現代怪談： Waiting For You

Waiting For You
待ち人
A Modern Japanese ^*Kaidan

original story copyrighted by the author
translation copyrighted by M. L. Mills, 2010～

＊＊＊

This happened many years ago, when there were a lot of those monochrome cell phones still in use. It seems that an odd email arrived in my friend's cell inbox with my name as the sender.
“I got lost on the way. Please help!”

No matter how many times she tried to send me a reply, it always returned with an error. She even tried calling me directly, yet had no better luck. A well-timed email arrived from me just around the time she started getting really worried, and with that, like the pins of a lock falling into place, both mail exchange and calls resumed normally. “Probably another one of those processing mixups or server overload like before...”
And that was that. Besides, if not an error, I figured it probably was a prank.

But then, several days later, my friend received another suspicious email.
“Why? Why won't you help me?”

Again, the sender line showed my address.
Just like before, too, neither mail nor calls would get through when she tried to reach me. Left with no other options for contact, my friend did finally reach me by way of another friend. Of course, I had no memory of sending that email. After that, on that very day I took the opportunity to change my mail address. The idea of some anonymous sender stealing my name to send emails really creeped me out. From that point on, the suspicious emails came to a halt.

But only for the time being, as it turned out.

Several months later, my friend received another suspicious email. And once again, from my address.
“I'll be waiting at the usual place.”

The mail contained only that one sentence. A considerable bit of time had passed since the previous weird events, and given that I had also changed my email address, she didn't give it a second thought. So this time, without bothering with a reply, she simply called. However, the meeting place that immediately and naturally came to mind with the words “the usual place” was sometimes known for having poor reception and lots of dropped connections. Apparently, my friend assumed I had gone ahead of her so she got in her car and headed off to the same place.

I haven't seen her since then.
On that very day, she died in a car accident. It happened as she was going to meet me.

I learned of that several days later when I received a call from her mother. Apparently, the final email she had received was from me. They discovered it when they were checking her cell phone found on the scene.

And in that last email sent from my address...
“Thank you. I've been waiting for you.”

But that wasn't the end of it.
About six months had past since that incident. I was dating someone regularly now. And one day, he received the exact same email my friend had.
“I got lost on the way. Please help!”

And just like in my friend's case, neither mail nor calls would reach me. Fortunately, my boyfriend's house was close to mine so he came directly over to see me. We decided that email was likely just a clever prank. Yet inside I was sharply reminded of what had happened before. I didn't like the idea of telling him about it and risk scaring him. Desperately, like a mantra or a prayer, I kept telling myself “It couldn't be. It couldn't be...”
But, after all, it could be.

“Why? Why won't you help me?”
Before I knew it, the next email had come.
I remember being terrified, feeling that there was no going back now. I told him that even if a similar email does come, absolutely do not come to meet me until you can get into direct contact with me.

But for him too, it came.
“I'll be waiting at the usual place.”

This time when he couldn't get a hold of me through email, nor would the phone connect, he tried to contact me through a friend. Unfortunately, in those early days, delays with mail delivery were not uncommon. Before the email from my friend had even reached me, my boyfriend had already set out to meet me. Upon finally receiving the email after a two hour delay, I called my boyfriend. When the call didn't connect I went directly to see him, but he wasn't at home. I spent a long sleepless night only to have the following day confirm my worst fears. He had been driving on a downward slope, and for some reason, without even once applying the brakes, had crashed right through the guardrail of that gentle curb. He was never coming to see me again.

Several days later, after everything had calmed down a bit, I asked his parents if his cell phone had been among his effects. It was. I asked to see it.

“Could you hurry?”
He must have received it on the way.

And then the last one...
“Thank you. I've been waiting for you.”

All were sent from my address. What caused it or what was behind it, I still do not know. What was worse, even after that, my friends continued to receive similarly suspicious emails. I was truly scared. I bought an entirely new cell phone. I completely changed my service provider. But even so, my friends who were listed in the address book of my previous cell continued to receive strange, suspicious mails.
Emails from an old cell that wasn't supposed to be in use anymore......
Should not even exist anymore....

I have since told all my friends to either ignore or refuse any emails coming from that old address.

Now I can only pray that this time, it ends here.

＊＊＊

Original text story (Japanese only.)
Audio recording (Japanese only. Account with nicovideo required.)

Thanks for visiting! Stay tuned and happy listening. (^_-)-☆

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

^*Kaidan: a traditional Japanese “ghost” story usually involving the unexplainable, a flexible concepts of time and space, strange meetings, love gone wrong, the supernatural… Curious and sometimes terrifying stories, but never centered on nor featuring either gore or sex.

Translator's Notes (and various laments): 

First, as always our thanks to NikoNiko for providing a place where these stories can be posted and shared, and to all the users that take the time to record and share. In particular, many thanks to uribou (https://twitter.com/uri_bou02 ) not only for yet another great selection this time, but for doing a fabulously professional job of recording. These translations wouldn't exist without your effort and interest in sharing them in the first place.

An easy, fun piece. More or less.
All in all, I have to say I spent the most time on taking the pictures (along with their various edits and arrangements) and trying to settle on a title, which I am still not entirely satisfied with and could change without a moments notice in the future. Although it should be noted that my Japanese title is the title that would be perfect. Just no good translation exists for it. Naturally.
Cell phones from Hell as a theme has already been done (and done well) which was then followed by another not-so-well-done Hollywood remake. And the idea of chain-mail anything bringing horrible death and misfortune was passe by the time I was in High School. But in the end, those weren't the true elements of horror in this story, those were just the mediums of it. The ultimate element of creepiness I felt laid in the unknown person(or persons), lost and waiting.
Or lying in wait?

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

All translations copyrighted and owned by myself. All copyrights of their respective owners. No part of this web site may be produced, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the copyright owner.

Forecast For Tomorrow - 現代怪談

Welcome to the second in our series of what I call, Haiku Horror.
Like its namesake, the Haiku, these stories are short and sweet, the setting itself providing form and function.

The storyteller can induce the appropriate pacing for the audience when recited or heard through some vocal medium. However in this case, when read through some printed medium, pacing can be introduced only through careful spacing and alignment.

With that in mind, we welcome you once again for a brief detour down the road of Haiku Horror. 

Forecast For Tomorrow
A Modern Japanese ^*Kaidan

original story copyrighted by the author
translation copyrighted by M. L. Mills, 2010～

＊＊＊

It was 15 years ago when I aimlessly flipped on the TV at around 2:30 AM. Much to no surprise, there was nothing showing, only the familiar off-air colorbars.Then just as I was thinking of heading off to sleep, the bars disappeared.

Suddenly the screen was showing a telecast of an active landfill station.

The landfill continued on in the background while a ticker appeared at the bottom of the screen with "CBA News Flash" on it. I thought the whole thing peculiar and kept watching when names, or credits, started scrolling across the ticker while the narrator monotonously read them off. A piece of heavy classical music accompanied the broadcast.

Finally, after a full five minutes of this,

“These will be the fatalities for tomorrow.
Thank you and good night.”

Ever since then I've been terrified of turning on late night TV.
Yet no one around will believe me.

