Chapter II
Emha
Emha
Emha hesitated before placing Shunji, the tiny bat she had found, into the cage beside her bed, her slender dragon tail flicking uneasily behind her. It wasn't a decision she made lightly. The tea house had a mind of its own, and though she was slowly learning to care for it, she wasn't entirely sure how it would react to the presence of such a delicate creature. Until she knew more, she couldn't take any risks.
Judging by its size and the shadow spirit haunting it, the house had reached its full growth potential. And had been deteriorating since. The spirit itself was rarely seen whole. Somewhere deep within the house lay its core, a room whose door opened onto nothing but black matter. Everywhere else, it showed itself only in glimpses—dark matter pooling beneath the floorboards, seeping through cracks in the walls, flowing quietly through the house like blood through a body. Touching it was harmless. Living alongside it was another matter, which was why sigils were carved into every haunted house—to control whatever abilities the house had inherited from its spirit.
Haunted houses like this could grow on their own, but the overwhelming clutter, broken furniture, and strange trinkets hinted that this one had once been lived in. The walls were lined with faded ofuda seals, their meaning unclear—the house inspection had deemed them to be useless—but all suggesting that the house had belonged to someone long ago.
Before coming here, Emha had been a proud member of the House Hunting Society—a prestigious group that sought out and bound haunted houses for the highest bidder. It was an exhilarating job, one she'd landed straight after graduating from the Shadow Academy, where she had studied sigil carving and binding—sigiling, as everyone called it. Her internship paid little at first, but she relished the thrill of tracking down these savage houses, deciphering their quirks, and crafting the perfect sigil to tame them.
As her skills grew, so did her reputation. She began taking on private commissions, and her sigils developed a distinct mark—one that only she could create. For a long time, she never questioned her work. It was respected, exciting. Binding haunted houses to their owners was simply how things were done. Unbound houses were a danger to those who lived in them. Why would she ever think otherwise?
But over time, Emha's mindset shifted. Her work had carried her through hundreds of houses, and slowly, a pattern emerged. The houses that were hardest to spot—the ones whose shadow spirits buried themselves so deep that even trained eyes could miss them—were almost always houses that had been neglected or mistreated by their former owners. The cherished houses were different. Their spirits didn't hide at all. They came forward to greet visitors, open and curious, as if they had nothing to fear.
It was a question she couldn't unask once she had asked it: if binding was truly for everyone's safety, why would a house ever need to hide? And what, exactly, were they hiding from—if not from people like her?
It wasn't about safety or convenience. It was about power—cruelty disguised as practicality.
And yet, she hesitated to trust that thought. If it were true, wouldn't someone else have seen it? Wouldn't the world reflect it back to her? But no one around her seemed to question the system, and the Society carried on as it always had. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she was imagining things.
Still, the doubt lingered, unshaken.
A series of events she rarely spoke of—events involving the very Society she had once been proud to serve—ultimately drove her to leave. What followed were uncertain months, drifting without direction or purpose. For the first time in her life, she didn't know what she wanted.
Her gaze drifted back to the cage beside her. She reached in and gently tugged at one of Shunji's wings, curiously examining the thin veins running through it. The texture of the delicate membrane was rather pleasing, she found. How far away those drifting months felt now, sitting here in a house full of strange little creatures.
But Emha was stubborn, headstrong. She refused to be pushed into work she no longer believed in. And then, in what some might call a moment of madness, she spent nearly all her savings to purchase this house—bought directly from the Society itself, and cheap, at that. The assessment had ruled it barely worth maintaining.
Only a madwoman would want this house. Yes, it was haunted by a shadow spirit, but an utterly useless one—old, sluggish, and devoid of any remarkable traits. Inspections had revealed nothing anyone desired: the spirit could warm its own rooms, coax a fire in the kiln, and lift small, light things—a book, a flower—with the dark tendril that unrolled from its core. Shadow spirits, it turned out, could be weak and unremarkable, just like anyone else. The rooms were so cluttered with junk and forgotten belongings that reaching the third floor was nearly impossible. And then there were the doors—far too many of them, arranged in ways that defied logic. A hazard, some had called it.
