Tokyo Exorcism Diary

Thinking back, it probably all started seven years ago, when Dad died in a car accident and Mom remarried—this time to the man I now call “Father.”

Unlike Dad, who was just an ordinary office worker, Father was a successful businessman, the president of his own company. But like Dad, he was also one of Mom’s college classmates.

Back in their university days, both men had fallen for Mom—unsurprising, considering how beautiful she was. In the end, she chose Dad. They married right after graduation and soon had me.

Dad was gentle, full of love for both Mom and me. We weren’t rich, but I had the best childhood any kid could hope for—filled with warmth, laughter, and everything my parents could give me.

But that life, the one I thought would last forever, ended abruptly when I was seven. It was an ordinary evening when the terrible news arrived: Dad had been drinking heavily at a work function, ran a red light on his way home, and was hit by a car.

I can’t even remember how I felt when I heard the news. All I recall is Mom collapsing in her apron, unconscious from the shock, while I knelt beside her, crying my heart out.

After that, an “uncle” started visiting frequently. He took Mom to the hospital when she was unwell, bought me little gifts, and even helped support us financially after Dad’s death.

Eventually, Mom married him, and he became my new Father.

Father treated us well—at least materially. In fact, he was even more generous than Dad had been. When I wanted a Barbie doll, Dad would give me one for my birthday, but Father bought me an entire set without a second thought. Clothes that Mom had once hesitated to buy because they were too expensive? Father filled her wardrobe with even fancier ones.

Sometimes I wished Dad could come back, but there were moments when I thought this life wasn’t so bad. One quiet night, I even hugged Dad’s photo and whispered to him that he didn’t need to worry about us—someone else was here to protect Mom and me now.

But as time passed, even that fragile happiness began to change.

People around us started whispering. They called me an outsider, a leech living off someone else’s money. They called Mom shameless, a woman who married another man right after her husband died, just to get her hands on his fortune.

Those words hurt. I told Mom, hoping she’d comfort me, but she only cried in silence. After a while, I stopped bringing it up.

But the whispers grew louder, spreading to my classmates, the household staff, even Father’s parents. Every visit to their home was met with cold stares and indifference. And yet, Mom would always smile politely, pretending not to notice.

Father changed too. On the surface, he was still generous, still spent money on us, but his warmth faded. One night, after drinking heavily, Mom gently suggested, “Maybe you should cut back on the alcohol.” Father’s response was a sudden slap across her face.

He apologized later, buying her an expensive necklace to make up for it. But from that day on, Mom never spoke to him the way she had with Dad. She stopped voicing her thoughts entirely, agreeing with whatever he said, no matter what.

Over time, even as a child, I could tell: the woman who looked like my mother was gone, replaced by someone who existed only as Father’s shadow.

Then something strange happened. Father took us to a party. A little boy there became obsessed with me, following me everywhere, saying I was cute, that I smelled nice, begging for a kiss. Annoyed, I jokingly said, “I’ll let you if you convince your dad to do business with mine.”

I never expected him to actually try. But he did. I don’t know what he said, but somehow, their business deal went through. The adults laughed, clinking glasses, while the boy ran back to me, grinning like an idiot.

Terrified, I bolted for the bathroom, but he chased after me, cornering me with a goofy smile. I cried, regretting my words, wishing he would just fall asleep right there and dream whatever he wanted, thinking it was real when he woke up.

And then… he did. The moment I had that thought, something cold flashed through my mind, like a beam of light shooting from my eyes. The boy collapsed, fast asleep on the floor. When he woke up minutes later, he just smiled sheepishly and ran off.

That was the first time I realized I was different.

Father was ecstatic when we got home, showering me with praise and pretty dresses. Mom seemed genuinely happy, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like we were a family again.

But that didn’t last. Nothing really changed—except Father kept getting richer.

After that, he often took me to parties, dressing me up like a prized doll to charm his business associates. If my smile wasn’t enough, I’d use my “special” ability to ensure things went smoothly.

Father grew wealthier. Mom’s smiles became more frequent.

And so it continued, until now.

Deep down, I’ve always known our family is broken. No, maybe it was never a family to begin with. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had one wish: to have a real home, with real family—like I did when it was just Mom, Dad, and me.