Resort Job (What Came After)
After everything that happened,
we slept like the dead.
It was the monk’s voice that finally woke us.
“Are you able to get up, everyone?”
As usual, A was the hardest to wake—
I had to shake him like always.
Once we were up,
the three of us sat formally in front of the monk.
“You all did incredibly well last night,”
he said with a gentle smile.
“The cleansing is complete. You’re safe now.”
We didn’t know how to respond.
We just gave him vague, awkward smiles.
There were a million questions we wanted to ask—
but none of us could bring ourselves to speak.
Sensing this,
the monk stood and said:
“There’s something I must show you.
You deserve to know everything.”
And with that,
he led us out of the house
and toward the temple.
As we made our way back up the stone steps,
B kept glancing around nervously,
eyes scanning the surroundings.
Seeing him do that,
I couldn’t help but do the same—
the image of that thing from the night before
still burned into my memory.
The monk noticed and asked us gently:
“You should be safe now.
How do you feel?”
B: “I’m okay… I don’t see anything.”
Me: “Yeah, I’m fine too.”
Hearing that,
the monk gave us a warm, relieved smile.
We reached the large temple building.
“This is the main hall,”
he told us.
Following behind him,
we entered through a side door.
Inside, we were led into a room
that didn’t look all that different
from the tatami room we’d just left.
The monk asked us to wait there for a moment
and then stepped out.
B immediately started fidgeting—
his leg bouncing with nerves.
After a short while,
the monk returned holding a small wooden box.
He sat down across from us,
placed the box between us,
and said calmly:
“I’d like to show you the origin of all this.”
He opened the box.
The three of us leaned in to look.
Inside,
wrapped in cotton,
was a small, dry, black object—
something that looked like a withered fungus.
Almost like a dried wood ear mushroom.
A, B, and I: “What is this?”
We peered in closer—
but we still couldn’t tell what it was.
Still…
something about it felt familiar.
I stared for a while,
trying to place the image in my mind.
And then suddenly—
it clicked.
When I was little,
I remembered my mom once pulling out a wooden box
from the back of a dresser drawer.
She looked so proud—
like she was showing me a treasure.
Inside the box,
wrapped in soft cotton,
was something small, black, and shriveled.
I’d asked her what it was.
She smiled and said:
“That’s your umbilical cord.
Proof that you and I were once connected.”
I remember,
even as a kid, thinking:
Why would you keep something like that?
But now…
now I recognized it.
The object in this box—
it looked exactly like that.
A: “What is this?”
Monk: “That… is an umbilical cord.”
So it wasn’t just similar—
it was one.
A: “I think this is my first time seeing one in real life.”
B: “I’ve seen one before.”
Me: “Me too.”
Monk: “Your parents probably showed them to you.
It’s not uncommon.
Many families keep them as a keepsake.”
“This umbilical cord,”
the monk continued,
“was also kept with great care.”
We sat quietly, listening to him speak.
“Within the womb,” he said,
“a mother and her child are connected through the umbilical cord.
Nowadays, many people keep it as a memento—
a symbol of that bond, or of the birth itself.
But you see, the cord also carries many old beliefs—
superstitions passed down through generations.”
B: “Superstitions?”
Monk: “Yes.
In older times,
people took such things very seriously.
Today, they're considered little more than old wives' tales.
But back then—
they were powerful.”
And with that,
he began to tell us
the stories and superstitions
surrounding the umbilical cord.
The monk continued:
“The umbilical cord is generally believed to serve
as a charm to protect the child—
though the interpretations vary.”
“Some say,” he went on,
“that if a child falls seriously ill—
to the point of near death—
boiling the cord and having them drink the infusion
can save their life.”
“Others believe that
if the child carries it with them,
it will protect them from danger or death.”
“In all cases, though,”
he added gently,
“the underlying idea is the same:
a parent’s love and wish to protect their child.”
We sat there listening,
nodding along with dumb-sounding replies like,
“Whoa,” or “Huh, really…”
Then the monk paused,
took a slow breath,
and gave a faint smile.
“Would you mind,” he asked,
“if I told you an old folktale from this area?
It’s closely tied to what happened to you.”
We all nodded.
And so,
the monk began his story.
It was long.
I can’t say I remember every word.
Some parts might be missing.
Monk:
“Here in this region,
people held a deep belief
in the superstitions surrounding the umbilical cord.
This area has long been home to fishing communities.
Fishing was, and still is, a way of life.
When a child was born into a fisherman's family,
they would go out to sea with their parents
from the time they were old enough to understand the world.
That was the norm here—
an unspoken tradition, you might say.
But fishing is always a dangerous job.
And I can only imagine
the pain mothers felt as they waited for their children to return safely from the sea.
That grief—
must have run deep.
In time,
mothers began giving their children
their umbilical cords to carry as protective charms.
To guard them from danger out on the water.
To ensure that, no matter what happened,
their child would come back home.”
