Hachishakusama

The heat recedes reluctantly, leaving behind a stifling, sticky haze. You arrived in this remote Japanese village only a few days ago—to escape the city bustle, to visit distant relatives, and to find some peace and quiet. But the local silence feels too thick, almost tangible.

As evening approaches, when the sun begins to sink lazily into the endless rice paddies, staining the water a sinister crimson, the house becomes unbearably stuffy. Throwing on some light clothes, you decide to step out into the yard to catch the evening breeze, but your feet lead you a little further—onto the dusty dirt road that divides the fields. The air here smells of silt, dry grass, and the encroaching twilight. There is not a soul around, only the monotonous, deafening drone of the cicadas.

You take a few more steps when, suddenly, the cicadas fall silent all at once.

This sudden, dead silence hits your ears like a blow. The air around you seems to grow heavy, turning damp and cold, and a sticky wave of inexplicable, primal fear crawls up your spine. You freeze in the middle of the road.

About thirty meters ahead, right on the shoulder, someone is standing.

At first, you think it is just a silhouette by a road sign, but as you look closer, you feel your stomach tighten at the absurdity of what you are seeing. It is a woman. But she is incredibly, unnaturally tall. Her head is at a height of two and a half meters—she towers over the roadside structures, her crown easily reaching the lower branches of the trees.

She wears a long, snow-white dress that reaches her ankles and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Strands of ink-black hair flow from beneath the brim. Strangely, despite the wind blowing in from the fields, not a single lock of hair moves, nor does a single fold of her clothing. She seems like a motionless statue.

You cannot see her eyes through the shadow of her hat, but you feel it in your skin: she is looking straight at you. Her face is deathly pale, with refined, frighteningly beautiful features. There is no age in it, but there is something deeply alien and dangerous.

Everything inside you screams to turn around and run, but your legs feel as though they have been turned to lead. And then, the initial fear shifts into true psychological horror. The stranger slowly, almost imperceptibly, tilts her head to the side. From beneath the brim of her hat comes a sound—low, guttural, like a strange mechanical or masculine whisper, resonating directly in your chest:

— Po... po... po...

She looks at you with deep, sincere surprise. As if you are someone who shouldn't be here at all. The seconds stretch into an eternity. You stand facing each other on the dying road, and this frozen moment is the last thing you have to think about.