＊＊＊

Original text story (Japanese only.)
Audio recording (Japanese only. Account with nicovideo required.)

Thanks for visiting! Stay tuned and happy listening. (^_-)-☆

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

^*Kaidan: a traditional Japanese “ghost” story usually involving the unexplainable, a flexible concepts of time and space, strange meetings, love gone wrong, the supernatural… Curious and sometimes terrifying stories, but never centered on nor featuring either gore or sex. Original text story  (Japanese only.) Audio recording  (Japanese only.  Account with nicovideo required.)

Translator's Notes (and various oddities): 

We originally had another working title.
And it was a good title!
But then I realized it was potentially too revealing for such a short piece. Fortunately though, just as easily and quickly as the original title came to me, so did the better revised title.
Thank fuzz for warm morning showers.
And, yes, CBA is a play on the actual ABC, or even CBS if you will. Much like NNN is a play on the actual news stations, JNN or possibly NHK. (^_-)-☆

Finally, once again our thanks to NikoNiko for providing a place where these stories can be posted and shared, and to all the users that take the time to record and share. In particular, a heartfelt thanks to uribou for providing this little gem and doing a fabulously professional job of recording as always.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

All translations copyrighted and owned by myself. All copyrights of their respective owners. No part of this web site may be produced, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the copyright owner.

The Back Way - 現代怪談

Ever read Mrs. Todd's Shortcut?

As far as I am concerned, the best story King ever wrote. Nothing he wrote before or after ever quite compared for me. I can't even begin to count the number of times I have heard the audio recording. Usually heard while on one of the long, random, mapLESS road trips I used to take.
 
This story reminds me of that shortcut, of the odd roads we happen down and where they might lead....

The Back Way
A Modern Japanese ^*Kaidan

original story copyrighted by author @ syarecowa.moo.jp/3/843.htm
translation copyrighted by M. L. Mills, 2010

＊＊＊

I work in the accounting section in my company. Out of the entire year this time of the year is the busiest for us and every night I end up taking the last train home. The closest station is Gotanda off of the Yamanote line which although is not a major hub, with all the bars, restaurants and entertainment centers around, it still remains very much alive even late into the night. And yet you only have to wander down one of the many side streets to find yourself in an unexpectedly quiet, desolate area.

I am always taking shortcuts, going down the back streets to get home. But now with the downturn in the economy, there has been an increase in the number of shops that have gone out-of-business and it has gotten quite dark and dingy in those back alleyways.

It was about one week ago while I was talking on my cell, when I suddenly noticed that I was walking down a street I didn't normally take. I looked around and suddenly noticed two little girls playing in the back alley.

At this hour?   After all, they were out late, past the time for the final train.

They were playing right outside of a store with one of those typical customer welcome lanterns - a large one made from red rice paper - so I figured they were likely the children of the store owner. After all. that alley was particularly desolate and it looked like that store was the only one still open for business.
The one girl, dressed in a red jumper and a white turtleneck, was jumping rope. The other girl was crouched down and looked like she was drawing something with chalk on the asphalt. I hurried on my way home thinking about how cold it was yet that didn't seem to have any effect on their play.

Just as I figured I was late going home the next day, too. But I didn't go down that alley.

The following day, I went home on the last train again and before I knew it, I was on that street. Looking around, I saw the two girls playing in front of the same store with the red paper lantern just like the other day. I felt curiously sorry for them and considered buying something warm for them to drink from the convenience store that was just a little further along down the alley. Then I realized they might be afraid of me (as a stranger) or get the wrong idea about it so I simply dropped that idea and hurried on my way home.

The next day - to no surprise - I ended up taking the last train home. This time, however, I intentionally headed towards that alley. It was a street I could take to go home anyway so it wasn't like it was out of the way.
The two girls were there again.

This time the girl in the red jumper wasn't jumping rope, she was playing with a ball.  But it wasn't the kind of ball you would use for dodge ball, not a rubber ball. It was whitish in color and when she bounced it, it would bounce back to her in a curiously slow way. No, not a rubber dodge ball. It was smaller than one of those anyway. Actually, it looked more like one of those old-fashioned balls made out of leather. Pretty rare these days, I thought.
The other girl was scribbling on the asphalt as usual. I felt a tinge of relief as I noted both were once again playing contentedly, and continued on my way home.

Still, I was bothered by something.
There was a sense of something being “off”.
It finally came to me after I got into bed that night. Why were they always wearing the same clothes?
No, it was more than that. I have no idea what they look like or sound like.

On the one hand, the girl bouncing the old-style ball was facing away from me and the other girl was facing down, totally absorbed in her chalk drawing. On the other hand, there was no conversation at all between the two girls. I'm not sure of their ages, but given their approximate young age, I would think they would be more rambunctious, jumping from one activity to the next. Instead, whenever I saw them, they were silently intent on their own activity. Besides, I really can't see jumping rope and bouncing a ball being that much fun these days.

And there's one more thing. The store with the red paper lantern the girls are always playing in front of... I never hear any voices coming from the inside. It is a really lonely, deserted place.

All of a sudden I felt really creeped out by the whole situation. Yet I was certain they were not ghosts, they were human.

The following morning, I went looking for that street again.
The large red paper lantern came into view. But on going closer, I was in for a shock. The paper lantern had become so aged, so like an antique that I could barely make out what was written on it. And not only was there not a single light bulb or anything else to light it up with, there wasn't even an electrical cord attached to the body of it. It was merely hung there, even ripped and torn in places.

I quickly looked down at the asphalt. There was hardly anything left of the chalk drawing. Would it really have disappeared so quickly when hardly anyone goes down this alley?

I examined at the faint remnants of the picture. There was a something... tousled. Messy, complicated intertwining lines. I couldn't quite make it out. I changed my angle and looked at it from the direction she had drawn in Looking closer, the tousled part seemed like it might be hair, and upon closer inspection the drawing appeared to be of a man.
It was a picture of a father, like the ones you see hanging on the back wall of a preschool classroom – loving yet unskilled. He was even wearing what looked like glasses.
But this father's picture had sharp, pointed teeth
Rows upon rows of jagged, fang-like teeth lined the inside of his mouth.
I froze, horrified.
All of sudden just being there, in that shadowy back alley made me very uncomfortable. I turned and left for work in a hurry.

Ever since then I haven't been back to that alley.
I have been too scared. So scared I go out of my way just to avoid going down it.  But after several days I have started to think that I must be mistaken. There is some misunderstanding on my part.

I am sure I will be taking the last train home again today.
I managed to type this entry at the local cafe only by slipping out of the office during my long-overdue lunch break. I thought that writing about it would help calm me down, think rationally, but instead writing this has made me feel more uneasy.

And yet, I think I will go back down that alley one more time.
I can't stop wondering whether that store is really open for business or not. With the welcome lantern in that condition, I would hardly think so...
The inside of the store was dark and disheveled, not in any condition to conduct business.
But if perchance they are open, this time I plan to go in.

Tonight.

＊＊＊

Thanks for visiting!
Stay tuned and happy listening. (^_-)-☆

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

^*Kaidan: a traditional Japanese “ghost” story usually involving the unexplainable, a flexible concepts of time and space, strange meetings, love gone wrong, the supernatural… Curious and sometimes terrifying stories, but never centered on nor featuring either gore or sex.

