Real – Hall-of-Fame Japanese Creepypasta

[yokonaga]

Intro

Said to be the scariest story in all Japanese Creepypasta—possibly the most terrifying ever posted. A legendary horror tale.
A small “curse ritual” appears in the narrative; read at your own risk.

Real – Hall-of-Fame Japanese Creepypasta

It’s not that entertaining and I’ll try not to drag it out, so bear with me a bit.
Here goes.

First, let me warn you: if something latches on to you—haunts, follows, or targets you—it stops being a joke real fast.
And from my experience, a single O-harai* or two almost never fixes it.
Whatever it is eats away at you slowly over a long time, and more often than not it can’t be driven off.

*O-harai — a traditional Japanese purification/exorcism rite performed at Shintō shrines or Buddhist temples to cleanse evil spirits, misfortune, and spiritual impurity.*

In my case it lasted about two and a half years.
For the record, I still have all my limbs and live a normal life,
but I honestly don’t know if it’s truly over.

Let me start at the beginning.
I was 23 then, a first-year employee busy just staying afloat in a new life.
Because the company was tiny, my cohort was small—and that made us close.
One coworker from Tōhoku—let’s call him ○○—knew all sorts of things and had way too many connections.
You know those “do X and Y will happen” stories?
Most of them are bogus, but apparently a few can really happen if a handful of conditions line up.
According to him, that’s what triggers them.
In my case it was basically fooling around.

I’d just bought a car and started living alone; real paychecks were nothing like part-time wages, so I partied every weekend.
In early August, two girls I’d picked up, ○○, and I—four people total—drove to a so-called haunted spot for a Kimo-dameshi.*
Sure, it was creepy, icy-cold, and felt like something was there, but nothing happened; we got our thrill and went home.

*Kimo-dameshi: In Japan, there's a traditional summer activity called "kimodameshi", or a "test of courage," where people explore dark or haunted places at night to challenge their fear.*

Three days later.
At that company newbies couldn’t leave until the boss did, so I was always late getting home.
Exhausted, I got back to my apartment and—this still baffles me—stood before the full-length mirror by the door and did the “don’t ever do this” thing.
I didn’t plan to test it; it just popped into my head.

Details: my place was a one-room flat, eight tatami mats, fifteen minutes’ walk from the station.
A narrow hall led from the entrance to the room; the mirror sat right at the threshold.
○○ had told me, “If you do △ in front of a mirror and look right, ◆ will come[sic].”
The pose is basically a slight bow.

Muttering, “Like anything’s gonna come,” I bowed and turned right—
and there, in the middle of the room, something stood.
Its appearance was blatantly wrong.
Maybe 160 cm tall, hair a tangled curtain down to the waist, face hidden behind talisman papers.
It wore the white robes used for the dead and swayed left-right in tiny arcs.
I froze.
No voice, no movement; my brain spun trying to process it.

Picture it: a tiny one-room apartment, perfectly still, something just there.
You know the cause, yet your mind can’t make sense of the scene.
The lights were on—that made it worse, because I could see it.
Only the air around it looked bluish.
The silence felt like time itself had stopped.

My conclusion: **get out of the room**.
I slowly, carefully picked up my bag at my feet, never taking my eyes off it—felt I’d die if I did.
Backing away down the hall (three normal steps, yet it took ages),
its swaying grew wider, and it started emitting a low groan.
From that point I hardly remember anything—next thing, I was in the convenience store by the station.

Human company calmed me a bit, but my head was a mess:
*What the hell was that?* mixed with a weirdly calm *I left the door unlocked.*
I had zero courage to go back, so I spent the night in a family-restaurant booth until dawn.

When the sky lightened I timidly opened my door. Gone—thank God.
I stepped outside again, sipped canned coffee, had a smoke, telling myself maybe nothing had happened.
In daylight, feeling safer, I walked in bolder.
The light was off—no, the curtains shut; I flipped the switch and saw proof:
where it had stood, the floor was smeared with stinking mud—sewage, really—far beyond footprints.
Reality snapped back.
Then I realized: I never turned the light off last night… heh.
Mud coated my left hand on the switch.

I was gloomy for a while, but what’s done is done. Typical AB-blood mindset:
I cleaned the muck, showered, and went to work—smell still lingering, which pissed me off, but skipping work was a bigger deal.

