑問。
妻淡定說：「小玲妹妹昨晚擠進我身體，跟我要求暫借七天，讓她去完成一些事情。助人為快樂之本嘛，我就答應她囉。」
看著妻神采奕奕，我真不知該說些什麼，心想：「還好，只有七天，忍耐一下吧！」
「用餐後，我刷卡買半打白蘭氏雞精，給你帶去急診科，三個小時記得抽空喝一瓶喔。」體貼細心的妻，果然回魂了。
《寄生的鬼魂》
「你整整昏迷了七天，天可憐見！」坐在床緣自稱是我母親的女人，對著我拭淚。可我付出的代價，就是對以前二十幾年的生活記憶，像是被魔鬼拿板擦給擦掉似的，突然消失掉。
妹妹陪我到花園廣場曬太陽，頭一次覺得午後的太陽，如此的溫暖。這裡有幾個中風過的老人，有的拄著拐杖，有的坐在輪椅上給推著，有的被護士或家屬攙扶，一顛一跛地緩慢行走，就像漫步在月球表面的太空人。這時，一部輪椅車緩慢從我身旁經過，我的雙腿突然感覺一陣被輾壓似的強烈痛感，我轉頭看果然輪椅正輾壓過我投影在地上的影子，而且部位剛好是我的小腿，我本能地，伸出雙手使力推開那輪椅，推輪椅的護士被我突如其來的舉動嚇著，以那種「你這傢伙很冒失」的眼神盯著我。妹妹也覺得不能理解，我怎麼突然行為失控。當然我也被那種突如其來的輾壓痛感給弄糊塗了。緊接著，有個拄拐杖的老人，他的枴杖剛戳進我的影子頭部，我的頭雖然纏著幾層紗布，感覺像被人用木棒戳痛似的，我趕緊跳開來。妹妹再次看到我怪異的舉動，更是一臉驚訝不解的表情。她走向我，我立馬伸出手指著地上我的影子說：「妳從旁邊繞過來，別踩到我的影子。」
妹妹被我嚇著，小心地繞過來，一臉迷惘地望著我問：「哥，你到底怎麼了？」
我近乎自言自語說：「我不知道！似乎只要有人踩到或車子輾壓過，我就會發生疼痛反應，而且疼痛的部位和受到踩踏輾壓的部位竟然是一樣的。」
「怎麼會有這種事？哥，該不會是妄想吧？」妹妹仍覺得，我出現這種反應很不可思議。
我決定先回到病房歇息，妹妹走在我側邊，她的影子上半身投影在我的胸腹間。
回到病房後，我把剛才的情況約略描述給母親聽，一旁的妹妹幫我作證。母親隨即找來值班醫生，聽完我的描述，建議說這可能得找精神科醫生來診察，才有可能找出原因。
傍晚，一個精神科的醫生，約莫不到三十歲，頗有氣質的輕熟女，進來到病房，走到我的床邊，盯著我的臉看了十幾秒鐘，對我說：「接下來，我要跟你使用筆談。」又轉身對我母親和妹妹說：「請兩位家屬暫時離開病房，我要開始對患者進行精神狀況鑑定。」
母親和妹妹四眼對望幾秒，雖然有些疑惑，仍識趣地離開病房。
女醫生打開檔案夾，在床邊的圓椅坐下來，隨即跟我筆談。
「先生，你被一隻女鬼附身了，而我看得到她。我不想讓她聽到我們談話的內容，所以跟你筆談。」女醫生把檔案夾交到我手上，我迅速看過，跟她點頭示意，把檔案夾還給她。
女醫生把剛才那張紙上的鉛筆字，以橡皮擦擦拭掉，又繼續寫新的內容。
「這隻女鬼看來似乎對你並無惡意，她會附在你身上，應該是想你幫她忙。說不定今晚等你入睡後，她會進到夢裡找你，別害怕，你就誠懇地跟她好好談，弄清楚她為什麼會附到你身上，問看她想要你為她做些什麼？」
女醫生又把檔案夾交給我，看過後，我在她那串字的底下寫著︰「好的，我會面對她，跟她好好溝通。」
女醫生接過檔案夾，再次把我上面的鉛筆字擦拭掉，又寫了一行新的字：「明天上午我會過來，請你把她跟你談的事情，寫在紙上。」
我點頭示意，心情卻是七上八下，心想：「這女醫生莫非有通靈能力？可為什麼她不想辦法，把女鬼直接從我身上趕走。」
女醫生看我發愣著，這時她終於開口說：「先生，請不要懷疑我的專業能力。」
被她這句話點中，我驚訝地望著她，尷尬地傻笑。
女醫生離開後，母親和妹妹進來病房，母女倆好奇地問我這個那個的，我只搖手示意她們別再追問。
夜裡，妹妹睡在靠窗的小床上。大約就是我開始進入夢境吧？一個模樣清秀女大生，從我的身體裡跨出來，那時我正在書桌前瀏覽網路，挑選世界足球賽轉播轉場次，她盤腿坐在書桌上。
「先生，你終於清醒過來了，這七天來我一直守護你，不讓勾魂使者有機會把你的魂魄，從你的身體裡勾出來。」
我壯起膽說：「謝謝妳，如此盡力幫我。」
女大生苦笑說：「我們同樣遭遇，幫你等於幫我自己。」
我好奇問：「怎麼說同樣遭遇？」
女大生哀怨地娓娓訴說起：「在八天前的那個深夜，我剛從校門口出來，走在路口的斑馬線上，一部黑色房車急速闖越紅燈，瞬間撞飛我，接著撞上騎單車的你，這部房車立即揚長而去。我的魂魄被撞離開身體，懸浮在半空中，可我的身體被強力的撞擊力道給撕裂開了，而你則是暈倒在路旁人行道上。」
「然後呢？」我問。
女大生接著說：「一個手持鐮刀鉤的勾魂使者，隨即靠近你的身體，想把你的魂魄鉤離身體，我立即附在你的身上，跟你一起抵抗使者，好一會兒等救護車抵達事故現場，使者才放棄，悻悻然離開前還撂下狠話，一定要來帶走你。」
「所以這七天來，妳一直附在我身上來保護我？」
女大生說：「是的，我聽從醫院裡流浪的鬼魂提醒，說只要熬過頭七，你就可以還陽。所以這七天來我寸步不離守護你。」
「可我不明白，為什麼我的影子會跟活人似的，有疼痛感應？」
女大生解釋說：「因為白天裡，你接觸到陽光，身體會產生陽氣，抵銷掉我的陰氣能量，我只能暫時附著在你的影子上面，可這樣一來，你的影子就會被我控制住，同步感受到我所遭受到的外力衝擊，產生疼痛的磁場感應。」
「原來如此，妳想要我怎麼幫妳？」
女大生一臉怨恨地說：「我想請你幫我找到駕駛那部黑色房車的車主，向他索命。」
我說：「好吧！我去請警方調閱路口監視器。」
女大生臉上閃過一抹微笑說：「好，警察局我們鬼魂進不去的，但你可以。」
次日上午，女醫生如約來到我的病床前，跟我筆談。我把和那隻女鬼的對話內容，在筆談中盡可能講清楚，並回答女醫生的一些提問。之後，女醫生提醒我：「那隻女鬼的話不可盡信，她雖然無害你之心，但她可能會利用你，去找到車主，向對方索命，而這筆帳將來就會算在你頭上。」
我寫下反駁的意見：「可對方說她盡力守護我，如此說來是我欠她一份人、鬼情啊？何況她冤枉喪命，去找肇事者索命，完全合情合理！」
女醫生反問：「如果那隻女鬼存心欺騙你，捏造這些看似合理的情節，只為了利用你，幫她找到仇家呢？冤冤相報，絕對不是處理陰陽界恩怨的可行辦法，我只是善意提醒你，別成為女鬼復仇的工具。」
筆談後，我的心情跌到谷底，腦筋裡一片混亂：「我會不會被女鬼利用，成為她的復仇工具呢？可如果我不幫忙她，她會不會不放過我？好吧！今晚我跟她詳細問清楚，幫不幫她再做決定。」
當夜幕再度降臨，我突然有個想法，如果我整夜不睡，這隻附在我身上的女鬼，會不會跳出來找我？於是，我和母親、妹妹商量，母親陪我上半夜，妹妹陪我下半夜，觀賞世足盃足球賽轉播。兩人對我這晚上不睡覺的主意，一開始並不認可，而且輪流追問原因，我掰了一些理由總算說服她們。我讓她們先提前去小床上睡，過了午夜我開始有睡意時，才把母親叫醒，要她陪我觀賞網路上的世足賽。到了三點，我讓母親去睡，母親說她還撐得住，她把妹妹叫醒，聽她倆唱雙簧聊著我的成長史，從出生到上小學，一路聊到大學畢業，我不時插嘴提問，然後不知不覺天亮了，太陽光從窗口照進來。我跟她倆說：「我們先用過早餐，然後就在太陽光底下睡一覺，好好補眠吧？」