Original text story  (Japanese only.)
Audio recording  (Japanese only.  Account with nicovideo required.)

Translator's Notes (and various laments):

Another in the "short" series of ghost stories. By short in this case I mean the original text only filled a single page. Hard to believe so many hours were involved in the translation, but then again, that is literature translation for you. Give me something medical or science-y any day of the week over these mental gymnastics. (Although, at least there is no life depending on this. Sanity, maybe, but no one's life.)

That being said I am not fully happy with the final result. It's a genuinely good story. As told by the audio reader of the original work. But the original was not as well written as some other non-professional stories I have done in the past. And that - not just the translating, but making it readable – is a whole other job in itself between the editing, reorganizing, and even outright rewriting in some places.   In that respect, I totally underestimated this piece.

Two key elements that communicated without a hitch to me suddenly popped out of hiding during my proofing phase to show another, more intractable side. Two key cultural references in the story, one of them a repeating theme no less. Did I mention they were KEY? Suddenly, I found myself faced with the not uncommon dilemma of translating cultural “ideas” for the reader. In most cases, this can be resolved with a simple footnote or introductory note. But, no, not here. Japanese ghost stories rely heavily on atmosphere and pacing. Nothing to break a nice oppressive mood like a dry, scholarly reference, or better yet, weaken the impact by giving all the details up front in an explanation of “you will see this and this is why it is important.”
So then I was faced with trying to weave those elements into the backbone of the original story itself.

All this without overly altering the original text, of course. o.0

So, you'll just have to take my word for it that it IS a good story. But you will only see a hint of that peeking through the translation.
My apologies in advance... addendum.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

All translations copyrighted and owned by myself. All copyrights of their respective owners. No part of this web site may be produced, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the copyright owner.

Not all houses are haunted....

Sometimes all it takes is just a single room.

Previously, we looked at color associations with fear in
Skittles! Taste the Rainbow of... Terror?

Recently though, I was inspired by another theme, ROOMS.

Not houses.
because haunted houses haven't been done to death or anything.
But ROOMS.

Bright, well-furnished rooms.
Dingy, dark rooms.
But all of them, unequivocally, creepy rooms.

I can only work in English and Japanese so those are the two cultures I will be working in.  So far my list, in no particular order, is as follows:


♡ Stephanie's Room (audio link) - who says you can never go home again?  creepily demented in a happy, cheerful sorta way. 

♡ The Occupant of the Room (audio link, text link) -  as if hotel rooms weren't filled with enough creepy, crawly unseen things.

♡ The Room in the Tower (audio link, text link) - dreams and "reality" mix to create a haunting, unsettling piece, aka. nightmare fodder.

♡ The Yellow Wallpaper (audio link, text link) - disturbing enough in the original text yet made even more so by the brilliant execution of the reader.

♡ The Red Room (audio link, text link) - rather mild mannered, but a classic.

♡ Number 13 (audio link, text link) - how can you not have a bunch of room-themed ghost stories without at least one reference to the magic number "13"?!

♡ The Other Wing (audio link, text link) - horror is sure to follow where children are involved.


If you have read the above or can suggest others in either language, we would love to hear of them!
list last updated 2011/08/15

Thanks for visiting!
Stay tuned and happy listening. (^_-)-☆

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

All translations copyrighted and owned by myself. All copyrights of their respective owners. No part of this web site may be produced, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the copyright owner.

My Dream? - 現代怪談

Lately I have been working on bigger and bigger pieces, but then came across a few smaller ones that were worth doing.
SLACKER! 
No.... Sorry to take away your fun. ^^ 
But shorter isn't always simpler.  Particularly in the world of literary/art translation, shorter means that you have fewer chances, less wiggle room to express ideas or capture the atmosphere of a story. In some cases, shorter can be much more brain-wracking as I was painfully reminded of back when I did THE SEA. The “poem” at the end.... I am still not happy with it, but neither could I ever work it into something better.
 
So as can be said in many other situations - enjoy the journey, however brief it may be.
ご了承くださいませ～。^^

My Dream?
A Modern Japanese ^*Kaidan

original story copyrighted by author @ http://syarecowa.moo.jp/160/29.html
translation copyrighted by M. L. Mills, 2011

＊＊＊

I had this awful dream.
There were hands on my neck, tightening, strangling me.
I couldn't see the other person's face. It was obscured, like I was seeing through a mist.
Desperately trying to shake them off, I grabbed hold of their wrists, but without the slightest effect.
Little by little, I felt my consciousness slipping away.

I awoke the same moment I lost consciousness in my dream.
My body was robed in an uncomfortable sweat. Without thinking, I reached up and felt my neck.
The thought crossed my mind that this would be the perfect ghost story if only there were hand-shaped bruises left on my neck.
I entered the bathroom and threw off my clothes and froze, staring into the mirror.

They were there.
Clearly there.
Purplish, hand-shaped bruises.

On my wrists.

＊＊＊

Thanks for visiting!
Stay tuned and happy listening. (^_-)-☆

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

^*Kaidan: a traditional Japanese “ghost” story usually involving the unexplainable, a flexible concepts of time and space, strange meetings, love gone wrong, the supernatural… Curious and sometimes terrifying stories, but never centered on nor featuring either gore or sex.

Original text story: http://syarecowa.moo.jp/160/29.html
(Japanese only.)
Audio recording: http://www.nicovideo.jp/watch/sm14689364
(Account with nicovideo required. Japanese only.)

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

All translations copyrighted and owned by myself. All copyrights of their respective owners. No part of this web site may be produced, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the copyright owner.

'tis the ♪season ♫・・・AGAIN！

As I mentioned in another post previously, one of the many reasons I ♡'d Japan was the fact that you get to celebrate Halloween TWICE a year! .～*・°☆

Ahhh, yes, ♡twice♡.
Just recalling that little fact makes my heart go all pitter-patter.

To recap (if you missed last year's post) or refresh your memory (if you simply forgot about it at the bottom of a chocolate martini), here's the rundown:

August is when the Japanese celebrate Obon (お盆). Obon is basically a similar idea to Halloween - spirits of the deceased returning to walk the Earth - except that their Obon wanderings normally last several days whereas Halloween is just that one night stand.

In celebration of this joyous (and potentially creepy) season, and as the gateway drug to the upcoming Halloween Horrors, we are releasing another series of Kaidan this month. (Throughout the year, yes, but AUGUST in particular.)

Kaidan, if you, the gentle reader recall are basically traditional Japanese “ghost” stories usually involving the unexplainable, a flexible concepts of time and space, strange meetings, love gone wrong, the supernatural… They are curious and sometimes terrifying stories, but never centered on nor featuring either gore or sex.

The newest one is already available!

Facts Surrounding the Death of 'M'

There will be at least two more releases this month, so in the meantime, enjoy and until the next installment is released, you can check out some of the past ones by clicking on "kaidan" in the Label cloud.


Thanks for visiting!
Stay tuned and happy listening. (^_-)-☆

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

All translations copyrighted and owned by myself. All copyrights of their respective owners. No part of this web site may be produced, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the copyright owner.