At work life went on. I hunted for a chance to corner ○○ and get answers.

Lunch break, I finally caught him. Excerpt:

**Me**: “Remember that thing—‘Do △ and ◆ comes’? I tried it last night and it came.”
**○○**: “Huh? What?”
“Seriously, something showed up!”
“Oh, right, sure. *Something* came out, huh? (lewd joke)”
“Quit screwing around—something bad showed up!”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about!”
“I don’t either!!”

Getting nowhere, I calmly laid out everything.
○○ went from skeptical to half-believing.

After work he agreed to check my place.
Around ten we reached my door; the same stench hit us like a wall of heat.
“...Seriously?” he muttered—now he believed.
Could he offer a solution? Not really.
“Better get exorcised; I’ll ask around,” he said—and practically ran away.
About what I expected; I could only hope his many contacts would help.

Not wanting to stay in that stink, I booked a capsule hotel—honestly figured if it showed again I might be done for.

Next day I skipped work and tried the neighborhood temple.
The Buddhist monk said, “I’m not a specialist—why not rest? It’s probably just your imagination.”
Yeah, that’s the world for you.
I visited several well-known temples and shrines in Tokyo; same shrug everywhere.

Exhausted, I turned to my family in Saitama—technically to a Buddhist nun named S-sensei whom my grandmother respected.
Frankly, she was the only one I thought might take me seriously.

Let me introduce someone I’ll call **S-sensei** here.

My mom is from Nagasaki Prefecture, so naturally my grandmother still lives there.
Perhaps because she lived through the war, Grandma is a devoted Buddhist.
S-sensei is the Buddhist monk who runs the little temple-home Grandma visits once a week.
I’ve met her a few times.
I’m no expert, but her sect is famous enough to appear in school textbooks, so she’s worlds above those fake psychics—she’s served the Buddha in earnest.
She’s mild-mannered and speaks in a calm, gentle voice.

When I was starting junior high, Dad bought land and decided to build a house.
They held a **Jichinsai** before construction.

*Jichinsai — a traditional Japanese ground-purification ceremony, usually led by Shintō priests (sometimes with Buddhist prayers), held on a building site before construction begins to appease the local land deity, remove spiritual impurities, and pray for a safe, prosperous project.

A week later Grandma phoned from Nagasaki:
“The land still isn’t clean, so S-sensei will come and purify it again.”
Mom naturally said, “We already did that—why?”
Grandma replied, “But S-sensei says something’s still there.”
In short, as far as I knew, S-sensei was the only person I could really rely on.

Dusk was falling, and by the time I got off the bus near my parents’ home in Saitama it was just before nine.
Unlike Tokyo, the factory town was nearly deserted even at that hour.
I hurried the twenty-minute walk home; street-lights lined the empty, dark road in neat rows.
Inside I was frightened—the other night kept flashing back—but luckily that thing never appeared.

Yet in the cool night air I noticed something wrong with my body: the base of my neck felt burning hot,
as if a cord were wrapped around it and being tugged from side to side.
I put a hand to my neck and shivered—it was scorching, and it began to sting.
There seemed to be a rash.
Unable to keep walking, I sprinted the rest of the way home.

Panting, I opened the front door just as Mom hung up the phone.
The moment she saw me she said:

“Ah, you’re home. Grandma from Nagasaki called—she’s worried.
S-sensei says something bad’s happening and you should come down there. Did you do something?
Oh my, what happened to your neck!?”

Before answering I glanced into the entryway mirror—strangely, I didn’t even think that thing might appear.
A vivid red line circled the base of my neck like a rope.
Up close, tiny bumps covered the skin.
I started trembling.
Without a word to Mom I bolted up the stairs and, before the small Buddha statue in her room, chanted *Namu Amida Butsu* again and again—there was nothing else I could do.

*Namu Amida Butsu — a phrase chanted in Japanese Pure-Land Buddhism to entrust oneself to Amida Buddha; believed to ward off evil spirits.*

Dad came running, shouting “What’s wrong!?”
Mom sensed something was off and was calling Grandma again—I could hear her crying.
Only then did I truly understand: there was no escape; things had turned terrifying…

Three days passed after I returned home and understood my situation.
Whether from stress or something it had done, I ran a high fever for two days.
Sweat poured from my neck and by noon of day two blood began to seep.
By the morning of day three the bleeding had stopped—it had only been oozing.
My fever dropped to a mild one, but an intense itch remained around my neck.
It prickled and itched; any touch from pillow, futon, or towel sent sharp little pains.
Thinking the scabs made it itch, I tried not to touch.

