The Begingning
Living alone in Tokyo has been... an experience, it was hard to stick out, so many competition in every single line of work. With your rent due, your student loans and your allowance running out, you decided to become a streamer, but if you thought Tokyo was cut throat and had too much competition, the streaming community was worse, it was a fucking monster who swallowed mediocre people whole. So when you're grandma- Michiko, died and left you her old countryside house in Saitama, you couldn't help but still feel relieved despite the grief.
“At least I can turn this place into a guesthouse… or burn it down for insurance,” you muttered, dragging your suitcase up the mossy stone path.
The house loomed ahead, it looked like it came from the Edo-era with wooden beams blackened by age and walls of sliding paper doors that rattled in the wind. The roof sagged under the weight of cracked clay tiles, and the wraparound wooden veranda creaked whenever you took a step, its planks weakened by decades of rain. Inside, the air smelled of stale tatami mats and the faintest trace of incense with your grandmother’s favorite sandalwood blend, a scent that clung to her like a second skin.
You stepped into the entryway, kicking off your shoes beside a pair of Michiko’s old wooden sandals . The hallway stretched into shadow, lined with dusty altar shelves holding cracked clay dolls, eerie Noh masks, they're traditional theater masks with hollow eyes, and paper talismans yellowed with age. Above them, sacred ropes hung almost patheticly, their zigzag paper streamers frayed and brittle.
But it was the music box that stopped you cold.
Tucked into a hidden alcove, it was a black-lacquered wooden chest etched with cranes and serpents. A tarnished bronze mirror sat on top of it, reflecting your tired face. When you touched the lid, the room seemed to exhale, a cold breath that prickled the back of your neck. You quickly take your hand back, as if you'd been burned.
Why did she keep all this creepy shit…? I think I have to get rid of some of these, or atleast replace them, the tatami mats too.
You were never interested in the trinkets your grandma owned, especially since the shit she did was way more interesting. To you, she was a con artist, a master of scams, she would fake séances in this very house. Performing “exorcisms” with salt and sake, she would bring you to places that needed exorcisms as a 'good luck charm' playing the wide-eyed granddaughter to swindle grieving families.
You were sure she was scamming people, she had to be, no way all this stuff was actually real. It didn't help your specticism when she taught you every scam you know, from pretending to be lost to get bus money from strangers so that you can buy snacks, to making accurate counterfeit money and evading taxes. To bad you don't use them, not because it was morally wrong, you knew that if you got caught, there was NO way you could run and hide away from the law like Grandma Michiko did.
“The world preys on the weak,” she’d say, her voice sharp as a blade, “So prey first.”
But now, alone in her house, the memories felt heavier. The storage shed out back, where she’d “cleansed” cursed artifacts. The household Buddhist altar in her room, its statue missing a hand. The way neighbors whispered "yūrei-ya" (meaning ghost handler) whenever she's the topic of gossip.
You shook your head and snapped out of your trance, you didn't even realized that you stopped walking. Although in your memory, your grandma was a thieving and conniving... person, she's the only person you relied on and vice versa. You can't help but feel upset that she died so suddenly.
As you finish unpacking in your house, you hadn't realized that the sun had already set. Feeling a little cold and hungry you pulled on a quilted jacket and headed to the kitchen. That’s when you saw it, a flicker of movement in the paper-screen door’s moonlit glow.
A child stood in the overgrown garden, their silhouette smudged and translucent. They held a chipped stone lantern, its light casting no shadow. With a giggle that echoed like wind chimes, they swung the lantern at thepaper charm nailed above the back door, a talisman Michiko had painted years ago, its ink bleeding into the wood.
Crack.
The charm split down the middle. The air turned ice-cold, sharp enough to sting your lungs. It felt like the house itself had inhaled sharply, a silence so heavy it pressed against your eardrums.
“H-Hey!” Your teeth chattered, breath fogging the air. “The fuck are you doing?!”
You slid open the screen door, its wooden frame screeching. The garden lay still under the moon, overgrown vines swallowing the stone path. The child was gone… but at your feet sat the chipped stone lantern, its candle snuffed out.
No way. I saw them. Right?
You crouched, fingertips brushing the lantern’s icy surface. A low, wet gurgle echoed from the shadows, like water choking a drain. Your head snapped up. The paper talisman hung in splinters, its inked symbols now jagged cracks splitting the wood.
Grandma said these were just for show. To scare clients. So why…?
A twig snapped behind you.
You whirled around. The garden was empty. But the cold deepened, seeping into your joints, your bones. From the corner of your eye, the stone lantern flickered to life, casting a sickly green glow.
Schizophrenia? Sleep deprivation? maybe a carbon monoxide leak-
The lantern’s light flared.
Something stood at the edge of the garden.
Tall. Too tall. Its limbs bent at wrong angles, shadows pooling around it like a funeral kimono. The air reeked of stagnant water and rust.
Not real. Not real. Not-
The thing took a step forward. It's steps didn't make a sound. The gravel didn’t shift.
Your legs moved before your brain caught up. You slammed the screen door shut, fumbling for the lock. The wooden latch trembled in your grip.
This isn’t happening. Grandma’s scams weren’t real. None of this is-
Behind you, the house exhaled.
A wet, ragged breath.
Slowly, you turned.
The hallway stretched into blackness, the Noh masks on the shelves now tilted toward you. Their painted mouths stretched into grins.
And at the far end, where the music box sat, something shifted.
A shadow.
Human-shaped.
Walking towards you.
The shadow lurched forward, its limbs contorted like broken marionette strings. The Noh masks on the shelves tilted toward you, their hollow eyes tracking your every move. Your throat tightened, but as the thing staggered closer, a memory flickered, maybe it was your brain's way of protecting yourself but you remembered something you hadn’t thought of in years.
You were six years old, hiding under Michiko’s kotatsu table during a storm. Thunder shook the house, and the lights died. “It’s just the wind,” she lied, sliding open the hidden alcove. The music box’s melody spilled out, a lullaby of hollow bamboo chimes and plucked koto strings. “Listen, little ghost,” she whispered. “Even darkness dances to a song.” She looked at the top of the kotatsu table, as if there was something there, after a few moments of the music box being opened, the storm began to quiet down, it wasn't extreme as it used to be.
You lunged for the music box, fingers scrambling at the tarnished latch. The shadow’s breath hissed against your neck, it felt rotten and wet.
Click.
The lid sprang open.
The melody was the same: slow and probably ancient. The air hummed with a vibration that prickled your skin. The shadow froze, its elongated head cocking sideways.
“S-Stay back,” you stammered, clutching the box to your chest.
The thing shuddered, then let out a deafening wail. The paper lanterns lining the hallway flared to life, their light shining gold across the tatami. The shadow dissolved like ink in water, leaving behind the acrid stench of burnt hair.
Silence.
Your hands shook as you stared at the music box. The bronze mirror on its lid reflected your face, you look like you had just died and came back to life.
Grandma’s voice echoed “Even darkness dances to a song.”