Sagaki gripped the worn sideboard of the cart, knuckles white, as it rattled forward over the uneven forest path. The old couple at the front were silent, and the children behind her stared wide-eyed into the encroaching darkness. Above, a thick veneer of black clouds swallowed the stars, and the forest sank into gloom as the sun disappeared silently beyond the horizon. Only the small candle lantern dangling from the cart cast a pool of amber light that stretched across twisted branches and gnarled boulders, making them loom for a heartbeat before vanishing back into shadow. Sagaki's stomach tightened with tension; the silence pressed against her chest, heavy and expectant.
The old woman shifted on her seat, wrinkled hands resting on her knees. "So… how are you holding up, dear?" she asked, voice soft but carrying an undertone of something Sagaki couldn't quite place.
"I'm… alright. Thank you. Things have been rough," Sagaki replied, trying to keep her voice steady.
The woman smiled, the lines of her face deepening. "Of course, deary, there is no need to thank me. We hope to make you feel at home. If you need to talk—or simply have someone listen—my husband and I are here for that. That's why we volunteered to help you."
Sagaki nodded politely, though a chill crept along her spine. There was something about the woman's smile that didn't sit right.
The cart rounded a bend and slowed before a small hut of weathered mudbrick, its roof low and shingled, windows shuttered tightly. "We've arrived!" the woman said as she climbed down.
Sagaki followed, shivering. The hut looked deceptively warm, a small glow promising shelter. The old man opened the door, holding the lantern, and the group entered. The woman closed it behind them, locking it with a heavy iron bracket. Sagaki's eyes swept over the interior: walls crumbling, wooden braces sagging, the floor uneven. She swallowed, forcing herself to smile. They're just old, and poor. It's hard work keeping a house standing.
"Make yourself at home," the woman said cheerfully.
"You have a… lovely home," Sagaki replied.
"Oh, dear! You must be famished. Please, join us for supper." The woman bustled forward, her eyes bright with almost exaggerated eagerness.
"I… I couldn't take your food. I feel quite tired," Sagaki murmured.
The woman's smile broadened, revealing a row of uneven teeth. "I insist, deary. You look frail. Please, at least try a bite."
Sagaki sat at the small, battered table. Her eyes roamed over the sparse furnishings as the old man's voice broke into her thoughts, deep and cracked with age. "So… why were you in the woods alone?"
"I… I got lost," Sagaki began, her voice faltering.
"Is anyone looking for you? How did you come so far from home?" he pressed.
Sagaki lowered her eyes, voice tight. "I… was looking for someone…"
The old man continued asking, each question more insistent: her family, where she lived, if she was married. She offered only half-answers, glancing at the woman bent over a pot on the tiny fire pit, scraping at it with a worn spoon.
"My wife makes the best soup," the man said at last, gesturing toward the woman. "You'll enjoy it, I promise."
Sagaki tried to muster a smile. "I… I can't wait to try it."
The woman bustled forward, placing wooden bowls on the table and ladling crimson soup into each. Chunks of unidentifiable ingredients floated in the liquid, and for a moment Sagaki's stomach knotted at its blood-like color.
The woman smirked at the old man. "Darling, quit asking so many questions. You're overwhelming our guest."
Sagaki forced herself to relax, though unease settled like a stone in her stomach. She lifted the spoon to her lips—the liquid was bitter and metallic. Hunger and fear warred within her, stomach twisting, threatening to expel the strange, bloody-tinted broth.
"I… can I step outside for a moment?" she asked shakily.
"We haven't reached dessert yet," the woman said, teeth glinting in the candlelight. "Have a few bites first."
Sagaki obeyed, swallowing the bitter soup, then watched the children wolf down red bean buns while the old woman's eyes flicked to her. "What happened to your family? Did your husband treat you well?"
"And your children?" the man added, voice sharp now. "Might you have a son? Where is he?"
Sagaki's hands trembled. Their eyes were fixed on her, unblinking, penetrating. "I… I'm tired. Perhaps… we should all rest," she stammered.
The woman leaned closer, cooing softly. "Tell us, dear. Maybe it will help you feel better."
Sagaki swallowed, trembling in her chair. She watched as the woman's expression shifted from slack to sweetly smiling, and the man's gaze hardened, eyes dark and unreadable. "Umm… where will I sleep tonight?" Sagaki asked finally.
Both their arms shot up in unison, pointing to a small, sagging door. Sagaki bowed, whispered a polite goodnight, and slipped through the doorway. The room inside was tiny, cold, and sparse. The bed was lumpy, covered in dust. She climbed in slowly, shivering, adjusting to its uneven surface.
A knock came at the door. The old man's voice, deep and fractured, called out, "May I enter?" Before she could answer, the door swung open. He stomped toward her, each footfall loud against the earthen floor. Leaning close, breath sour and stale, he asked, "Is everything to your comfort?"
"This room… it will suffice," Sagaki said quietly.
The man's face twisted, his voice thick, almost inhuman. "Do not upset her next time. Obey."
Sagaki nodded, swallowing her fear. His rictus smile lingered as he straightened and muttered, "Good night."
Alone in the darkness, Sagaki's heart raced. She whispered to herself, They're just tense… unfamiliar… helping me. But the memory of the man's shadowy face and the woman's sudden shifts in mood lingered, chilling her. She tried to sleep, tossing fitfully, until the night swallowed her consciousness.
When she awoke, the sounds of muffled, clashing voices filled the room. One voice was deep, the other hissing, indecipherable. Then silence fell, heavy and deafening. Sagaki's body tensed. Something was wrong. She felt… watched.
Opening her eyes, she saw the couple standing at the foot of her bed, bathed in thin beams of moonlight. Their eyes were hollow, impossibly black, lips curling into ghastly smiles. Some dark liquid seeped from the corners of their mouths. Her body froze, leaden and unresponsive.
From the corner of her vision, she saw grotesque movement. Flesh peeled and slid, making moist, squelching sounds. The man's chest partially collapsed, exposing raw tissue. Her skin went icy; her stomach twisted. They are not human. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She tried to move, but her limbs betrayed her. The wall between waking and dream dissolved, and she moaned as unconsciousness claimed her.
Morning came in ragged shards of light. Sagaki awoke, tears streaming, eyes darting to every corner. The room was decayed and broken—walls cracked, furniture collapsed, ceiling rotted. Red stains, like remnants of the previous night's horrors, smeared the floorboards.
Gripping her bundle, Sagaki staggered to the door. Her legs weak, heart hammering, she stumbled over debris. The world tilted, warped—walls grew taller, floors curved like waves, the ruined room stretching into impossible angles. Corpses, mangled and rotting, filled her vision, glassy eyes staring. She screamed, throwing herself forward, bursting through the door.
Outside, the forest breathed a cold, damp relief. The cart and its tracks were gone. The ancient ghouls, the horrific visions, perhaps had never been there. Yet a mark burned faintly on her arm, a burn etched with purpose. She tugged her sleeve free. The forest was silent witness as she continued forward, determined to find her son.