Facts Surrounding the Death of 'M' - 現代怪談

A subtly unsettling story of being devoured from within.
Or by something else?

Facts Surrounding the Death of 'M'
A Modern Japanese ^*Kaidan

original story copyrighted by author @ http://syarecowa.moo.jp/31/925.htm
translation copyrighted by M. L. Mills, 2011

＊＊＊

One of my classmates, we'll call her “M” for anonymity’s sake, passed away when I was a junior in high school. At the time, we were told she had died from leukemia. “M” was originally from Ichikawa city in Chiba prefecture so I had to ride for over an hour on the train to attend her funeral. Since I wasn't that close to “M”, once I made my incense offerings, I headed back home while a number of other students who had been close to her stayed behind for a time. Our class was robed in a deep depression, but then gradually regained its previous cheerfulness. And at some point, the death of a singular girl was completely forgotten. Looking back now, those three years passed in the blink of an eye.

Then came graduation. My memory no longer held any trace of the girl whose life had come to an abrupt end at such a young age.

Following college graduation, I landed a job in a company and found myself generally busy with everyday affairs. Then one day I unexpectedly bumped into an old classmate from high school. She saw me first. It was a good thing too because if she hadn't called out to me I might have never recognized her as she had lost an unimaginable amount of weight when compared to my memory of her nicely plump face from high school. Although in all honesty, I was of the opinion that she had not lost weight, but was worn down.

“It's been awhile.” , she opened with.

We exchanged perfunctory greetings then decided to head into a nearby coffee shop and chat as our meeting was quite the rare chance. After catching up on the mundane matters of life – our current situation, etc... - she began her story.

“Say, do you remember, “M” from high school?”, she started off with a question.
“ 'M'? Ah, the girl who died from leukemia.”
“Yes, that's her. We were good friends.”
“It was really sad.”
“Yeah. But ...” she frowned deeply. “Actually, it wasn't leukemia.”

“Oh? She died from some other disease?” I didn't show much interest in her conversation. Truthfully, I had this vague sense that I didn't want her to tell me the real reason for “M”'s death. In spite of my feelings, however, her expression became even more serious. She added saying “There is something I want you to hear..”

“OK. I don't mind.” My work for the day was already finished. And I could clearly feel an air of gravity hanging from her. The details of her story are more or less as follows.

Two years ago, towards the end of that year, I suddenly received a call from “M”'s mother. It was the seventh anniversary of “M”'s passing and she wanted me to attend the ceremonial rites. She was very insistent about it. There was also the fact that we had been good friends so I agreed to participate. As it turned out, the ceremony was not just for “M”'s seventh anniversary, but additionally for “M”'s father. This would mark his first anniversary of passing. Once the rites were more or less wrapped up, her mother came to me saying that she had something private to tell me. The two of us left alone for a room by ourselves in the house.

The room she chose turned out to be “M”'s old room.

For a short time we shared memories of “M” after which “M”'s mother came out with something unexpected - “I want you to hear the facts surrounding “M”'s death.”

She began her story. But after only a few sentences, a relative came to get her with a message that there was an urgent phone call. Her story came to a halt there. Apologizing, “M”'s mother returned to the room and tried to start her story again when another relative's child suddenly went into convulsions. Once again she could not continue telling me what she wanted to. Eventually, we ran out of time that day and it ended up that we would have to talk again at some later date.

My old classmate got that far into her story when she took a quick breath and asked, “Are you OK for time?”

Somewhere along the way I found myself suddenly interested in this tale of “M”. “I'm good.”, I responded.

“For a while after that I didn't hear from “M”'s mother. And I felt uncomfortable about placing a call to her from my end....”
I signaled that I was still following.
“I had forgotten all about her wanting to tell me something and then last year “M”'s mother contacted me again. About one year had passed since the last time we had talked. I decided I would try going to “M”'s old house again.”

“Try?”

“On the day I was supposed to go, an important matter suddenly came up and I just wasn't able to. I asked “M”'s mother if we couldn't talk about it on the phone, but she said no. She really wanted to see me to talk about it. So we made plans for a new date, and then on that day I went to “M”'s old house.
As soon as I met with “M”'s mother, she started in with “First, please listen to this...” .“

In fact, “M”'s death was unforeseen and she was unable to watch over her daughter during that time. It was her late husband that stayed by “M”'s side until the end. After a time though, he told her that he wanted her to know the cause for “M”'s death. However, whenever her husband attempted to talk to her about it, there was always some interruption and “M”'s mother was never able to hear the story behind it. When she finally heard the cause of death, more than 6 months had passed from the time when her husband had first tried to tell her.

And the day after he told her, he suddenly passed away.

Well, she was finally about to get to the main point - the facts surrounding “M”'s death – when a visitor came to the house. Apparently, it was not someone she could turn away, but she returned again after entertaining them for some time. At this point, I even started to think there was something.... odd going on. “M”'s mother sat down in front of me and asked, “Now how far along in my story was I? ”

When I told her, “Up to the time when your husband passed away.”, “M”'s mother seemed rather shocked. “Ahh? Did I really get that far?”

“I was getting really creeped out....”
“So, did you finally get to hear it?”
My old classmate shook her head, “After that, for some reason, we got to reminiscing about “M”. I didn't even understand why we were doing that again, but... By the time I realized it, night had fallen. I went back home.”
“So, the meeting ended without you hearing the final part of the story?”
She fell silent for a time. I finished off my completely
cooled-down coffee and said, “We should change restaurants. We've been here a long time.” She agreed, and as we both felt hungry, settled on moving to a fast food joint. We left our table, paid the bill, and exited the coffee shop. As we were heading to the new location, my cell phone rang. A friend was in an “accident” and they wanted me to come there immediately. I couldn't shake off the desire to hear the rest of her story, yet I had no choice but to leave.

She finally spoke again saying, “Please say you will definitely get in contact with me.” and then left.

My friend's accident wasn't anything of note.

Two days passed before she contacted me at my home.

“Actually, I wasn't able to tell you at the time, but several days before that day we met, “M”'s mother died.”
“Wha!? Before you spoke to me?”
“Yes. And the day before she died, I heard the cause of “M”'s death. At long last.”
“...“
“So, you want to hear about that, don't you?”

I hesitated for a moment before telling her decisively, “I admit that I have feelings of wanting to hear it, but do not tell me. Understand? Do Not tell anyone. Forget about it.”

“Thank you.” There was a hint of relief in her voice. “But I think I must tell her younger brother.”

“Don't do it. Forget it.”

“But he is the only person left in her family.”

“There are some things in this world better left unknown. This time, this is one of those things.”

“Yeah... “
Our conversation ended there.

And yet I couldn't escape a lingering feeling of uncertainty. “M”'s younger brother was already an adult, and it would not be unusual at all for him to have some doubts about his family's deaths. I tried calling her back.

Yes, she was meeting with the younger brother, but ,no, was not talking to him about “M”'s death.

I reminded her repeatedly, to an irritating degree, to not talk about that subject then hung up.
I tried to get in contact with her several times after that, but with her not carrying a cellphone, I wasn't able to.