當我們一家三口吃過早餐，妹妹取出一面鏡子，對著鏡子以濕紙巾擦拭眼眶時，我看見那隻女鬼映現在鏡面上，對著我張牙舞爪，當然，妹妹看不見女鬼那張氣急敗壞的鬼臉。
等到女醫生來到病房，我讓妹妹取出那面鏡子交給女醫生，女醫生微笑說：「我看見那隻女鬼，鏡子把她反鎖在虛擬的鏡像空間裡，她應該不能再出來糾纏你了，先生，你究竟是怎麼辦到的？」
我得意地說：「就整晚沒睡啊！我媽陪我看世足賽，還有跟我妹一起聊我的成長史啊！一直聊到天亮，接著一家人吃早餐，然後我發現那隻女鬼映現在妹妹的梳妝小鏡子裡。」
妹妹驚訝問：「我怎麼看不到那女鬼呢？」
女醫生說：「小妹妹，靈界的鬼不值得妳好奇，這面鏡子我得帶走，往後妳哥就不會再被那隻女鬼騷擾，出院後安穩地過日子。」
《幽禁之書》
我的麻吉朋友老K，一直是個懷才不遇的血汗編劇，他的命運多舛，我替他診斷後，歸納出幾點原因：(1)遇人不淑，被無良的製片、導演騙去做白工；(2)替人作嫁，給大牌編劇捉刀，人家吃肉他喝湯；(3)來者不拒，而且使命必達，但報酬和付出的心血不成比例。這份診斷書，他其實心知肚明，可他是隻蟑螂打死不退，始終認為自己只是時運不濟，且沒遇到伯樂提攜。
所幸我跟老K不是同行，我是寫流行小說的寫手，愛作夢的學生族是我主要的讀者群，我的小說裡經常使用偶遇和巧合這些老梗，我會精心布置一些弔胃口的懸念，但我不像九把刀那樣刻意灑狗血，把許多情節寫得很煽情很重鹹。對於我的小說，老K一向嗤之以鼻，說我那些小說搬不上螢幕，都是「擺在夜市的倒閉工廠出清貨」。可殘酷的現實是，幾家出版社每年都會搶著跟我簽約，光是簽約金和版稅收入，讓我每一季可以出國旅行個一週，日子過得很滋潤。
旅行是我給自己紓壓同時充電的主要方法，今年夏天我去日本旅行，在京都老街閒晃時，心血來潮拐進一家老舊的二手書攤，老闆是個滿頭銀髮的老人，但精神和體力看起來還不錯，他主動招呼我。
「小夥子，我這家店可是一座寶山，只要你有心，絕對不會令你失望」。
「老前輩，我想跟你打聽推理大師松本清張的處女作《西鄉紙幣》，收錄這篇小說的小說集。我網路上查到這篇小說在1950年獲得直木賞。」
老人家聽我說完，以一對探照燈似的眼睛盯著我十幾秒，爽朗地笑問：「你喜歡推理小說？」
我點頭說：「我想轉型，往推理和奇幻小說領域發展。」
「你幾歲時開始寫小說？現在寫的是哪類型小說？」
我登時臉紅，吶吶地回答說：「18歲寫出處女作，25歲寫出第一本暢銷書，但都是寫些時下流行的校園、小資族和職場戀情小說。」
「那就是流行小說囉？你現在幾歲？」
「35歲。」我搔著額頭傻笑。
「你聽說過嗎？松本清張41歲才寫出處女作《西鄉紙幣》，從此一鳴驚人。你35歲就有轉型的想法，可見你未來是有機會更上層樓的。」老人家鼓舞的話語，當下我聽得很受用。
「可我沒有松本大師的本事，一路囊括那些大獎啊！因為我生長在台灣，一個淺碟子文化形態的島嶼。」
老人家語帶神秘說：「那麼，我給你一次脫胎換骨的機會，協助你實現轉型的願望，你跟我去書房。」
好奇心的驅使下，我跟著老人家進到他的書房，書房裡四面都是古書，靠窗的角落裡擺著一張太師椅。老人家走到太師椅旁，從椅背上方的書架裡抽出兩本古書，封面是皮質，上頭分別燙著金字《命運之書》和《幽禁之書》，遞給我。
「小夥子，你猜猜看這兩本書的封面，使用哪種皮革？」
我摩搓著皮革表面，揣測說︰「感覺像是鹿皮或羔羊皮。」
老人家搖著手指說：「很接近，但都不對。這兩本書的封面使用的是人皮。」
「喔！是人皮，那麼這其中一定有故事。」我聽了頭皮開始發麻，雖然我故作鎮定。
「一對情侶相約殉情後，被領主剝下來的胸部和背部皮膚。你聽過西鄉隆盛吧？」
「聽過啊！德川幕府後期，薩摩藩的大將軍，明治維新三傑。請問前輩，你提起西鄉是不是告訴我，他跟松本清張的那篇《西鄉紙幣》有關？」
老人家輕拍我的肩膀微笑說：「不錯嘛！小夥子，沒想到你對日本的近代史有幾分涉獵。西鄉紙幣就是西鄉隆盛舉兵後發行的，性質上是薩摩軍的軍票。」
「不瞞您說，我大學時代修日本近代史時，閱讀過松本的那篇《西鄉紙幣》漢文翻譯本。」我如實陳述。
「回到原來的話題，這兩本書交給你，但你只能二選一。」
「二選一？為什麼？」我不解地問。
老人家正色說：「這兩本書都被魔法師施過怨念咒，彼此相生相剋，你不能同時使用或擁有它們，否則你會招來殺身的禍端。」
「好吧！那麼，我可以把其中一冊送給我的好友嗎？」
「可以，但你只能寄給他，不能跟他碰面。以防你和他私下交換。好了，這兩本書你選哪一本？」
沒想到老人家竟然設想到這點上：「我能先問這兩本書的不同處嗎？」
「那可不行，等你選了以後，我會告訴你接下來怎麼做。」
「一定得現在就做出決定嗎？」我感覺自己正面臨一個重大抉擇。
老人表情嚴肅說：「是的，以你的直覺來做出決定。」
「好吧！我挑這本《幽禁之書》。老前輩，接下來我該怎麼做？」
「你把那本《命運之書》寄出去，然後留在這邊陪伴我十年。」
「十年？」我直覺自己似乎被套牢了。
「沒錯，這十年裡，你每年必須完成一部小說，而且要我看過，認為可以面世，正式發表才算數。」
「可如果老前輩看不滿意呢？或者十年內我寫不到十本小說呢？」
「十年期限一到，我就會離開這裡，把這家書店交給你經營，所以我要你十年內寫十本小說給我，我看滿意後會逐一幫你規劃，參加國內的重要比賽並安排出版。」
「好吧！」我心想，反正我留在台灣也沒什麼搞頭，終究只是二流的流行小說作家，我隨即又問：「這本《幽禁之書》我可以打開來看嗎？」
老人這回笑得更神秘：「當然可以，但裡面是完全空白的。」
「完全空白？那我怎麼開始我的小說創作呢？」我這下被搞糊塗了。
「這本書會跟你熱切互動，當你開始在上面書寫小說後。」
「老前輩，您的意思是，它是一本有靈魂的魔法書？」
「是的，那個附在書本裡的靈魂，就是殉情情侶中的女人。」老人接著說：「接下來的十年，你必須留在日本，每年當你交出小說後，我會給你半個月假期，你可以在日本各地旅行，就是不能回去台灣，還有，不能和那位獲贈《命運之書》的朋友見面或通信息，即使你聽到任何有關於他的消息，切記！這是你我之間的約定，因為我要確保你能不受任何因素影響，心無旁鶩地完成那十本小說。」
「我可以再請教一道問題嗎？」
「你可以再提問最後兩道問題。」老人家的態度變得親切和藹。
「請問使用這本書，有些什麼禁忌嗎？」
「是有一些禁忌，但我只知其中兩個，其一，你不能把自己過去的經歷寫進故事裡，或者把自己當成故事裡的主要角色。」
「為什麼？」
老人家表情突然變得嚴厲說：「因為你會為此付出代價，可別不信邪！」說到這裡，他坐到那張太師椅上，彎腰拉起左腳褲管說：「我在最後一本小說裡，把自己當成男主角，在故事中我是個馬術師，我寫到馬術師在最後一場決賽中不幸落馬，被自己的愛馬踩斷了左小腿，果然沒多久，我就在旅行途中，被一部房車給撞上，房車把我的左小腿當場輾碎，然後我被送去醫院，醫生不跟我囉嗦，直接把我的左小腿給切除了。」
