Rain had a way of making the iron gates of Aokigahara High groan like something half-alive. The morning it all began, clouds sagged low over the foothills of Mount Fuji, heavy with the hush of something waiting. Mist clung to the moss-covered path winding up from the town below, and the scent of pine and damp earth lingered in the air like an old secret. Somewhere in the distance, a temple bell rang—not quite on the hour—and a shiver rolled down Isaac Moreau's spine.
He stood at the bottom of the steps leading to the school's main entrance, the shoulders of his jacket darkened by rain. The jacket, a faded army-green surplus, had belonged to someone else once. The stitching on one cuff had come undone, and the lining was fraying near the collar, but it was warm, and it didn't ask questions. Like Isaac, it simply observed.
Above him, the school's bell tower groaned, its deep clang reverberating oddly through the fog-drenched air. The bell chimed once, twice—then fell silent, the third toll cut short as though something had clamped down on it from within. Ten minutes too early.
No one else seemed to notice. A group of girls in matching navy blazers giggled under a single umbrella, their laughter echoing with unnatural clarity. A boy with dyed silver hair and headphones shuffled past without looking up, tapping on a sleek radio clipped to his school bag. From it, a faint voice crackled through static:
"—emergency advisory now extended to parts of Shikoku. Residents are urged to remain indoors and await further—"
The transmission fizzled into static, then abruptly transitioned into a cheerful jingle advertising bottled milk tea. Isaac tilted his head slightly. No one reacted.
He always noticed the things others ignored.
With a glance at the tower, Isaac stepped forward. The old wooden doors of Aokigahara High creaked open with the weight of age and secrets. The corridor inside was dim, lit by flickering overhead bulbs that buzzed like trapped flies. The floor tiles were worn smooth in places, as though thousands of feet had scuffed them down through years of repetition. It smelled of mildew, antiseptic, and something older—like dried leaves or forgotten incense.
"You ever think this place is cursed?"
The voice came from behind him. Elena Voss. Her curls were pulled into a damp, tangled bun, rainwater dripping onto the scuffed collar of her uniform. Her socks didn't match, and she had safety pins on her backpack where others had cute charms.
"All the time," Isaac said, his mouth twitching at the corner.
Elena fell into step beside him. She had a strange way of walking, like someone used to avoiding attention—shoulders slightly hunched, eyes flicking from doorway to doorway. Isaac suspected she saw more than she ever said.
Her mother was a local—Shinto roots and shrinekeeping lineage, if the gossip was true. Her father had been European. Or American. No one seemed quite sure, and Elena wasn't telling. The combination made her an oddity in the town and, by extension, in school.
"Did you hear about the broadcast last night?" she asked. "On NHK?"
"Something about people disappearing?"
Elena nodded. "Small towns. Coastal. They're saying disease, but no one's naming it. Some guy on an AM station said it's like 'they lose their faces.' Not literally—just, you know, who they are. And then they go quiet."
Isaac frowned. "Like… amnesia?"
"Like possession."
They turned a corner into a hallway even less welcoming than the last. The lights here were dimmer, the windows fogged with condensation. Water pooled under a leaky spot near the lockers.
The hum of vending machines broke the silence, a mechanical drone that felt oddly aggressive in the stillness. Isaac glanced at the one labeled Snacks and saw his reflection in the glass—a little distorted, stretched. His mouth didn't quite line up with his chin. He looked away.
Ahead, a figure stood by the bulletin board, methodically pinning up a flyer. Lily Chen. Her uniform looked like it had been pressed an hour ago. Not a single hair was out of place on her bob-cut. She glanced at them with eyes that gave nothing away.
"Morning," she said, voice flat but polite.
Elena stepped closer to read the flyer.
LOST CAT – Answers to Belladonna. Last seen near the shrine grounds. Black with gold eyes.
"That's the sixth one," Elena muttered.
"Seventh," Lily corrected. "You forgot the one from two weeks ago. The teacher's cat. The one with the red collar."
Isaac leaned in. "What do you think is happening to them?"
Lily folded her hands in front of her. "Cats are sensitive. They disappear when the air goes sour."
He gave her a curious look. "You think something's wrong with the air?"
"I think something's watching. And cats don't like to be watched."
