The deeper they went, the more the world felt peeled back, like skin stripped from something once living. Time didn't just pass here—it pressed, thick and heavy, settling into every crack and joint of the village. The cobbled road narrowed, the stones underfoot growing uneven, slick with moss and disuse. The homes they passed leaned at odd angles, their wood splintered and bleached, window shutters hanging like broken eyelids.
Ren walked in silence, his blade sheathed at his back. The further they walked, the quieter the world became—until even the wind sounded muffled, as though the air itself didn't want to speak too loud.
They came to a small house at the end of a narrow lane, recessed into the base of the hillside like it had tried to bury itself over time. The beams of the house were bowed, the roof sagging under the weight of decades. Ivy and black moss had overtaken half the exterior, clinging to the frame like it was trying to choke the life from what remained.
Andre came to a halt at the warped gate, squinting at the house like it owed him money. He tipped his head slightly, sizing it up.
"Well hell," he muttered, slow and deliberate. "If this ain't the crustiest haunted-ass shack I've seen in a minute."
He stepped forward, hands resting on his belt. "If we're right, and this is where our ghost gal's hangin' her hat—y'all better buckle up."
Celia gave him a disbelieving look. "Seriously? How are you cracking jokes right now?"
Ren blinked, like he was just now registering them. His eyes were fixed on the curling ivy, the way it strangled the beams like hands around a throat. "Can this lady really be the ubume from that story? But why would such a folklore connect to whats happening today? I don't get it," he thought, the chill crawling up his spine. His eyes were fixed on the curling ivy, the way it strangled the beams like hands around a throat. "Hah. Yeah. He is."
Then, almost absently: "...I feel like there's something…...watching."
Andre snorted. "If he starts speakin' tongues or floatin', I'm out. Y'all can FaceTime me from the afterlife."
He stepped forward and laid a broad hand on the gate. The wood creaked, then gave a deep crack—one of the hinges snapped off completely, dropping into the dirt with a dull thud.
The wind responded instantly—sharper now, almost intelligent. It slipped through the eaves of the old house with a low whine, rattling loose tiles like bones in a bag.
The entire structure seemed to exhale.
Andre squinted. "Huh. That's not ominous or anything."
The sliding door groaned as he shoved it open against its warped frame. The sound stretched long—metal dragging against wood, old lungs inflating for the first time in decades. As the threshold opened, a slow gust pushed outward like breath, and dust rolled toward them in lazy spirals, stirred by their presence. It felt less like a welcome and more like a warning.
Inside, the darkness hung thick, like the house had swallowed light itself.
No movement. No sound. Just the wind, whispering through the broken slats behind them, trying to follow.
Andre clicked on his flashlight with a sharp snap. A cold cone of light cut through the murk, revealing warped wooden floorboards and crumbling tatami mats bloated from moisture. "Lights on, kids. If somethin' moves and it ain't one of us, I'd like to see it before it chews my leg off."
Celia sighed behind him, pulling her hoodie tighter and clicking on her own beam. "I hate this place."
The house had once been a home—maybe even a proud one. A two-room farmhouse with sliding paper doors, now sagging inward like a chest caved from grief. Tatami mats had curled at the edges from years of damp. Old family photos lay scattered on the floor, their frames splintered, the faces inside water-damaged and ghostly pale. A child's toy—something wooden and hand-carved—was half-buried in dirt beside a shattered teacup.
In the corner, a low table sat surrounded by cushions now blackened with mold. Dried rice still clung to the edges of a cracked lacquer bowl on its side, long forgotten mid-meal. A scroll on the far wall, meant to bring blessings to the home, hung askew, the calligraphy barely legible beneath grime. One of the doors leading deeper into the house had collapsed inward completely.
The smell was a bitter blend of mildew, old wood, and something faintly metallic.
Ren moved slowly, light sweeping across the far corners. His breath came in short, visible puffs. "It's like they just... left," he muttered. "Like someone hit pause."
Andre didn't turn. "Or fast-forwarded to rot."
They fanned out instinctively—Andre checking the back hall, Celia slipping through a narrow side room, and Ren moving deeper toward what looked like a kitchen area. The wood under his feet creaked, threatening to give with each step. His flashlight flickered across shelves still holding ancient seasoning jars and a dusty kettle resting atop a rusted stove.
There was a calendar on the wall—yellowed and torn, stuck on a month from eight years ago.
Something about the silence wasn't just quiet. It was held. Like a breath clenched in the chest of the house, waiting for the right moment to release.
Ren's light passed over a doorway that had been half-blocked by a fallen beam. Behind it, he could see part of a room—the edge of a futon, a red fabric hanging from the ceiling like a wind chime string, unmoving.
He leaned forward.
"Guys," he called, voice hushed. "I think there's another room back here. Might've been the kid's."
From the other side of the house, Andre's voice came steady. "Don't go pokin' too deep without us, Ren. Spooky dead kid rooms ain't good solo missions."
Celia's voice crackled through the dust. "I second that. I've seen this movie. You're the first one that gets possessed."
Ren didn't respond. He just stared into the darkness beyond the collapsed threshold.
The narrow beam of his flashlight trembled in his grip as he crept forward. It danced across dust-coated tatami and the faded folds of a moth-eaten futon, finally settling on a small mobile overhead—cracked wooden cranes dangling on rusted wires, frozen in mid-flight.