聽到這裡，我的背脊整個發冷，心想:「這部書，真的那麼邪門嗎？」
「我想再問最後一個問題，以我有限的日本語文程度，真的可以寫出令老前輩滿意的小說來嗎？還有，我的小說發表時，可以使用我的筆名嗎？」
「小伙子，你這兩道問題，就當作一道好了。其一，你的日本語文程度，你手上那本書會逐漸幫你加廣加深，只要你每天勤於書寫和它互動；其二，你的書我會幫你找個合適的筆名，但發表之後，這世上只有我知道你是小說的原作者。」
我暗自嘀咕著：「哇哩嘞？這遊戲規則訂成這樣，我如何能成名呢？」
沒想到老人家似乎看穿我的心事，提醒我說：「一個小說家一生的努力，就在於他的小說獲得讀者廣大的迴響，而且被一代一代人流傳下去，不就是這樣嗎？」
我點頭微笑，作品能夠流傳開來，世代相傳，像《紅樓夢》或《源氏物語》那樣
，的確就是我最大的心願了。
當晚，我把隨身行李搬進這家名為「雅舍書屋」的舊書攤，我的書房在二樓後方，
推窗往外望，是一片幽靜的梅樹林。從此，我開始為期十年的書寫生涯，那本《幽禁之書》和嵐山老前輩，成為陪伴我的兩位師傅。
一年後，我的第一本奇幻小說：《天堂旅館》正式問世，一舉拿下ファンタジー‧ホラー新人賞。「嵐山清揚」這個筆名開始引起讀者興趣。
一年一個文學大賞，到了第十年，我幾乎拿遍了日本國內小說文學賞，直木賞、芥川賞、讀賣文學賞、谷崎潤一郎賞、推理作家協會賞…。「嵐山清揚」這個筆名不僅在日本國內家喻戶曉，而且知名度直追村上春樹。我的小說作品，每一部都被改編成電視劇和電影，只是，「嵐山清揚」本尊從未在鏡頭前曝光過，所以，沒人知道我就是這號紅透半邊天的人物。每回領賞和接受記者採訪，都是嵐山老前輩的孫子代表我出面，而我，一直是個神祕的「藏鏡人」。
這一年歲末，從台灣傳來一則令我心驚的噩耗，名電影電視編劇老K，被最高法院判處死刑定讞，罪名是連續殺人分屍。雖然心驚不已，但我仍遵守和嵐山老前輩的約定，沒有回去台灣探視老K。
當我交出第十本小說給老前輩時，老前輩遞給我一冊劇本改編小說，作者就是與我闊別十年的麻吉朋友老K。我瞄了一眼書名：《蝴蝶連續殺人疑案》，立即心知肚明，肯定是老K把自己當成故事主角，觸犯了那本人皮書的禁忌，以致給自己招來厄運。
“Rent-A-Girlfriend”
Nicknamed by colleagues as the “last virgin,” Cai Shinan is a quiet, frugal country boy from southern Taiwan. After working for twenty years in the tech industry, he’s risen to the position of assistant manager—but, because he lacks social grace and dislikes networking, he’s stayed put while many former peers and subordinates have moved ahead. Optimistic by nature, he doesn’t mind.
Colleagues know him well; “still single at home” wasn’t just a joke. He lives a blameless life—no scandals, no nightlife, and he sees everyone as gender‐neutral. Their attempt to set him up on dates was politely refused. But he’s certainly not gay: he simply lacks sexual or romantic interest in both women and men. He lives alone, perfectly content.
One day, he receives a call from his father: his mother has liver cancer and only has half a year to live. His father demands that Shinan, before she passes, must find a partner and get married—and visit her in their hometown in the south within a month, with a girlfriend in tow.
The news hits him hard. Ashamed, he doesn’t want anyone at work to know—he fears their mockery. Then he remembers the “rent-a-girlfriend” services advertised online. He finds a company, calls, and is told to come in person: “We have a full roster of options.”
Dressed casually and wearing sunglasses, Shinan goes to their showroom and inspects several “products,” finally choosing one. The saleswoman wheels out a long case, sets it on a desk, and says:
“Mr. Cai, you’ve got good taste. This ‘virtuous housewife’ model is our flagship. She can’t bear children, but aside from that, she fulfills every role you could want.”
“How’s rental priced?”
“Monthly or yearly?”
“Let’s start with a month,” Shinan says—he wants to try before committing longer.
“One month is NT$15,000. Not overpriced—you’re basically getting a housekeeper.”
“And if it malfunctions?”