Then about one month later, I did get some news.

It was news of her death.

Whatever she had passed on to “M”'s younger brother, to this day I do not know.

＊＊＊

Thanks for visiting!
Stay tuned and happy listening. (^_-)-☆

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

^*Kaidan: a traditional Japanese “ghost” story usually involving the unexplainable, a flexible concepts of time and space, strange meetings, love gone wrong, the supernatural… Curious and sometimes terrifying stories, but never centered on nor featuring either gore or sex.

Original text story: http://syarecowa.moo.jp/31/925.htm
(Japanese only.)
Audio recording: http://www.nicovideo.jp/watch/sm13590689
(Account with nicovideo required. Japanese only.)

Translator's Notes (and various laments):

For those of you who can understand both Japanese and English, you will note some obvious additions to the text. There is admittedly a marked difference between my “final translation” and my “release translation”. The atmosphere and impact of this story lies in its subtlety and barrenness. However, the more faithful-to-the-original “final translation” would be far too bare-bones to be even readable to the native English-speaking audience.
The additions I have made give the final text more balance and a smoothness making it more palatable to the target reader. At the same time though I have endeavored to preserve as much of the simplicity and stylistic barrenness of the original.
ご了承くださいませ～。

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

All translations copyrighted and owned by myself. All copyrights of their respective owners. No part of this web site may be produced, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the copyright owner.

Sounds of Rain - 現代怪談

I actually finished this piece on the American Day of Turkeys which turned out to be very appropriate as that day heralded in another 24 hours of dark grey sky and rain.

Yet no matter how softly it falls, rain is never silent.

Master Series : Sounds of Rain
A Modern Japanese Kaidan^*

original story copyrighted by author @ syarecowa.moo.jp
translation copyrighted by M. L. Mills, 2010

＊＊＊

It was the end of Fall in my second year at university.
Since morning the rain had continued to fall. The asphalt surface of the road was blurred with a light mist. This was the kind of day that made one depressed. Emotions ran stagnant. Thoughts turned deeply inward.

On my right was a river. The area past the white guardrail was also faintly misted over. Only the clock-like ticking sound of the car hazard lights echoed with terrible loudness.
That sound alone became the rhythm of the world.
Everything was built upon that rhythm.
I looked to the river once more.





The rain fell down on this side of the guard rail. The same rain washed down on the other side.
Raindrops falling on the road.
Raindrops falling on the river.
Looking up - even from a height of several hundred meters - the rain fell gently from a dark, low sky.
Yet once they reached the ground, their destiny was divided by a difference of only a few mere centimeters.

I found this imagery oddly humorous and mentioned it to the driver who was sitting next to me with his chin propped upon his hand. His responded reluctantly.
“A metaphor for This world and the Other? For certain there is only that much difference between them – this and that. Yet whether the rain seeps into the ground or flows down the river, in either case it finds its way to the sea.”

The sea.

The sea as described by my 'master' (the one who taught me about all things occult) was mostly likely identical to the idea of nothingness. He did not accept the existence of a world after death. By 'a world after death' here I mean places outside this earthly world like Hell or Heaven. I never understood why he didn't accept them. But it is without a doubt that he unwaveringly did not believe in them.

It was still a little early for dusk.
I and the 'master' sat in the car on the shoulder of the road waiting for eternity. Apparently, he had seen something interesting here the last time it had rained.

“There's a good rain coming down.”
With those words he called me out and so now here I sit.
Waiting, as if we were on a police stakeout.
Thinking of that, I bit off a piece of azuki snack cake and downed a pack of milk. On the right-hand side was a vacant lot where someone's discarded unicycle laid in the grass beaten on by the rain. No one passed by us.
From out of nowhere, the 'master' offered a creepy supposition.
“Just suppose for a moment, there is a child who from birth grew up in a basement. Would that child not know of the 'rain' until they had been outside of the basement and experienced it for themselves? The history of rain is older than that of fire. From the time humans were apes... No, even before then... Do not all the beings living on this earth carry with them the memory of rain? Is what I think. Somewhere deep down in their DNA.”

Having said that he fished around in the convenience store plastic bag. Even though there was nothing left but the azuki snack cakes he wouldn't give up and kept rummaging around. And he's the one who had bought only azuki snack cakes.

The memory of rain?

Once again, my thoughts turned deeply inward
Animals innately have the ability to distinguish what is dangerous to themselves. Also, the ability to know what they should hunt. When they run into those things, the reaction recorded in their DNA occurs. For the more primaeval lifeforms that would be reactions to light and water.
In the same way, can we say that sleeping deep within our bodies is a reaction to the rain that we are born with?
A memory unbroken, inherited from the dizzying ages past.

I tried to recall the first time I had experienced the rain. Naturally, I don't remember such a thing.
I wanted to call out and ask, “How was your first rain?”
But certainly no one can answer. Yet it is something everyone has experienced.
For some reason, I found that amusing.
I tried to search through my memory once more.
The scent of rain is always nostalgic. I wonder where that sense of nostalgia comes from.
Thinking on these idle thoughts, I was suddenly returned to reality with the master's yawning.

“They're here.”

At the far end of the road blurred by streaks of rain, a shadowy figure appeared.
The master wiped off the cloudy front windshield with his sleeve. I strained my eyes and stared hard into the space before us.
A red umbrella came into view.
Following that, the figure of a woman holding the umbrella handle appeared. I couldn't see as far as her expression. She was probably in her thirties. At least she seemed to be from her clothing style. And there was something unpleasant about her. Immediately, I came upon the reason for my dislike.
Right behind the woman walking with the umbrella followed a girl of five or six.
Light pink shoes. A yellow cap.
If it wasn't for the rain, they would have been the image of a typical mother and child.
But this scene was not... typical.
A woman with an umbrella.
Walking about one meter behind her head hung down, a child with no umbrella.
There would be nothing unusual if they were huddled close together under the umbrella.
A mere one meter's separation and it was as if they stood in This world and That.

“Must be the rain. I can't pick up anything.”, said the master as peered intently at the two.

Finally, they passed by the side of the car and once again disappeared like a mist dissolving into the rain.

“You think they were living?”, he asked me.
I didn't know.
He didn't seem to know either.

We couldn't see their shapes anymore.
I put back my seat and reached out my hand to wipe off the fogged rear-view window, but my hand stopped mid-air.

“The mother is flesh. The daughter is flesh.
The mother is flesh. The daughter is spirit.
The mother is spirit. The daughter is flesh.
The mothers is spirit. The daughter is spirit.”

He whispered to himself without much feeling mixed in.
In all cases, I found it sad.
For some reason, terribly sad.

I felt stifled for air and rolled down the passenger side window a little.
The fine, textured sound of the rain came into the car.
The clock-like measured ticking of the car hazard lights grew dimmer.

The Sound. The Scene. The Soul.
Every and all things were penetrated by the rain.
As if the world had become rain.

I wonder if at that time you knew that the first rain you will ever experience will one day end.
Suddenly I wanted to ask them all.