I hid under the covers until evening, but on a bathroom trip I had to look in the mirror.
I didn’t want to, yet I had to see it with my own eyes.

The mirror showed something I’d never seen:
the redness had gone, but the bumps had swollen.
The line, once about a centimeter wide like a red cord, was now a mass of boil-like lumps, each filled with pus, like giant pimples jammed together.
Most were oozing; the sight was so horrifying I threw up on the spot.
I rinsed my neck with water, borrowed ointment from Mom, applied it, and cried into my futon.
I couldn’t think—only the anger of “Why me?” filled my head.

Exhausted from crying, my phone rang—it was ○○.
At times like this even a sliver of hope is huge; I’d never welcomed a call so much.

“Hello?”
“Heyyy! You okay?!”
“Obviously not…”
“So it’s really bad?”
“Bad doesn’t begin to cover it… Got anything for me?”
“Well, I asked friends back home but no one really knew… sorry.”
“Yeah? And?”
“I mean, a friend’s acquaintance is really strong with this stuff. I can introduce you, but it’ll cost money…”
“What?! It costs?”
“Yeah, apparently… What do you want to do?”
“How much?”
“My friend says around five-hundred-thousand yen to start…”
“Five hundred K?!”

To me that was an impossible sum, yet if it would free me from the fear and pain I had no choice.
“…Okay. When can you set it up?”
“That person’s in Gunma right now. I’ll ask my friend—hang on.”

While I was chanting *Namu Amida Butsu* in front of the small Buddha, Mom was on the phone with Grandma.
Grandma called S-sensei right away—more a cry for help than a consultation—and in the end S-sensei agreed to come.
But she was busy, and above all, elderly; the earliest she could make it was three weeks later.
That meant I’d have to live three weeks in fear, not knowing what might happen.
I felt I had to do whatever little I could, just to keep my nerves from snapping.

○○ called back a little after eleven that night.
‘Sorry to keep you. My buddy got back—he says he can come tomorrow.’
“Tomorrow?”
‘Yeah, Sunday, remember?’
So five days had passed since I saw that thing; funny how I’d forgotten work entirely.
“Got it, thanks. He’ll come to the house?”
‘Yep, driving over—mail me your address.’
“You coming too? I need you here.”
‘Yeah, I’ll be there.’
“Can I pay later?”
‘Should be fine.’
“Okay. Call me when you’re close.”
Clumsy as it sounds, that was the best a pair of twenty-somethings could manage.

That night I dreamed.
A young woman in white burial robes sat formally beside my sleeping body.
When I noticed her, she pressed three fingers to the floor, bowed deeply, and left the room—
again bowing low before she stepped out*.

*she pressed three fingers～: — A formal Japanese gesture of apology or respect, where you kneel in seiza and place the tips of your index, middle, and ring fingers on the ground before bowing deeply.*

Whether the dream had anything to do with it, I don’t know.

Next day, around noon, ○○ called. I guided them in by phone.
○○, one of his friends, and a man in his late 30s showed up.
He didn’t look “normal”—more like a thug, the kind of guy you can’t guess a job for.
Because I hadn’t explained well, my parents were suspicious.
The man, almost certainly an alias, said his name was **Hayashi**.

Hayashi: “I’ve heard T-kun’s story from him. It’s a real mess.”
(During the dialog, I’m T; “him” is ○○.)

Father: “Mr Hayashi, how are you involved exactly?”
Hayashi: “Look, this is beyond what laypeople can handle.
Sir, believe it or not, if we leave it, T-kun’s in real danger.
Your son’s friend begged me to help, so here I am.”
Mother: “Is T really in danger?”
Hayashi: “I’ve seen plenty, but never one this bad. The whole room is packed with evil energy.”
Father: “…Pardon me, but may I ask your occupation?”
Hayashi: “Ah, that bothers you? Well, turning up like this does look shady, huh.
But unless we do a proper cleansing, T-kun will be taken away, I guarantee it.”
Mother: “Mr Hayashi, could we ask for your help?”
Hayashi: “By all means—only a specialist like me can handle this.
But there’s risk on my side, so you’ll have to provide a little something, you understand?”
Father: “How much?”
Hayashi: “Let’s say two million yen.”
Father: “That’s steep!”
Hayashi: “I’ve spent my own time coming here because his friend pleaded.
If you say no, that’s your choice—but saving T-kun for a mere two mil sounds cheap to me.
Besides, the temples turned him away, right?
How long will it take to find someone else who understands this stuff?”