“Our after‐sales service is top‐notch. But reliability is 100%; we’ve never had one returned for repair.”
“Wow!” Shinan thinks. “Worth every cent.”
“Guaranteed value. Now please move to the brainwave‐sync room. Once it’s activated, we’ll link her to your brainwave and program her functions.”
He follows the attendant into the brainwave room, lies on a bed as instructed. They unpack the case, gently lift a naked female humanoid “doll,” and place her on another bed. Then technicians attach sensors to his temples, connect wires to a port at the nape of the doll’s neck, initiate her activation, and start brainwave transmission. After about thirty minutes the setup is done. The saleswoman brings out a box of outfits and accessories, escorts the doll into a fitting room, and fifteen minutes later returns with a sleek, lightly mature-looking woman in a tailored skirt-suit. Shinan’s jaw drops.
“With such a modern appearance... I look so old next to her,” he hesitates.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Cai—she will redesign your look so you match.”
“Alright!” he’s quickly persuaded. They leave the room, he pays by credit card, and leads his “girlfriend” out.
He names her “Chen Yulian”—a girl from his elementary class who once made his heart flutter before emigrating to the U.S. Yulian links arms with him and they stroll down a stylish shopping arcade, looking like a couple—turning heads. They enter a men’s boutique; after thirty minutes, Shinan emerges transformed into a modern gentleman. Then Yulian leads him to a barbershop for a total makeover.
They return home to his spacious suburban villa, bags in hand. Yulian efficiently organizes everything, slips on an apron, and starts cooking dinner—instantly turning the house into a home. She handles chores with left‐right speed, and though Shinan remains emotionally reserved, she proactively hugs and snuggles him like a newlywed wife.
Monday morning, Shinan goes to work looking sharp. Colleagues immediately notice and ask if he’s dating someone; he smiles without answering, fueling gossip. That evening he calls HR to request leave and use up his vacation days—he must return south to see his mother.
He drives a brand-new luxury German sedan and brings Yulian to his hometown. His parents and sister are floored when they see him entering the house with a stylish young woman on his arm. At dinner, his sister peppers “future sister-in-law” with questions; Yulian replies graciously, spinning a touching “Harry Met Sally” anecdote. The family is delighted that Shinan seems to finally have a happy future ahead. The only skeptical one is the family pup, who shadows Yulian, sniffing curiously…
“Role‑Experience Potion”
Working in tech is envied by many, and as an R&D engineer, I bought a house and car quickly. But behind the handsome salary was endless exhaustion—body traded for money.