＊＊＊

* Kaidan – a traditional Japanese “ghost” story usually involving the unexplainable, a flexible concepts of time and space, strange meetings, love gone wrong, the supernatural… Curious and sometimes terrifying stories, but never centered on nor featuring either gore or sex.


Original text story: http://syarecowa.moo.jp/177/14.html
(Japanese only.)
Audio recording: http://www.nicovideo.jp/watch/sm11325356
(Account with nicovideo required. Japanese only.)



Thanks for visiting!
Stay tuned and happy listening. (^_-)-☆

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

All translations copyrighted and owned by myself. All copyrights of their respective owners. No part of this web site may be produced, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the copyright owner.

The Sea - 現代怪談

Master Series: The Sea
A Modern Japanese Kaidan^*

original story copyrighted by author @ syarecowa.moo.jp
translation copyrighted by M. L. Mills, 2010

＊＊＊

It was the summer of my second year in college
I and a friend - an upperclassman - went to the sea.
A far cry from the beating rays of the sun and girls in bikinis, we were bound for the chill night sea.




Shivering at the prow of the small motorboat my friend was maneuvering, I thought, How did it come to this?

Below was nothing but the undulating ocean surface, the far depths of which were unfathomable.
Sometimes my face twisted and distorted and I had the feeling I was seeing the profile of some stranger's face in the waves
The far-off shadow of the land laid an unsettling silhouette.
A faint light from the lighthouse highlighted the heavy tapestry of clouds in the depths of the sky.

There was an irresistible power within his invitation of “Let us go find the sounds of the sea.”

Master of the occult (among other things), my friend's collection contained a number of dubious cassette tapes. When he let me listen, it was an endless recording of disturbing growls, voices like weeping, whispers in some unknown country's language.

After I finished listening, he warned me, “You'll shorten your life, you keep listening to that.”
I freaked out and swore to myself I would never listen again. Yet as time passed, for some reason I found myself again wanting to hear them.
I chased after those softly whispering voices that couldn't quite be picked out with an unrequitable expectation, wondering what they were saying...
The Master got a kick out of the state I was in and telling me that those were the sounds of the sea, invited me to the night ocean.

The Master operated the boat he had borrowed from a friend with familiarity and by the time we were out at sea, the sun had completely gone down. I - who had never been out on the ocean in a ferry much less a tiny boat - from the start stood with frozen legs. response to my question of whether or not he had license to operate it, he haughtily tossed back, “As long as the recorded length is three meters or under, you don't need the small vessel operator's license.”

The boat glided over the dark waves of the ocean surface under his guidance.

At some distance off-shore, the Master suddenly cut the engine and pressed the record button of the tape recorder he had brought.

The wind fell silent.


Once the noise of the running motor stopped, silence enveloped us.
No... After some time, from somewhere indiscernible drifted in what can only be called the susurous sounds of the sea.

Allowing ourselves to drift along in the current, the boat rocked gently in the waves.
Sticking my head out over the bow of the ship, I peered into the ocean. In the bottomless black waters, white shapes of what looked like they might be the undersides of fish flashed by and disappeared.
The Master sat in silence, staring fixedly at the horizon.
Even sneaking a glance at his profile couldn't give me a hint as to what he was thinking.

The slight sound of wind brushed passed my ears.
From the bottom of the ship came a dull echoing noise of the sea and I felt an uncontrollable sense of helpless loneliness.

“It's taping...right?”, I asked only to be shushed to silence in return.
I had the feeling I could hear something, but at the same time wasn't sure.
In the first place, what the hell in the middle of the ocean would give off a whispering like that on the tapes?
I sat in the darkness, listening closely.

How much time had passed... I was sitting zoned out face battered by the clammy, salty ocean wind when suddenly something like a human figure cut across my line of vision.

Unconsciously, I followed it with my eyes. It definitely looked like a human figure.
I didn't think it was flotsam adrift in the sea.
It stood up from the ocean's surface as tall as a child.
I sat frozen, unable to move.
I couldn't take my eyes off the dark human figure undulating back and forth as it disappeared into the distance.

Right smack in the middle of the ocean, there was no way the water was shallow enough for a tree much less a human being to stand.
My field of vision grew smaller, the human figure slowly disappeared into the darkness.
With a trembling voice I asked, “What was that you think?”
The Master shook his head and murmured only, “The sea is full of things we know not.”
I was driven by an impulse to switch on the flashlight, but then had a feeling I might see more than I wanted to and gave up.




*GACHIN*
I heard a sound as the record button of the anachronistic tape recorder clicked off.
It began to automatically rewind and made a sound - shaaaa – that echoed with terrible loudness.
As the boat rocked ever so slightly, I had a feeling that the Master was moving in the direction of the tape recorder.

“Care to listen?”, I heard him say.

HERE?

Not possible. Not for me. In my room or his, FINE. Even, dare I say, a regular ghost spot would be alright.
But here - separated from the land, drifting in the waves – HERE was the tangible feeling that there was no place for a human, neither on nor under the ocean surface.

“No place for me in all the worlds.”
That saying came to mind for some reason and I was fiercely overcome by a sense of helplessness that comes from having nothing, no one to rely on.

If even on a whim something overturned this tiny boat...
That this world would allow that...
I had an undefinable chill down my spine.

Thinking on such things, I gripped the edge of the boat with all my strength.
Without any regard for me, the Master pressed the Play button.
Before I knew it, I clamped my hands over my ears.

Being careful to not lose my balance, I straddled my legs out and dug in. All sound disappeared from my world. The Master crouched before the tape recorder, unmoving as if someone had pressed his stop button.
I couldn't take my eyes off of him.
I felt choked by the raw smell of the sea.
“Only one plank lies between me and hell.”
Ah, I thought, for fishermen the Other Side is the Sea.

I could see something like a human figure at the Master's shoulder as he rocked back and forth with the waves. Once again, the shadow standing in the sea tried to cross right next to our boat.
I couldn't see the face or anything. I couldn't even clearly discern where the outline of hands or legs were.
Just, I could only tell that it was a human figure.

Suddenly, the moment I thought he had just turned to face in that direction, he started bellowing something, half his body hanging over the edge of the boat.
He was incredibly infuriated.
For an instant the boat tilted. Reflexively, I leaned in the opposite direction.
Still standing, the human figure disappeared into the darkness.

The Master pulled himself back into the boat and took hold of the stern motor.
I lost my balance and automatically put both my hands that hand been holding my ears shut on the edges of the boat.

What the hell was that? What the hell?!

The Master was babbling on in state of excitement, attempting to start the engine.
He intends to turn us about and go after it.
Is what I thought and I clung to his hands yelling, “I can't. Let's go home.”
He shook me off. “Of course we are. Grab hold.”

Immediately the loud sound of the engine rang out and the boat shot off.

I roughly wiped my glasses as the salt plumes splashed into my face, my eyes pursuing the light of the lighthouse I could faintly see.
I didn't have the courage to look back.

Later on, the Master told me he'd let me listen to that tape we made that night out at sea.
As it turned out, I had yet to hear it.
In the spirit of “Danger past, God forgotten”, I blithely went to the Master's room.

“We recorded the impossible.”