I stayed silent. When the two million came up I glanced at ○○, who looked mortified.
Mom and Dad had no idea what else to do, so, hesitantly, they agreed.

Hayashi said he’d perform a spirit-removal ritual that very night.
He left “to prepare” (He got some money from his parents to pay for the preparations before he left).
By evening he was back: candles set up, talisman papers everywhere, a crystal ball, prayer beads, sake poured into a cup—
the room looked the part.

Note: In Japan items like talismans, crystal balls, prayer beads, and sake are believed to hold sacred power against evil.

Hayashi: “T-kun, I’ll start the **O-harai** now—everything will be fine.
Sir, ma’am, could you step outside?
Sometimes the spirit jumps to bystanders.”

Reluctantly, my parents waited in the car.

Night fell, darkness settling in, and the O-harai began.
Hayashi chanted something like sutras, every so often dipping a finger in the sake and flicking droplets onto me.
At his instruction I lay on the futon with my eyes closed, half-doubting.

Time passed; his chanting grew erratic, broken.
With my eyes shut all I felt was the sour aura and the chant turning weird.
My neck started hurting—beyond itching, a raw pain.
Clenching my teeth, I kept my eyes shut—until the chanting stopped.

Something was off: it ended mid-sentence, no word to me,
and the neck pain kept rising. I felt a cold dread, as if something straddled the futon.
Don’t open your eyes—whatever you do, don’t…
I opened them.

Horror filled my sight.
Hayashi sat on my right, performing the rite.
Opposite him, with me between, **it** knelt in formal seiza, hands on knees,
leaning forward, its face inches from Hayashi’s, tilting like an owl, muttering in a low rasp.
Hayashi stared downward, unblinking, drooling, lips curved in a faint grin, nodding faintly.
I stared, frozen.

Its head stopped, then snapped toward me.
I squeezed my eyes shut, yanked the futon over me, and chanted *Namu Amida Butsu* for dear life.
In my mind’s eye I saw it, face bobbing like an owl right at mine.
There was a clatter—footsteps racing down the stairs: Hayashi fled.

When my parents burst in, lights on, they peeled back the futon to find me curled rigid.
Hayashi ignored them, jumped in his car, and with ○○ and friend vanished.
○○ later said Hayashi only barked, “Drive.”

Far from solved, things were worse. I couldn’t wait three more weeks for S-sensei.

Four more days passed since I saw it again.
Physically I improved; the neck was healing, fever gone.
But day or night I flinched, fearing it might appear.
Sleepless, barely eating, I watched every shadow.
In less than ten days my face must have changed.
I quit my job—Mom called in; they allegedly gave her an earful.
Even a swaying persimmon tree outside the window terrified me.
Two weeks remained till S-sensei; far too long.

Seeing this, my parents bundled me into the car and drove off.
Dad kept saying, “Don’t worry, you’ll be okay.”
In the back seat Mom held me, stroking my head—first time since childhood.
Somewhere along the endless drive, night came; comforted, I fell into deep sleep.

When I woke the sun was high—I’d slept a day and a half.
Outside rolled unfamiliar scenery; then I recognized a tram running in the center of the road: we were in Nagasaki.
They’d avoided planes and trains to keep me calm, driving all the way.
No way I can ever repay Dad for the nonstop drive, Mom for staying beside me.

Grandma and Grandpa live in a place called Yanagawa.
Dad parked at the foot of a slope and he and Mom went to fetch them—
their house sits up a stone stair off the hill road.
Left alone in the back seat, I told them I’d be fine; stupid confidence.

Curling up, staring out, a sudden spike of pain shot through my neck—far worse than ever.
I felt wet: blood.
Reality slammed back.
Before fear could even form I thought, *Again?*—and tears came.