One weekend, my friend Xiao Qiu dragged me to church, where I met a priest and some believers. I was non‐religious—faith had always been “go straight to bed.” At the service, I sneered to God: “Unless you get me out of this misery, I won’t believe in you.”
That night, I dreamed of a winged angel—sent by God after hearing my complaint—bringing a mysterious chest of potions, each to let me experience different roles.
“After you try several roles, if you like one and decide to quit the rest, pour the remaining potions into the empty bottle—it becomes the antidote. And if you want to return to your original role, drink one sip.”
A few nights later I began. First I chose “Gifted Young Woman”. I drank it, lay back, silently wished, and slept. Next morning I woke in a room redecorated like a singer’s: pastel lace pajamas, concert posters, everything female. I heard my phone: “Xiaoyu, makeup artist is coming in an hour. Lunch meeting is important—Mr. Gu is our big sponsor. Control yourself, okay?”
“Who are you, and why do I have to go to lunch?” I muttered.
“I’m your manager, Xiao Qiu! Stop taking sedatives you bought yourself—it’s making you scatterbrained…” he nagged. I hung up.
That lunch meeting was worse than a nightmare. Mr. Gu, disgusting and gross, groped me and tried to grab my “headlights.” I pushed him away and left after feigning consideration—it took all my wits.
Back at the studio, I felt worse. Two takes later, I still couldn’t nail the song. After a month in the singer role—and the day before the album wasn’t even recorded—I sat by the vanity and realized I didn’t fit this role. I picked up the chest, selected the “Boss” potion, drank it, lay back and slept.
The next morning, I was woken by the butler. Maid A‑Tao primped me and after breakfast, my driver took me to a meeting with all department heads. Each manager presented PPT slides for ten minutes. After a long, grueling meeting with piles of paperwork, I realized:
“Being a big boss is inhuman,” I muttered. After hours, weekends, and endless schmoozing, I confronted my assistant: “Why must I spin like a top, with no time for myself?”
She replied softly: “Sir, because it’s your company.”
“Can I take a ten-day or half-month vacation?” I asked.
She hesitated: “That… might be hard, unless you entrust everything to Deputy Qiu…”
“Deputy Qiu…” I thought. “He’s not sharp enough. If I hand over the company, managers will run wild. No.”
Day in, day out—meetings, paperwork, schmoozing, overpriced spa visits. After two months I was burnt out; I decided to switch roles again. This time I chose “Travel Writer.”
As a travel writer for a magazine, it felt ideal. Inspired by Kawabata Yasunari’s Snow Country, with its novelist hero Shimamura visiting geisha in the snow country every winter, I’d longed for that life. I dressed in a coat, slacks, carried a digital camera and laptop, covering Kyoto, Nara, and Kamakura. Magazine assigned me a bilingual assistant—Xiao Qiu again, a lively Taiwanese-Japanese mix.
Working like honeymooners, I began to yearn for family life. This role trip made my final decision: no more big boss, no more life‑draining work. Life should be about freedom and happiness—not sold out for career or wealth.
"The Tumbler’s Collapse"
My Japanese friend Ōta Tokuichi, who lives in Kyoto, has been a close friend of mine for nearly thirty years. We met during my university years when he was my roommate. We often went to soak in the hot springs at Yangmingshan or Beitou together, becoming close buddies who “saw each other naked,” both literally and metaphorically.
Over the years, we stayed in touch. Whenever he came to Taiwan, I hosted him and took him all around the island. When I visited Japan, I usually made a point to drop by Kyoto to see him.
Ōta’s family lives on the lively Hanamikoji Street near Gion in Kyoto, one of the five famous flower districts. His family runs a traditional wagashi (Japanese sweets) shop.
This time, I was visiting Kanazawa City in Ishikawa Prefecture to meet with the mayor, the president of the Hokuriku Newspaper, and the TV station director to discuss a Taiwan-Japan co-production of a TV drama titled Taiwan’s Water Pioneer: Yoichi Hatta. After two days in Kanazawa and revisiting the Kenrokuen Garden in the outskirts, I took the high-speed rail to Kyoto as scheduled.
Ōta came to Kyoto Station to pick me up in person. The moment he saw me, he burst out laughing and said I looked even fatter. “Surely youre basking in the joy of good things happening!”
I responded with a sigh, “The project is only in preliminary talks. Nothing’s confirmed yet. You Japanese are so meticulous and rigid—it drives people crazy even if they’re usually patient!”
Ōta, who understands a fair amount of Taiwanese, caught the words gui-mao (overly picky) and ki-siao (going nuts). I used to tease him with gui-mao a lot, since his personality is the epitome of Japanese meticulousness—slow, cautious, and hesitant to make decisions until he’s thought everything through.
Ōta chuckled and offered, “Let’s do this. I’ll take you to Yasaka Shrine near my house. There’s a high monk there who’s said to worship a very spiritual Tumbler Daruma. You can ask him about your project and let him divine your fortune.”
“Sure,” I replied, “when in Rome. Besides, I could use the distraction.”
That evening, in Ōta’s study, he and his wife joined me for some sake and wagashi from their shop.
He asked, “Brother Fei, aren’t you eligible for retirement from your teaching post by now? I remember you saying two years ago you’d retire and enjoy life.”
I sighed deeply and said, “Plans can’t keep up with changes. Last year, the ruling party slashed the pension rates for civil servants and suddenly, on August 1, revoked many of our benefits. One of them was the education subsidy for our children. I have three kids in college. If I retire now, we’d lose that subsidy, and I’d have to fork out nearly 600,000 yen more per year for tuition.”
Ōta nodded, “Ah, I see. I had hoped we could travel the world together with our wives after your retirement. Looks like that’ll have to wait a few more years. But we’re both still healthy, so no problem waiting.”
The next morning, Ōta took me to the shrine to meet the high monk. The old monk, with white hair and beard, looked well over ninety, exuding an aura of calm and transcendence. Upon seeing me, he stared at me for a long time before Ōta explained my purpose in Japanese. The monk replied, and I caught a few words, including Natsume Sōseki.