There is no way, having been told that, I could not hear it.
Setting the cassette player on the table, the Master pressed play.
The muffled sounds of waves and wind echoed from far off.
Moving my ears closer to listen, I had the feeling that mixed in with that was something else, a different sound.
When we raised the volume, you could definitely hear it.
Neither staticy white noise nor a low, heavy rumbling sound, some orderly connection of sounds.
And it was repeated, over and over.

If you raised the volume more, rather than hearing it more clearly, the sound began to break up.
But if you focused and listened closely while cleverly adjusting it, you realized that it was made up of two words.

It was an indescribable sound that could be taken as both a human voice and as a natural sound.
The instant I understood those two words, I bolted up out of my seat and caught my breath.

Those two words were

with no mistake....

his name and mine.

＊＊＊

*Kaidan – a traditional Japanese “ghost” story usually involving the unexplainable, a flexible concepts of time and space, strange meetings, love gone wrong, the supernatural… Curious and sometimes terrifying stories, but never centered on nor featuring either gore or sex.

Original text story: syarecowa.moo.jp
(Japanese only.)
Audio recording: www.nicovideo.jp/watch/1279969676
(Account with nicovideo required. Japanese only.)


Stay tuned and ╠╣αppy Ѽ ╠╣αlloween ┊ ┊┊ ┊┊۶ ه Ѽ ☻ ٩(●̮̮̃•̃)۶

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

All translations copyrighted and owned by myself. All copyrights of their respective owners. No part of this web site may be produced, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the copyright owner.

Skittles! Taste the Rainbow of... Terror?

Late one sleepless night, the idea struck me...

What about colors?

Are there certain colors that seem to have a predisposition for evoking fear?
What colors evoke fear?
What colors seem to have no association to any sense of terror?
And if there are any colors, are those color associations shared across cultures?

I can only work in English and Japanese so those are the two cultures I will be working in.

So far my list is as follows:


RED - The Masque of the Red Death (free audio version available), The Red Beyond the Keyhole (Japanese,鍵穴の向こうの赤, my translation planned), The Red Room (free audio version available), The Red World (free audio in Japanese,赤い世界, no translation unless many requests)

ORANGE - ???

YELLOW - The Yellow Sign, The Yellow Wallpaper (free audio version available for both)

GREEN - Children of Light, Memories of Green (Japanese, 光の子供、緑の記憶, might translate it)

BLUE - Red Paper, Blue Paper; Story of Moon and Rain: The Blue Skullcap (Japanese, 赤い紙、青い紙；雨月物語、青頭巾; might translate them)

PURPLE- The Purple Cloud, 紫ちりめん　振袖火事 (vague recollection of this story. need to find source)

BLACK - The Black Cat (free audio version available), The Black Dog (free audio only)

BROWN - ???

WHITE - The White People (though not really scary; free audio version available)

Also, I have not read nor know of anyone who has read these, but these following are also more candidates for green:

The Green Mummy

The Green God


If you have read the above or can suggest others in either language, we would love to hear of them!
list last updated 2011/07


Stay tuned and happy listening~! (^_-)-☆

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

All translations copyrighted and owned by myself. All copyrights of their respective owners. No part of this web site may be produced, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the copyright owner.

Invitation From a Dream - 現代怪談

I have always had extremely, exhaustive vivid dreams.

Some have felt like epics.
Some have felt like video replays, like they have happened before.
Some have yet to happen.

As the Chinese philosopher 荘子 (Soushi) once said, you begin to wonder, is the one in the dream the real me, or is the one in the waking state the real me?

Invitation From a Dream
A Modern Japanese Kaidan^*

original story copyrighted by author @ syarecowa.moo.jp/231/5.html
translation copyrighted by M. L. Mills, 2010

＊＊＊

I wonder if there is such a thing as to repeatedly see the same house, the same place in your dreams?

For the most part, places in people's dream are of the past homes they lived in, of their friend's or relative's houses.
But even places for which you have no memory at all, often appear in dreams.

＊＊＊

From a long time ago, there is a place I have seen in my dreams.
It is a two-story house that one would commonly see around, yet just slightly European.
Although I don't remember when I first started to see it, by the time I had entered Junior High it was already conjuring up that feeling of “Ah, here again.”

I had a very close friend whom we shall call 'K'.
Being that we were neighbors and our mothers were also good friends, we were back and forth to each other's respective homes on a near daily basis.
The comics we liked, the characters we used in our video games... they were all the same.
Our grades too were more or less the same, as were our heights and weights.

One day during our first year of junior high we were hanging out as usual when the topic of dreams came up.

"I Always dream about the same house.”
'K' was all over that as soon as I the words left my mouth.

According to 'K', he had had similar experiences.

Writing on a piece of scratch pad paper, I explained the layout of the house from my dream.
To which 'K' responded, “It's the same one!”

As we talked we came to feel that that house was indeed exactly the same in both of our dreams.
Our curiosity was propelled on by this peculiar happenstance and we began to talk of our dreams more frequently.

The house was fairly large - a place big enough for a family of four or five to live in.
And yet, neither of us had ever been into the one corner room of the first floor.

With everything else at that time and given we were at that curious in-between age of early adolescence, we decided on a competition to see which one of us would be first to make it into that room.

From that time on I had only nightmares.
I was chased around the house by a knife-wielding manic; I was pursued by a ghost whose form I couldn't see.
In the end, I wasn't able to get close to that corner room.

'K' reported the same problem.
At first we were all excited remarking, “I bet we were brothers in our former life!”

Then gradually we stopped talking about the dreams altogether.
Because we were too similar and that was frankly too creepy.
It's not that we looked alike, but it felt like there was some kind of “sympathy” shared between us that only we understood.
'K' seemed to feel the same way and so choose to go to a different High School when the time came.
Even so that didn't change our status of best friends and we often talked on the phone.
But again, when it came time to choose an after-school club activity or our future university, there was an unspoken understanding that we would choose differently from the other.

About the time we entered university, we gradually fell out of touch living in our different environments.
Then during winter vacation when I returned home, I found a New Year's greeting card from 'K' had arrived.
His pet dog was on it.
It was very nostalgic for me to see that he was still alive and well.

Beneath the standard printed “Happy New Year!” was a small note in 'K's handwriting:
"I've been called to that room. I'll see ya.”

I felt my blood drain at those words.

In a dream I had had just a few days earlier, I too, had been called to that room.
As usual, I had been seeing that house-dream on a regular basis, but at that time there was something subtlety different about the atmosphere.

Walking around through the empty house, I had the impression - “Ah, NOW, I can go into that room.”
Except I didn't go.
I couldn't go.

Just as I was heading for it my cell phone rang and woke me up.

＊＊＊

Awhile after school had resumed a call came from my mother.
'K' had apparently gone missing.
The story was that one day he had just unexpectedly disappeared from the apartment where he had been living alone.
'K''s parents naturally came over to ask my mother if she knew of anything.
Of course, there was no way I could mention the dream, so I also could only say that I didn't know anything about it.

Since then more than six months have past.

'K' still hasn't been found.

＊＊＊

*Kaidan – a traditional Japanese “ghost” story usually involving the unexplainable, a flexible concepts of time and space, strange meetings, love gone wrong, the supernatural… Curious and sometimes terrifying stories, but never centered on nor featuring either gore or sex.