You know the despair when bad things keep happening in quick succession?
Just as you start to breathe, another hits.
I muttered “What the hell do you want from me?” through tears.

Parents returned with the grandparents—and panicked:
their son, head bowed, bleeding from the neck, crying.

“What happened?” “Say something!” “T, hold on!”
Too many voices—I snapped, “Shut the hell up!”
Ashamed to remember it now.

Then—for the only time in my life—Dad slapped my left cheek.
It hurt like hell; he’d never hit me before—his policy.
He said only, in a stern low voice, “Apologize to your grandparents.”
The shock cleared my head; I apologized, and a strange calm settled.
As the car rolled on I wept again, overwhelmed by Grandpa and Grandma’s gentle words.
Turns out I was weaker than I thought.

Arriving at S-sensei’s house-temple, I felt lighter—maybe just relief.
Through the gate, down a stone path, an elderly man welcomed us.
I recalled guests always seeming to be here—others like Grandma, perhaps.
We were shown into a ten-tatami Japanese room with a Buddhist altar.

Note: In Japan, many homes have a Buddhist altar (butsudan) where ancestral tablets (ihai) or protective charms (ofuda) are enshrined.
However, they are becoming less common in the homes of younger generations.

As I remembered, S-sensei knelt on a cushion in front of the altar and slowly turned toward us.
(I’ll be writing in my clumsy Nagasaki-ben from memory, so forgive the rough spots.)

Nagasaki-ben — the regional dialect of Nagasaki Prefecture; it sounds friendly yet can carry a rough, tough edge similar to the Hiroshima slang heard in yakuza movies.

Grandma: “T-chan("chan" is a Japanese suffix used to show affection, especially for children or close family members), it’s all right now. S-sensei will take care of you.”
S-sensei: “It’s been a while—you’ve grown into a fine young man. Time flies.”
Grandma: “S-sensei, will he be okay?”
Grandpa: “Easy now. She’s only just arrived—give her a chance to see what’s what.”
Grandma: “Oh, hush—you know how worried I’ve been.”

Their calm spread to my parents and me. One deep breath felt as if it pushed something dark out of my body. Grandpa urged my exhausted parents next door to rest.

S-sensei: “Come here, T-chan.”
(I knelt facing her.)
S-sensei: “Mr. and Mrs. I, please relax in the next room. I’ll talk with T-chan alone—don’t come back until I call you.”
Grandpa: “Please take good care of him!”
Grandma: “Don’t worry, dear. Just listen to S-sensei, okay?”

Tears welled up again.

S-sensei moved closer, knee to knee, took my hands, and gazed at me in silence—her presence alone felt overwhelming.

S-sensei: “…Now, what shall we do?”
S-sensei: “Are you scared, T-chan?”
Me: “Yes.”
S-sensei: “We can’t leave things like this, can we?”
Me: “Um—”
S-sensei: “Oh, never mind—that’s my problem to solve.”

I snapped, frustration boiling over.

Me: “What’s going to happen to me? Please fix this—why is that thing after me? Isn’t there anything you can do?”

A shrill, toneless whisper like a parrot sounded at my left ear: “Why? Why?”
S-sensei’s gentle face had gone blank. Something stood to my left. I turned against every instinct—warm blood trickled from my neck.

It was there, bent at the waist, peering into my face, head bobbing like an owl:
“Why? Why? Why?”

Then it raised a hand and slowly peeled the talisman papers from its face.
I knew I mustn’t look, but I couldn’t move—until a sharp hand-clap cracked through the room.

**PAN!**

I jumped, stumbled, crashed into the wall, and flailed blindly for the exit.
S-sensei shouted, “Not yet!” Her voice froze me and stopped my family at the door.

S-sensei: “I’m sorry, T-chan—that was frightening. It’s safe now; come back here. Mr. and Mrs. I, please wait a little longer.”

I returned; she handed me an incense-scented towel.

S-sensei: “You saw it, didn’t you? And heard it?”
Me: “Yes… it kept asking ‘Why?’ ”

S-sensei: “What exactly scares you?”
Me: “It’s a ghost—nothing about it is normal…”
S-sensei: “Yet it hasn’t truly harmed you, has it?”
Me: “My neck bled, and it tried to peel the talismans—how is that normal?”
S-sensei: “Aside from that, nothing else.”