The sound of footsteps echoed behind them—uneven, twitchy, like someone trying to be quiet but failing miserably. Jonah Pellman emerged from the stairwell, his shirt untucked and his neck craned forward like he was listening for ghosts.
"Did you see the news this morning?" he asked without preamble. "The ferry from Uwajima? It docked empty. No passengers. Doors left wide open. The Coast Guard found blood, but no bodies. They think the crew jumped."
"Or were pulled," Elena said under her breath.
Jonah nodded excitedly. "Exactly. Something's spreading. And it's not just an outbreak. I checked the satellite maps—there's heat blooms around abandoned shrines. Old ones. Pre-Meiji era. It's like they're waking up."
"'They'?" Isaac asked.
Jonah shrugged. "I don't know. But I've been reading old Yamabiko texts. Folklore from the mountains. They talk about sicknesses that come with the wrong kind of wind. Diseases that weren't diseases. More like… echoes. Or possession."
Elena looked to Isaac. "This is sounding less like science and more like your kind of theory."
Before Isaac could answer, the hallway speaker crackled to life. A dry, weary voice filled the corridor.
"Students, please remember to remain indoors during lunch today. This is due to ongoing safety concerns following the recent wildlife disturbance."
Jonah rolled his eyes. "Right. Wildlife."
"The authorities are investigating," the voice continued. "And until then, all students are to avoid the forest trails and outer gates."
The speaker clicked off. A moment of uneasy silence followed.
"They've never closed the outer gates," Elena said. "Not even during the bear sighting last year."
Lily gave a small shrug. "Maybe it's not a bear this time."
The warning bell rang, sharp and shrill. Isaac's ears rang slightly from the tone—it was wrong. Not in pitch, but in feeling. Like someone scraping bone.
He glanced out the nearest window. A government vehicle was parked just beyond the school fence. A man in a tan windbreaker stood beside it, staring at the school. His face was obscured by the rain, but Isaac had the distinct impression the man wasn't blinking. He turned to point this out—
—but the man was gone.
"Come on," Elena said, already heading toward homeroom. "Let's not be late. If they're watching, I'd rather not stand out."
They moved down the corridor, past a row of classroom doors, most already filled with murmuring students. The normalcy felt fragile, like a dream holding itself together with hope and routine.
Inside their classroom, desks stood in their usual neat rows. The windows were shut tight, and condensation blurred the view outside. Their teacher wasn't there yet.
As Isaac slid into his seat near the window, he noticed Lily had taken the one beside him. She was sketching quietly in her notebook—a series of concentric circles with jagged lines intersecting them. It didn't look like art. It looked like a map.
"Is that…?" he began.
She closed the notebook.
"Just a doodle," she said.
The rain tapped harder against the windows. Somewhere above them, the bell in the tower groaned again. Once, low and mournful.
Then silence.
And in that silence, Isaac could've sworn he heard breathing.
But no one was there.
That night, after the rain had stopped and the clouds drifted apart like smoke, Isaac sat on a stool behind the counter of the family's sushi restaurant, drying dishes. His mother, Kaede Moreau, moved with practiced grace between the prep station and the customer bar, her voice soft as she answered a customer's question about the day's catch.
"Maguro's fresh," she said in Japanese, her accent tinged by the years she'd spent in Marseille. "Caught this morning off Izu. Very soft texture. You'll like it."
Isaac watched her quietly. Most of the time, she didn't ask questions about his day. That was her way. She cooked, he dried, and in the silence, affection lived. But tonight, something hovered behind her eyes.
"You okay?" he asked.
She paused in the middle of slicing tuna.
"The news," she said finally. "That village in the south—Kōchi Prefecture. Gone. No cell signals. No answers. They're calling it a quarantine. But…"
Isaac didn't need her to finish.
"They said it was a landslide," he offered.
She shook her head. "No landslide smells like copper."
They stood in silence, the soft clink of plates and the murmur of customers the only soundtrack. Outside, the street was nearly empty. A cat darted into the shadows across the alley, tail flicking as it disappeared.
Isaac wiped a glass clean and stacked it gently.
His mother looked at him then, really looked.
"Whatever it is… stay near people you trust."
"I will."
She nodded once, as though sealing something unspoken.
And somewhere, deep within the stillness of the town, a bell rang again—faint, as if from underwater.