Original text story:syarecowa.moo.jp
(Japanese only.)
Audio recording:www.nicovideo.jp/watch/sm12257253
(Account with nicovideo required. Japanese only.)


Stay tuned and happy listening~! (^_-)-☆

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

All translations copyrighted and owned by myself. All copyrights of their respective owners. No part of this web site may be produced, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the copyright owner.

The Third Person - 現代怪談

Kicking off round 2 of seasonal ghostly fun with a recent favorite・・・

Master Series : The Third Person
A Modern Japanese Kaidan^*

original story copyrighted by author @ syarecowa.moo.jp
translation copyrighted by M. L. Mills, 2010

＊＊＊

In a 2nd grade elementary school classroom, the assignment of “draw your family” came up one day in Art class. Chatting happily, all the children drew away with colored pencils, filling up the construction paper with their pictures.

A mother, a father, and a daughter lined up in a field smiling cheerfully.
Two children playing on what looked like a slide with mother and father watching.
Pictures included grandmothers and grandfathers, too. Not just mother and father.

Many children also added pictures of the family pets – dogs and cats – in their drawings. The feeling that the family pet was also a family member was strong at this stage in their life.

After class, the teacher examined every picture, one after another, then suddenly paused, tilting her head when she came upon the drawing of one student. The picture was drawn by the most well-behaved, quiet boy of the class and at first glance a very lively, merry picture done with an abundant number of colored pencils.

And yet, there was a strange sense of something being 'off' about it.

Drawn on the construction paper was a family sitting around a table-like structure. It was likely a scene from some past pleasant mealtime. Everyone was facing outwards, towards the viewer, but there was something funny in the makeup.

Starting from the left, there was a father-like adult wearing glasses, then a mother-like adult with permed hair, followed by the one boy. But at the far right edge, there was one more person.



Everyone was laughing. She could tell from the exaggerated use of red inside the open mouths, yet only the person on the far right edge sat expressionless with mouth closed, eyes thinly drawn like line of string.

She could tell it was an adult from the size of the body. All the children in class very obviously
distinguished themselves as children from the adults by differences in size.

However, although she could not very well tell the age of the person on the far right, there was not a single “wrinkle” line so at the very least it did not seem to be an elderly person.

Three adults and one child.
… …

It was a picture that made one feel somehow uncomfortable.

The teacher recalled the makeup of the boy's family. The family lived in single room apartment in a large housing complex and consisted of a mother, father, and their only child, the boy.
That would make them only a family of three.

So, whoever was this third adult?
Perhaps a relative had come by for a visit recently?

Considering that, she shook off the lingering unpleasant feeling.
Once she got her mind back on track, she flipped over to the next picture.

Yet way in the back of her mind she could not help wondering why in the midst of that laughing family should only the third adult be drawn without any expression?

Two weeks passed.

It was Class Observation Day – decoratively dressed adults lined the back wall and the children were in a state of distraction. Even the children who were forever up to no good, this one time they were well-behaved, stiff as a rod with nervousness.

At the end of class, the teacher addressed the children.
“Recently in art class we drew our family picture, didn't we?”

The children yelled in excitement.
The teacher gestured to the wall behind the participating parents. “The pictures hung on the wall behind you are those very pictures.”
Simultaneously all the parents turned around and began searching for the picture their child drew, relying on names written at the bottom.

The mothers protested in exaggerated embarrassment.
The fathers grinned wryly in silence.
And each of the children burst into excitement and activity.

Gazing contentedly at the scene before her, the teacher began to step down from her podium and walk to the back of the classroom in order to speak with the parents.

At that very moment an earsplitting scream rang out.

It vibrated throughout the classroom. All movement stopped, both children and adults held their breath. The scream came from a woman with permed-hair looking at a picture hanging at the corner of the wall.

The teacher ran over to her, but the woman continued screaming, eyelids peeled back, fingers like hooks and pressed against her mouth.

As she followed the woman's direct line of sight, the teacher saw the face of the expressionless third person sitting at the edge of the table.




“... a ghost story like that.”, spoke the 'master'.
It was the spring I had just entered university.
He was an upperclassman in my college social group, but completely unrelated to group activities he had a serious dose occult-mania and I tottered along behind him like a disciple or a child.

“Where is this place?”
I asked yet had some inkling of what the answer would be.
We had snuck into one of the (for all intents and purposes) 'abandoned' rooms of a deserted mass apartment building,

On the straw floor mat we crouched upon were old tracks left from shoes, empty cans, marks of things burned. It looked like it had been at least over five years since anyone had lived there.

The master answered. “This is the room that the child lived in with his family. The one who drew the third person ”

“So, it was a real story?”

He nodded when I asked, “Originally, this tale did not spread as an urban ghost story. I collected it through my own connections.” , then switched off the flashlight that had been illuminating the room.

It was past 1AM at night. We were surrounded in blackness.
Why would he turn off the light?, I thought as a creeping sensation of fear raised its head.

“You understand the meaning of this story, yes?” came his master-like voice from the darkness.
In some vague way...yes, I had understood.

In the end, she screamed out because it was strange for that third person to be drawn in there.

It was not someone she absolutely did not know. If that were the case, at most she would have tilted her head and thought, “Who is that?”, not shown such an extreme reaction.

It was someone she knew.
Someone who should never have been there.

But again, if it was a member of the family who had passed away, she would have gotten teary-eyed at her son's display of empathy, certainly not have screamed in overwhelming fear.

Someone she knew.
Someone not in the family.
Someone who should never have been sitting at that table.

The light of the moon bled into the dark room, only faintly illuminating the walls, the pillars, the profile of the master who was supposed to be sitting right in front of me.

I sat stiffly in the cramped living room where once that table stood.

In the darkness, I had a feeling that a pale-white, expressionless face was looming up and was
overcome by an uncontrollable chill.

The master spoke softly, a mere vibration filling the tense air.
“Actually, you may not be aware of this, but there is a natural effect that occurs upon those that hear this story.”

There was a sound of breath being gently expelled.
I, too, breathed in; breathed out.

“Why, having only heard this story, are you already imagining that face?”
My heart beat louder, enough so that I was spurred on by the impulse to cover my ears.

“Why, having only heard it was an adult, are you imagining that face as not the face of a woman, but that of a close-lipped, expressionless man?”

I put my hands over my ears and closed my eyes.
On its own my mind was imaging that face floating in nothingness.

From someplace a voice came to me.

“That face is the face of the third person. The one who should not be here.”

＊＊＊

*Kaidan – a traditional Japanese “ghost” story usually involving the unexplainable, a flexible concepts of time and space, strange meetings, love gone wrong, the supernatural… Curious and sometimes terrifying stories, but never centered on nor featuring either gore or sex.

Original text story: syarecowa.moo.jp
(Japanese only.)
Audio recording: www.nicovideo.jp/watch/sm11600093
(Account with nicovideo required. Japanese only.)



Stay tuned and happy listening~! (^_-)-☆

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

All translations copyrighted and owned by myself. All copyrights of their respective owners. No part of this web site may be produced, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the copyright owner.