Ōta translated solemnly, “The master says that in a previous life, you were the Japanese novelist Natsume Sōseki. Japan will be a land of fortune for your career.”
I frowned. “But I’ve run into a snag. Chairman Nakagawa, the one who promised to push this co-production, passed away two years ago. My key benefactor is gone.”
Ōta reassured me, “The master says he knows of your difficulties. If you sincerely make a wish to the Tumbler Daruma, the god of wishes will surely aid you.”
I followed the attendant monk’s instructions—pressed my palms together and bowed deeply before the Daruma. The high monk lit incense and began his chanting. Strangely, the normally immobile Daruma began to rock along with the chant. It rocked more and more—until it actually toppled over, landing on the altar table and continued to sway left and right. Everyone looked stunned, except for the monk.
I whispered to Ōta, “The tumbler collapsed? What’s going on?”
Ōta said, “I don’t know. I’ve never seen it fall before. Let’s wait—he should explain.”
Sure enough, the high monk turned to me and gently said, “The wish god has granted your prayer, but asks one promise in return: when this drama airs in Japan, you must publish this story as a novel here in Japan. Let the Japanese people know that once there was a Japanese official who loved the people and contributed greatly to Taiwan, leaving behind many lasting legacies.”
I roughly understood and bowed to thank him in Taiwan-accented Japanese.
The monk added, “Like Natsume Sōseki, you were once a teacher, upright and principled. In this life too, you follow a literary path. Sadly, your people don’t appreciate your accomplishments.”
His words touched something deep inside me.
Natsume Sōseki… Do you know how suffocated I feel living this life? That thought echoed in my heart like a sound reverberating through an empty valley.
"Borrowed Body, Returned Soul"
After our “civil marriage” ceremony, we had planned a honeymoon trip to Europe. But fate had other plans. The infamous water park dust explosion at Formosa Fun Coast occurred, and that night, our hospital admitted over thirty burn victims.
Though I wasn’t a dermatology specialist, the director assigned me to the burn ward to help with wound cleaning and skin grafts, all while continuing my surgical shifts. In that chaos, the honeymoon was canceled.
My wife, a fellow med school student two years my junior, had been with me since sophomore year. Every winter and summer break, we joined rural medical outreach programs—work that also let us travel a bit. Sensitive and literary, she reminded me of a cat. During college, she immersed herself in literature, taking electives in poetry and fiction. Her works often appeared in literary magazines. When upset with me, she’d mock me in her poems or stories.
She chose psychiatry as her specialty. When she asked my opinion, I simply said, “Not surprised.”
That night after the explosion, she rushed to the ER straight after work. Seeing me running around, she put on her doctor’s coat and joined me. One young girl, over 90% burned and suffering severe inhalation injury, went into cardiac arrest. I tried everything I could, but failed. My wife gently closed the child’s eyes and sat nearby, quietly weeping.
We worked through the next night until we were both delirious. Dr. Shao told us to rest for half a day and come back at 2 p.m. When we got home, flowers from our wedding well-wishers still lined the hall. She showered first, then I did. By the time I came out, she was fast asleep, even snoring softly. A glass of water sat half-drunk on the dresser. I knew she took sleeping pills occasionally when under stress, so I wasn’t concerned.
I collapsed into bed.
Near noon the next day, I was woken by sobbing. I found my wife in the living room, crying while talking on the phone. She turned her face away when she saw me, but I caught a glimpse of her tear-streaked cheeks.
“What’s wrong, kitty?” I asked softly—kitty was my pet name for her.
She ignored me and kept talking. “Mom, Dad, I’m temporarily borrowing an older sister’s body. I miss you so much... I shouldn’t have gone to that water park...”
What the—?! I was utterly confused.
“Kitty, what’s going on?” I reached to touch her forehead, but she slapped my hand away.
“Doctor, keep your hands to yourself!” she barked, glaring at me.
Shocked, I stammered, “I… I’m your husband, remember? Bunny? Don’t mess with me!”
“I don’t even have a boyfriend. Husband? Who are you? Why were you in bed with me last night? Did you do anything to me? Pervert! Get away from me!” Her accusations came with absolute seriousness.
I backed off as she demanded. When she hung up, she said she needed a ride to the hospital morgue—she had arranged to meet her parents there.
Stunned, I could only nod.
From the bedroom, she yelled, “Doctor perv! Doesn’t your wife have any decent clothes? Just these frumpy auntie dresses? Can’t you help her dress a little better?”
“Pick whatever you like, and stop complaining,” I muttered, wondering if this was some sort of soul possession. If so, where was my wife’s soul? If she stayed like this, how would I explain to our colleagues and families?
I drove her to the hospital. At the morgue, a couple and a young boy were waiting.
She walked up, tearfully hugged them. I stood aside like a block of wood. She asked the morgue attendant to open a drawer. The family surrounded the body of a girl and said their final goodbyes.
The attendant glanced at me curiously. After they left, he asked, “Dr. Chen, was that your relative?”
I cleared my throat and replied, “Uh, my wife’s… cousin. Yeah, cousin.”
“Sorry for your loss,” he said.
I rushed out and caught up with “my wife” and her “family.”
Outside the hospital, after watching them leave, she turned and smiled brightly at me. “Bunny, let’s go have lunch. I want some beef soup. You should have a big bowl too—recharge your energy.”
“Kitty, are you back?” I asked, overjoyed.
She playfully scolded me, “Silly! I never left you.”
“But earlier you were—”
“Oh, that,” she said calmly. “Little Ling borrowed my body last night. She asked for seven days to finish something. Helping others brings joy, so I said yes.”
Seeing her radiant face, I didn’t know what to say. Thank goodness it’s only seven days. I can manage that.
“After lunch, I’ll buy a box of chicken essence for you. Take one bottle every three hours at work, okay?” she said, her usual tenderness fully returned.
“The Parasitic Ghost”
“You were unconscious for seven days straight—how pitiful!” the woman sitting by my bed, claiming to be my mother, said tearfully. Yet the cost was steep: twenty years of my memories had vanished as if erased by a devil’s eraser.