There had been one line in the assessment file, though, that Emha had read twice. Long ago, the house had plucked every flower growing around it and placed them, one by one, on its own rooftop. The inspectors had recorded it as a meaningless quirk.
Emha wasn't so sure.
But in her mind, the house was perfect—a controlled environment for a series of tests. Of course, she didn't want anyone to find out. The last thing she needed was to be laughed at if things didn't work out. Besides, living in an unbound house was illegal.
Well, technically, she wasn't planning to relinquish all control. Not yet, anyway.
She had made her choice.
What was the worst that could happen? The house could consume her? Emha smiled at the thought. Unbound houses were known to shift in size, to lock their doors against the people inside, to turn cold as a grave or hot as a kiln—and, worst of all, to grow new qualities without warning. Maybe she was crazy. Maybe she was reckless. Or maybe, just maybe, her lack of fear was her greatest gift. If she wasn't afraid of it, wasn't that reason enough to pursue it?
She still remembered signing the paperwork, chuckling softly at the absurdity of it all, sharp fangs peeking from her grin. "I guess you're mine now," she had murmured. Then, after a beat, she corrected herself, choosing her words carefully.
"Well… not mine. But you aren't alone anymore."
She flexed her fingers, watching the sigil marks on her hands glow faintly in the dim light. The design resembled delicate flames, winding and curling along her skin like living embers. When the house was awake, these marks shone a vivid red, reflecting the spirit's energy. But when she commanded it to sleep, the flames would dim to deep black, signaling its restful state.
On the day of the purchase, every sigil on the walls had been examined and replaced, each of the house's qualities mirrored onto her skin—the kiln fire, the warmth, the tendril. All of them answered to her now. Or nearly all. Quietly, without telling a soul, she had loosened her grip on one.
These sigils allowed her to communicate with the spirit—to sense its needs, to guide it, to soothe it. They let her feel the house's presence before the magic activated to sedate it. And yet, a faint unease stirred in her chest.
She had spent weeks chipping away at the mountains of clutter filling its rooms, slowly restoring order to the chaos. It had not gone smoothly. Each morning she hauled armfuls of junk out to the yard, and each evening she found some of it back inside—books stacked neatly where she had just cleared them, trinkets returned to their shelves as if they had never left. She caught it in the act only once: a long, dark tendril unrolling from somewhere deep in the house, dragging a book gently back through a doorway before melting into the shadows under the floor.
She could have tightened the sigil then. Any member of the Society would have.
Instead, she made an offer. If the house let go of the old junk, she would give it something new to keep—flowers, to start with. She remembered the rooftop from the file. When she finally climbed up to see it, she found the tiles cracked and lifted where a few stubborn blooms had taken root and refused to die. So the roof became her first repair: she rebuilt it as a living roof, one where things could actually grow.
The house had not returned a single book since.
But as she worked, she began to notice a change. Something shifted, subtle at first. With every repair, every cleared space, the energy in the house felt lighter.
Now, as she sat beside Shunji's cage, a question lingered at the edge of her mind.
"Am I making a mistake?"
Her gaze drifted to the small patch of obscuritea plants just outside the window. The black, fluffy-headed blooms swayed lightly in the breeze, their dark leaves melting into the surrounding shadows. Beyond them, just visible, the edge of the rooftop hung heavy with flowers. Soon after moving in, Emha had begun tending to the obscuritea, carefully cultivating the plants for their dual purpose: brewing tea and crafting her special ink.
Tea had always been a comfort to her, its scent woven into childhood memories. And from what she had gathered, the house had once been a teahouse—at least, that was what the scattered teapots and cups suggested. It was one of the first connections she had felt to this place, a quiet thread linking her to its past.