Ren's light swept the room, picking out scattered traces of the children who once lived here. A shattered baby bottle lay on its side, a faded blanket bunched in a corner, and the remains of a tiny crib whose slats had been gnawed by rot. Then, pinned to the wall beside a blocked doorway, he saw something that made his heart twist.
A child's drawing, the figures crudely sketched in thick marker: round heads, stick limbs, all holding hands beneath a rainbow. Above it, in big, wobbly hiragana:
「しあわせなかぞく!」
"My happy family!"
Ren caught his breath and stared longer than he meant to. The crooked letters. The bright colors. The innocence—gone.
"Yui," he murmured, voice so soft he almost didn't hear himself. "That's their daughter's name… just like that old couple mentioned."
A sudden, stifled rustle made him whip the beam around. In the far corner, something shifted.
He froze. Then leaned in.
There, pressed against the wall, was a little girl—no more than seven, ribs visible beneath sunken cheeks, dirty streaks tracing where her tears had dried. She trembled so violently it was a wonder she stayed upright.
Ren's chest tightened. He knelt slowly, careful not to scare her further, and set the flashlight on the floor, its glow softened by his hand.
"I—I'm… I'm Ren," he said, voice catching. "I've got friends close by. We're not here to hurt you. We… we just want to help, okay?"
The girl's mouth parted in a tiny sob, but her eyes—large, glassy, terrified—lifted to his. She let out a fragile whisper.
"H-help…"
Ren swallowed hard. His voice shook. "Yeah. Help. I can call someone right now. They're— they're really nice. They know what to do."
His fingers fumbled at his earpiece. "Andre? Celia? I'm in the back room. I found her—she's alive but… she needs help."
A distant thump of boots answered him almost immediately.
Ren glanced back at the girl, offering what he hoped was a reassuring smile, even though his stomach felt as fragile as she did.
"Hey. You're not alone anymore, okay? Just… hold on."
The wind rattled the house again. The girl flinched and ducked her head.
And then Celia's voice rang from the hallway: "Ren?!"
"In here!" he called, louder this time.
Moments later, Andre burst through the doorway first, Celia just behind him, both flashlights raised.
Celia gasped, eyes wide as they locked onto the girl huddled in the corner. "Oh my god..."
Ren didn't move from his crouch. His voice was gentler now, almost pleading. "She's scared out of her mind. We have to be careful."
Andre lowered his flashlight and dropped to one knee, already pulling off his jacket. "Hey there. You hold on now, you hear me?" He draped the coat over her gently, careful not to startle her frail frame. "We got you."
Ren knelt beside him, numb, but moving. His hands hovered, unsure where to touch. "That's Yui… it has to be."
"She's alive," Andre said, his voice tight. "Barely, but she's fightin'."
Celia dropped to the floor, fumbling through her backpack with shaking hands. "Water—she needs water—I have some. Crackers—wait—where's the glucose pack? Shit, I had it—dammit—she needs something, we gotta do something!"
The girl's cracked lips trembled. One word came out, barely a breath:
"…Mama…"
Ren's chest caved.
He reached for her hand and held it gently, voice barely audible.
"We're here now, Yui. We're gonna get you out."
Andre cursed under his breath, then reached into the inside of his coat. "Alright, sugarplum… I didn't think I'd need this today, but here goes." He pulled out a sleek metal injector—matte black with blue LED strips running up its side. A small vial inside pulsed faintly.
Ren glanced at it, startled. "What is that?"
"Medtech-grade stim. Synth glucose, hydration, electrolytes, and nerve stabilizers. Temporary fix—won't cure her, but it'll buy us time." Andre flicked the cap off with his thumb and tapped the vial.
"Is it safe for a kid?" Celia asked, voice breaking.
Andre looked down at Yui's skeletal frame, then back at them. "She won't make it ten minutes without it. That safe enough for you?"
Without waiting, he pressed the injector to the girl's upper arm. The device hissed softly. Yui jerked slightly, a faint whimper escaping her throat. A moment passed. Then her breathing deepened. Her eyelids fluttered. Color—barely, faintly—began to return to her lips.
Celia let out a shaky sob, tears spilling down her face. "Oh my god—oh my god—she's breathing better…"
Andre exhaled through his nose, the lines in his face deepening. "We bought ourselves maybe thirty minutes. Maybe less. She needs real help. Hospital-grade. We move now." He looked to both of them, sharp and serious. "You ready?"
Ren gave a shaky nod, still clutching Yui's small, bony hand. He glanced down at her, heart pounding, and tried to keep his voice steady.
"Hey… just… hang in there, alright?" He cleared his throat, fumbled. "We're not—uh—we're not gonna let anything happen to you. Promise."
Yui blinked up at him slowly, her lips twitching, barely forming words. She opened her mouth, her voice faint and ragged:
"…Ma…ma's… still…"
Ren leaned in, brows knitting. "Still what?"
"…mama's… still… h-h…here…"
A beat of silence.
The air shifted.
Then the wall behind them exploded.
Wood and plaster exploded inward—shattered like brittle bone as the room's far wall disintegrated in a thunderous blast. Shards rained down in a blur of dust, splinters, and shrieking nails.
The thing that came through wasn't walking. It howled its way into existence.
A twisted, screaming mass of tangled black hair and blood-soaked robes hurled itself across the threshold, its limbs writhing like torn silk in a hurricane. Red eyes blazed from the hollow of a sunken face. The air turned ice-thin. And from its throat came a raw, ragged, inhuman cry—
"GET AWAY FROM MY CHILD!"