My sister took me to the garden plaza to bask in the sun. It was the first time I felt such warmth from the afternoon sun. Stroke survivors shuffled by—some with canes, some in wheelchairs, others supported by nurses or family—moving slowly, like astronauts on the moon. A wheelchair wheeled past me slowly, and suddenly, a sharp pain ripped through my legs as if crushed. I saw it rolling over my shadow on the ground, directly on my calves. Instinctively I pushed it away. The nurse pushing looked startled; my sister, confused by my impulsive reaction. Moments later, a cane stabbed into my shadow’s head; my temples, wrapped in gauze, felt the pain as though a wooden stick had struck me. I jumped back again, my sister bewildered. She moved toward me; I pointed at my shadow and said, “Walk around me—don’t step on my shadow.”
She cautiously avoided it. “Brother, what’s wrong with you?” she asked.
“I don’t know! If someone steps on or runs over me, I feel the pain in the same spot,” I replied, near to talking to myself.
“Could it be delusional?” she asked incredulously.
We returned to the ward to rest. My sister’s shadow fell across my chest and abdomen as we walked. Back in the room, I recounted the incident while my sister vouched for me. Our mother called the on-duty doctor, who suggested a psychiatric consult.
That evening, a young psychiatrist—a poised woman under thirty—came in. After staring at me for several seconds, she said, “We’ll write back and forth.” She asked my mother and sister to leave and began her assessment. Writing on a clipboard, she told me: “You are possessed by a female ghost—and I can see her. I don’t want her to overhear us, so we must communicate by writing.” I nodded.
She erased and wrote again: “She seems not to harm you. She’s attached to you because she wants your help. Tonight when you sleep, she may come to your dreams. Don’t be afraid; talk with her sincerely and ask what she wants.”
I wrote back: “Okay, I’ll face her and communicate.”
She erased and wrote: “Tomorrow morning, please write down what you and she discussed.” I nodded, anxious about her clairvoyant abilities and puzzled why she didn’t just exorcise the ghost.
Noticing my silence, she said: “Please don’t doubt my professional skills.” I smiled awkwardly.
After she left, my mother and sister asked questions I silently waved off.
That night, my sister slept on the small bed near the window. I drifted into the dream state. A delicate college girl stepped out of my body while I was browsing soccer match streams. She sat cross-legged beside me and said, “Doctor, you’re awake. For seven nights, I’ve guarded you from the soul-harvesting ghost.”
Startled, I replied, “Thank you for protecting me.”
She said sadly, “What happened to me happened to you too.”
I asked, “What do you mean?”
She explained: “Eight nights ago, late at night, I crossed the road near the school gate when a black sedan ran a red light. It hit me first, then hit you on a bicycle, and fled. My soul left my body, hovering; my body was torn, and you collapsed on the sidewalk.”
I inquired, “Then what?”
She continued: “A soul-harvester with a scythe came to take your soul. I jumped on you to resist until an ambulance arrived. Only then did the spirit give up—and vowed to return for you.”
“So you’ve been attached to me these past seven days to protect me?”
“Yes. According to hospital ghosts, if you survive seven days, you return to life. So I stayed.”
“But why pain from my shadow?”
“In daylight, your living body generates yang energy that negates my yin energy, so I can only cling to your shadow. Thus, when someone steps on it, you feel the pain.”
I asked, “How do you want me to help?”
She replied with anger, “Help me find the owner of the black sedan that killed me—and exact vengeance.”
I responded, “Okay—Ill ask the police to check traffic cams.”
She smiled, “Ghosts can’t enter the station, but you can.”
The next morning, the psychiatrist came back. I explained my vision and our conversation. She warned me by writing: “Don’t fully trust the ghost. Though she means no harm, she might manipulate you to find her killer—and that blood debt will weigh on you.”
I replied: “She protected me—aren’t I indebted to her? She died unjustly; seeking her killer is reasonable!”
The doctor countered: “If she lied and simply wants to manipulate you, revenge only perpetuates the cycle. Don’t become a tool for a ghosts vengeance.”
My mind spun with fear and doubt. Would I be manipulated? Would she abandon me if I refused? “I’ll ask more tonight.”
That night, I stayed awake. My mother joined me the first half, my sister the second, to watch World Cup replays. Initially skeptical, they relented. Over midnight, I roused them to keep me company. By 3 AM, they chatted about my childhood until dawn broke.
After breakfast, my sister wiped tears from her eyes in the mirror—and I saw the ghost’s enraged face reflected behind her.
When the psychiatrist returned, I showed her the mirror. She smiled, “I can see her too. The mirror trapped her in a reflective prison—she can no longer torment you. How did you do it?”
I proudly said, “I stayed awake all night. My mother and sister watched soccer and recounted my life story until sunrise, then I saw her in the mirror.”
My sister asked in astonishment, “Why can’t I see her?”
The doctor replied, “Ghosts aren’t for curious eyes—this mirror must go with me. Afterward, your brother can recover and live peacefully.”
"The Book of Confinement"
My friend Old K has always been a struggling, underappreciated screenwriter – overworked and unlucky. After analyzing his situation, I pinpointed a few reasons:
He’s been exploited by unscrupulous producers and directors for free labor.
He ghosts for big-name writers, their names get the credit while he gets the leftovers.
He accepts every job and always delivers, but his compensation never matches the effort.
Despite recognizing all this, Old K stubbornly believes his luck just hasn’t turned and that he just hasn’t found someone to recognize his talent.
Fortunately, Old K and I aren’t in the same field. I write popular fiction, mainly read by daydreaming students. I often use tropes like chance encounters or coincidences and craft intriguing hooks—but I don’t go over the top with melodrama like some writers. Old K always sneers at my work, dismissing it as “leftover stock from failed factory stalls in a night market, not fit for the screen.” Yet the harsh reality is that publishers vie to sign me each year. My advances and royalties are enough for me to travel abroad for a week every season, and my life is quite comfortable.
Travel is my way to recharge and find fresh ideas. This summer, while wandering old streets in Kyoto, I impulsively stepped into a used bookstore. The owner, an elderly man with a full head of silver hair but lively spirit, greeted me warmly:
“Young man, this place is a treasure trove—you won’t be disappointed if you’re earnest.”