She began to explain gently. The figure was a *yūrei*—a ghost. Whether it was an evil spirit, however, was harder to say.

S-sensei said it was clearly a troublesome spirit, yet she felt no malice from it.
When I asked what had happened to me, she explained:
“Even without ill will, a spirit that’s too strong can do this.
That person was lonely for a very long time—wanting to talk, to touch, to be seen, desperate for someone to notice.
You may not realize it, T-chan, but you’re warm—people think well of you.
So when you noticed her, she was overjoyed.
But compared with that spirit, you’re still very weak; just being near her frightens you and your body reacts.”

S-sensei spoke slowly, avoiding difficult words as if to a child.

I was lost. I’d convinced myself it was an evil spirit and that a single **O-harai** would end everything—yet S-sensei almost defended it.
“Now, we have to do something, don’t we? It’ll take time, but I’ll help you,” she said.
Those words saved me; at last I felt it would end.

S-sensei taught me something I’ll never forget:
“Even if it looks frightening or unfamiliar, imagine it suffers just as you do.
Imagine it’s waiting for a helping hand.”

She began chanting sutras—not to banish the spirit but to guide it to rest.
That night, though my forehead was split and the cut on my neck hurt, I slept deeply.
(S-sensei let me stay because I was still jittery, laughing that I needed the rest.)

Next morning I thought I’d risen early, but S-sensei had already finished her dawn prayers.
“Good morning, T-chan. Wash your face and eat—we’ll head to the **Honzan** after breakfast.”

*Honzan — the head temple of a Buddhist sect, serving as its main spiritual and administrative center.*

I’m no insider, but a little background: the sect S-sensei belongs to is old enough to appear in school textbooks, with followers and clergy all over Japan.
Because of geography, it keeps two head temples, one in the east and one in the west.
She was taking me to the western Honzan.
There I would strengthen my innate virtue (whatever that means) and let them hold services so the spirit could pass on sooner.
No one was happier than Grandma; Dad still looked doubtful, but when I said, “I’ll be fine—let me go,” he didn’t object.

A young monk greeted us at the Honzan and ushered us to a spacious side hall to pay respects.
Even here, S-sensei was remarkably humble; later I learned she could hold a very high rank if she wished.
With her introduction I lived at the temple for a while, sharing the austere routine.
There I realized how lucky I was.
One woman had been tormented forty years by a snake spirit; another had lost all family to a hereditary curse.
Compared with their suffering, my ordeal felt small.

Whether it was the discipline, the place itself, or S-sensei’s words, my fear faded—though now and then I still felt the spirit nearby.

After a month S-sensei returned.
“My, you look much better.”
“Yes, thanks to you.”
“Have you seen anything since?”
“Not once—maybe it found peace here.”
“Not necessarily,” she smiled.
I tensed.
“Sorry—did that scare you again? But many suffering souls come here; helping them is our work.
Stay a little longer and learn.”

I agreed; life at the Honzan felt both swift and slow, and two more months slipped by.
Then, after another long absence, S-sensei came and my stay seemed about to end.
I thanked everyone and prepared to leave, but noticed she wasn’t beside me.
When I turned back, she said softly, “T-chan, why not stay? It seems you shouldn’t go yet.”
Flattered, I protested I wasn’t suited to the life.
“That’s not it—you can’t leave because something remains.”
My smile froze.

In the end I stayed five full months. Before letting me go, S-sensei said,
“You should visit once a month. Whether the spirit has moved on or merely hides, we can’t be certain.”

Back home, Mom had closed out my apartment. When she first opened the door, a pungent smell filled the room and insects clustered where the spirit had stood; next day the bugs were gone but the smell lingered. I was glad I didn’t have to see it.

Checking my phone for the first time in half a year, I found countless missed calls and messages—most from ○○. He’d blamed himself, sending apologies and updates. Mom said he even came to the house.

Two nights later I called ○○. The line was noisy; his words slurred—he was at a **konpa** (group blind date).
I hung up and texted, “I’ll kill you.”

Next day he messaged, “Can I meet and apologize?”
That evening he came. I punched him twice—once to ease his guilt, once for partying while I suffered.
Sometimes a fist speaks clearer than words.