But no clear records remained. They had been lost in a fire, erased from history.
A mystery.
Emha was thrilled.
Shunji stirred in his sleep, drawing Emha's gaze back to the tiny bat nestled in his cage. His wings twitched as he dreamed, and she couldn't help but smile faintly. Like much of what shrouded the tea house, Shunji was a mystery as well. The little stowaway from the cherry crate—an odd surprise, even for her. Unsure what else to do, she had taken him in, and now he was just one of several peculiar beings under her care.
After careful observation, she had come to realize that one day, he would transform—revealing his true vampire manifester form. A frugivore vampire, she noted.
Manifesters were born in their animal shapes, growing over time into their anthropic manifester form. Vampires were no exception. However, they existed in two distinct types: frugivores, who thrived on fruit, and sanguivores, who required blood. Only dragon manifesters were different. Unlike all others, they never began as animals. From birth, they emerged in their full anthropic manifester form.
Emha's features told a story of their own. Two small, dragon-like wings sprouted from the sides of her head, folding delicately against her pale greenish skin, and darker patches mottled her arms and shoulders. Her deep, dark eyes held the intensity typical of her kind, and two dainty horns curved from her forehead, their shape distinct to her ancestral bloodline—the mark of a dragon manifester.
Head wing accessories
Her room reflected it as well—a quiet, personal space filled with objects that spoke of her heritage.
A jade-framed mirror, intricately carved with dragons, hung on the wall, its surface slightly aged but well cared for. On her table sat dragon-wing ornaments and tail bracelets, small embellishments from her homeland. Beside them was a bowl of green and red jade marbles, naturally etched with tiny faces—a common stone found in her native region.
The windowsill held a collection of delicate dragon figurines, each uniquely crafted, their presence oddly comforting. Some were old and weathered, while others had been carefully restored.
Nearby, stacks of books and scattered notes spoke of her habits and studies. Titles ranged from A Diet That Will Make Your Scales Shine to Shadow Spirits: Classifications and What the Government is Trying to Hide. A few well-worn decks of divination cards rested on top, their edges softened from years of use.
Among them, her newest notebook lay open, filled with observations of the house—small sketches of odd sigils, notes on its strange quirks, and theories on its lingering magic. Squeezed into one corner, a to-do list:
Renew portal subscription. Buy cute ink jar. Brush Coalby. Start decluttering the top floor.
On the latest page, underlined twice, were the words shadow vine—the name she had given the dark tendril, because "tongue" felt too strange and "tentacle" too unkind.
Just as her eyes began to close, a voice, small but insistent, echoed in the stillness.
"Is it time to sleep already? But I wanted to open more doors today!"
Emha's eyes flickered open as the key at her throat flapped its tiny bat wings, its dragon head tilting expectantly.
SIGIL SKETCHES FROM EMHA’S NOTEBOOK
Sigils designed to protect the house in the owner's absence, wrapping it in a barrier of spiky vines to ward off intruders.
Wood carving sigils
Final design Emha's hands and the sigils
AUTHOR’S NOTES
When creating Emha’s character, I drew inspiration from Enma Ai of Jigoku Shoujo (Hell Girl), particularly her mysterious, dark aesthetic. Like Enma Ai, Emha has a quiet, enigmatic presence, shrouded in an air of mystery that reflects her deep connection to the supernatural. The dark, haunting beauty of Enma Ai served as a foundation for Emha’s visual design—her black ink tattoos, her solemn demeanor, and her connection to mischievous spirits.
However, Emha’s world takes this aesthetic in a different direction. While Enma Ai’s role is tied to vengeance and punishment, Emha is a caretaker of her tea house, a living entity with portals to other realms. The tea house itself reflects Emha’s inner journey—a blend of curiosity, adventure, and her struggle to respect the spirit within the house without trying to control it. Much like the shifting doors and portals in the tea house, Emha’s path is full of unknowns, and she navigates these mysterious spaces with both wonder and caution.