Old man, I’m looking for detective master Seicho Matsumoto’s debut work, The Saigo Banknote, in a short story collection. I read online that it won the Naoki Prize in 1950.
The old man studied me for a good fifteen seconds with his keen eyes, then laughed and asked, “You like mystery novels?”
I nodded. “I’m looking to pivot into mystery and fantasy writing.”
“When did you begin writing novels? What genre do you write now?”
Blushing, I stammered: “I wrote my first piece at eighteen, my first bestseller at twenty-five—but they’re all trendy campus, young professional, workplace romance novels.”
“So that’s popular fiction. How old are you now?”
“Thirty-five.” I scratched my forehead sheepishly.
“Did you know? Matsumoto started writing Saigo Banknote at forty-one—and then instantly made his mark. That you’re thinking of pivoting at thirty-five shows you’ve got real potential.” His encouragement struck a chord.
“But I lack his talent or awards—I grew up in Taiwan, on a culturally shallow island.”
He replied mysteriously, “Then I’ll give you a chance to transform yourself. Come to my study.”
Curious, I followed him upstairs into his study, lined with old books, with a grand chair in the corner by the window. He pulled two ancient volumes from the shelf: bound in leather, titled The Book of Fate and The Book of Confinement, and handed them to me.
“Guess what leather covers these books?”
I rubbed the surface: “It feels like deer or lambskin.”
He shook his finger: “Close, but wrong. The covers are made of human skin.”
My scalp tingled even though I tried to stay composed. “Human skin? There must be a story.”
He nodded: “They came from a couple who killed themselves together; the lord had the skin from their chest and back flayed and used.”
“General Saigo Takamori—I’ve heard of him? Satsuma leader in late Tokugawa, one of the Meiji Restoration Trio. Is the story of the Saigo banknote related?”
He smiled, patted my shoulder: “Sharp. You know Japanese modern history. Saigo banknotes were emergency military scrip issued by his Satsuma forces.”
“I confess—during college I studied modern Japanese history and read a Chinese translation of Matsumoto’s Saigo Banknote.”
Back to the point: you can have these two books—but only one.
“Why only one?”
He said gravely: “Both are cursed with binding spells—if you use or own both simultaneously, you invite fatal trouble.”
“Can I gift one to my friend?”
“Yes—but you must mail it. No meeting or sharing, or you risk a secret swap. So which do you choose?”
I asked, “May I know their difference first?”
“No. Once you choose, I’ll tell you what to do next.”
“Do I have to decide right now?”
He said firmly: “Yes—go with your gut.”
“Okay—I choose The Book of Confinement. What next?”
“Mail the Book of Fate away, and stay here with me for ten years.”
“Ten years?” I felt trapped.
“Yes. Over the ten years, write one novel per year—each must be reviewed and approved by me before publication.”
“What if you dont like them, or I can’t finish ten?”
“At the end, I’ll retire and leave this bookstore to you. Over the ten years, write ten and I’ll help you plan, enter competitions, and publish.”
“Alright,” I thought—my career in Taiwan had stalled. Then I asked, “Can I open The Book of Confinement?”
He grinned mysteriously: “Of course—but the pages are completely blank.”
“Blank? How do I start?”
“This book will resonate with you—once you begin writing inside, it’ll guide you.”
“A magical book with a soul?” I asked.
“Yes—the soul of the woman from the star-crossed lovers,” he said. “For ten years, you must stay in Japan. After each novel, you can take two weeks off to travel—but you cannot return to Taiwan, nor contact the friend who received the other book. Even hearing about him—don’t. It’s our pact. I want you undistracted, focused on finishing ten books.”
“May I ask one more question?”
“You may ask two final questions,” he said kindly.
“Are there any taboos using this book?”
“Yes—two that I know. First, don’t write your own experiences or name yourself as the protagonist.”
“Why?”
He suddenly grew stern: “You’ll pay a price. Don’t doubt it!” He sat, rolled up his left pant leg, and showed a missing calf. “In my last novel I made myself a horseman hero. In the final race he fell, and his horse crushed his left calf. Sure enough, not long after, I was hit by an RV. It broke my left calf, and they had to amputate it in the hospital.”
A cold chill ran down my spine—this book was truly uncanny.
“I want to ask two last things. With my limited Japanese, can I write novels you’ll like? Also, can I publish under my pen name?”
He nodded: “That’s one question. The book will gradually expand your Japanese with practice. And I’ll pick a fitting pen name for your books—but only I will ever know you are the real author.”
I thought: If readers don’t know it’s me, how will I gain recognition?
He smiled knowingly: “A novelist’s life is measured by how far their work travels—if it’s passed through generations, like Dream of the Red Chamber or The Tale of Genji. Isn’t that the dream?”
I nodded, smiling. Yes, enduring literary legacy was my true desire.
That night, I moved my bag into his shop, named Yashe Book Room. My writing room was upstairs, overlooking a serene plum grove. Thus began my ten-year writing journey, guided by The Book of Confinement and Master Arashiyama.
One year later, my first fantasy novel, Paradise Hotel, won the New Fantasy/Horror Prize. My pen name "Arashiyama Seiyo" caught readers’ attention. Each year I won a major literary award; by year ten, I had swept Japan’s biggest ones: Naoki, Akutagawa, Yomiuri, Tanizaki, Mystery Writers Association awards… "Arashiyama Seiyo" became as known as Haruki Murakami. Each novel was adapted into dramas and films—but Seiyo himself never appeared publicly. His grandfather always accepted awards and interviews. I remained the mysterious “shadow author.”
At year’s end, I received horrifying news from Taiwan: Old K, my long-time buddy and screenwriter, was convicted by the Supreme Court and sentenced to death for serial murders and dismemberment. I was stunned—but kept my promise and did not return to Taiwan to see him.
When I handed Seiyo my tenth novel, Master Arashiyama gave me a screenplay novel by none other than Old K—titled The Butterfly Serial Murder Case. I glimpsed the title and immediately understood: Old K must have turned himself into his own story, breaking the taboo of the human-skin book—and invited his own downfall.