We spent the night talking, swinging between excitement and fear—finally, an ordinary night again.

○○ told me what happened after they fled that night.
When they got into Hayashi’s car, it was obvious he’d snapped.
○○, waiting in the back seat with a friend, sensed real danger the moment Hayashi jumped in, panicking.
“Argue or hesitate and God knows what he’d do,” ○○ said.
At a red light near the expressway ramp, ○○ bolted from the car.
“Hayashi started laughing, shaking, muttering ‘It wasn’t me—I’d never do that,’ ” he told me.
The image of that thing whispering flashed back, and I struggled to erase it.

○○ never came back to my house simply because he was too scared.
He apologized—“Sorry, I’m spineless”—and I forgave him; I’d have done the same.
No one knows what became of Hayashi.
○○ grilled the friend who had introduced him and learned Hayashi was a petty con man; the friend had passed him along for pocket money.
“I beat the crap out of him—call it even,” ○○ said.
After that, he tried every contact he had, but nobody knew more than rumors:
certain conditions align by chance and the apparition appears—nothing concrete.

I followed S-sensei’s instructions: monthly visits the first year, then every three months.
Perhaps out of guilt, ○○ often dropped by my house and always called before and after each trip to the temple.

Two years after I first saw it, S-sensei finally said,
“It seems you’ll be all right now, T-chan. Just drop in occasionally—and don’t do anything foolish.”

Whether it truly ended, I can’t say.
Three months later, S-sensei passed away. I wish I could have learned more, yet I want to believe it’s over.

Two months after her funeral, everyday life had almost smoothed the loss when a letter arrived from Grandma.
Inside was her note and another letter:
“This is from S-sensei. Now that the **Shijūkunichi** has passed, I’m giving it to you as promised.”

*Shijūkunichi - In Japanese Buddhism, the 49th day after a person's death marks the end of the soul’s journey through the intermediate state.
A memorial service is held on this day to pray for the deceased's peaceful transition to the afterlife.
This is called the 49th-day memorial service, or shijukunichi.*

S-sensei’s letter—paraphrased here:

---

*T-chan,
It’s been a while. Are you all right? I wrote to apologize—not that I did anything wrong, but because that day I was terrified.
The spirit you brought was beyond my ability, but you were so frightened I couldn’t show my fear.
Sometimes no matter how you reach out, a spirit won’t look your way; we were lucky.
Life at the Honzan—did it help? Each time I saw you I said, “Not yet,” because I feared something awful if you left.
Even after daily prayers the spirit lingered, but now I think it’s gone.
If trouble returns, go to the Honzan at once; there you’ll be stronger and harder to touch.
If suffering becomes unbearable, entrust yourself to the Buddha and steel your heart.
Truly evil beings torment slowly, never ending it, smiling at the pain.
We can’t always help, but I tried everything for you and I’m still not confident.
Never relax completely—stay cautious, avoid strange places, and don’t meddle.
Trust me, please. I always pray that you live each day in peace.
—S-sensei*

---

My hands shook as I read; sweat ran cold.
Was it truly over?
Had the spirit only hidden, waiting to strike when my guard dropped?
Doubt spiraled into confusion—what if S-sensei herself suffered for my sake?
What had the spirit whispered to Hayashi?
Did S-sensei lie to spare me?
I had no answers.

That is everything I know—two and a half years of events, and I still can’t be sure it’s ended.
There was no tidy reason, no expert conveniently nearby.
Perhaps it was random—yet far too cruel to be chance.
If I can offer one warning:

*“If something haunts, targets, or clings to you, it’s no joke. Even when someone says it’s over, never drop your guard.”*

And one confession: there are small lies throughout this story—omissions, changes for clarity.
But there’s a deeper lie at its core.
I hid it so the story would be understood.
You may feel betrayed, but I had to tell someone.

I am ○○.

…No amount of regret will ever be enough.

Outro

Among all Japanese creepypasta, this tale is considered top-tier: intricate, ending with a twist, and painfully realistic.
Many readers note that the temple portrayed resembles the **Jōdo Shinshū Honganji branch**, though that sect famously denies ghosts—an irony some use to argue it should have been **Shingon** instead, unless the author intentionally altered details for anonymity.
Such debates only underline how convincing the story feels, earning it hall-of-fame status among Japanese creepypasta.