Me:
“Come back…?”
I couldn’t help but interrupt.
Monk:
“Yes.
I was told that small children,
whose bodies couldn’t withstand the waves,
were often swept away and lost.
When a child went missing at sea,
after several days they would be presumed dead.
But mothers who had suddenly lost their child
could not accept that reality.
So they waited.
For days.
For weeks.
They refused to give up hope.
And so the meaning of the cord shifted.
Just as it once connected mother and child in the womb—
it became a spiritual lifeline.
Something to guide their child back to them,
no matter where in the world—or beyond—it had been carried.”
It was…
a cruel kind of story.
And tragically beautiful.
Something meant to protect a child from the dangers of the sea…
was now believed to act as a lifeline—
one that could bring the child home
after the worst had already happened.
What kind of thoughts ran through a mother’s mind
as she sent her child out onto those waters?
The monk continued:
“In truth, no child who was given their umbilical cord
and later went missing at sea
ever came back alive.
Not even once.”
“But one day,” he said,
“a mother wept with joy,
claiming that her child had returned home.”
“When word spread,
no one believed her.”
“They pitied her—
thinking grief had finally broken her mind.
After all, her child had been lost to the sea
three years earlier.”
B: “Couldn’t it have just been that the kid washed up somewhere and survived all this time?”
Monk: “That’s what some people thought, at first.
And naturally, someone asked the mother to let them see the child.”
B: “And?”
Monk: “She told them,
‘Just wait a little longer. I’ll be able to show you soon.’”
What does that mean?
Shouldn’t she have already been able to show them?
At that moment—
I felt a chill crawl up my spine for no reason at all.
Monk:
“Of course, when the villagers heard her say this,
they were suspicious.
But they also knew
she had been bedridden with grief ever since her child died—
so they couldn’t bring themselves to press her any further.
In the end, they backed off.”
He paused, then continued:
“But the very next day,
another mother came forward—also claiming her child had returned.
And just like the first,
she said she couldn’t show them the child just yet.”
“This time, the villagers were truly puzzled.
The first woman’s husband had passed away,
so no one could ask him to confirm the story.
But this second mother’s husband was still alive.”
“So the villagers decided to approach him,
hoping to get to the bottom of it.”
“But the man told them:
‘I don’t know anything about that.’”
“The mother was rejoicing—
but the father had no idea what she was talking about.”
“When the villagers tried to dig deeper,
the man grew angry.
He said, ‘Stay out of our family’s business.’”
To be honest,
I kind of understood.
I mean—
if a bunch of neighbors came poking around in my home life,
I’d probably lose my temper too.
Monk:
“A few days later,
someone from the village came forward.”
‘Last night,’ they said,
‘I saw the first mother walking by the shore with her child.’
‘It was dark, so I couldn’t see them clearly.
But they were holding hands.
And she was speaking to the child as they walked.
She looked…
truly happy.’”
“When the other villagers heard this,
they were moved.
Ashamed of how they had treated her—
and wanting to celebrate the child’s return—
they decided to go visit her home together.”
“When they arrived,
she greeted them at the door,
beaming with joy.”
“They explained why they had come,
and some even bowed their heads in apology.”
“The mother just smiled.
‘It’s all right,’ she said.
‘I don’t hold it against you.
My child has come home to me—
and that’s all I need.’”
“Then she pulled the child forward,
who had been hiding behind the door…
and showed them to everyone.”
“In that moment,
the villagers froze where they stood.”
All three of us: “…”
Monk:
“The child’s skin, they say,
was a deep, mottled blue-purple.
Its entire body grotesquely swollen.
From between its puffy, swollen eyelids,
a sliver of white sclera peeked through—
and the irises were misaligned,
each drifting in a different direction.”
“Foam bubbled from the child’s lips,
and in response to the mother’s gentle voice,
it let out a cry—
a cry that sounded not human at all.
More like…
the cawing of a crow.”
“The villagers stood frozen
as the mother lovingly petted its patchy, balding head,
smiling as though the noise was a child’s laughter.”
“Overwhelmed by the sheer wrongness of it,
the villagers panicked—
and fled in all directions.”
“One by one, they gathered that night
at the village elder’s house,
still shaken by what they’d seen.
Even hearing the others recount it
did nothing to lessen the fear.”
“Realizing this was beyond his ability to handle,
the elder decided to bring everyone
to the temple of a certain head priest.”
“That priest…
was one of my ancestors.”
“He understood immediately how serious the matter was,
and rushed to the mother’s home.”
“And when he saw the child standing next to her,
he dragged the mother out of the house
and brought her straight to the temple.”
“But all the while,
the child followed them—
still letting out that same horrible screech.”
“At the temple,
the mother was placed in a sealed room,
protected by layers of spiritual wards.”
“But being separated even briefly from her child
left her frantic,
incapable of speaking coherently.”
“Eventually, she snapped—
and began screaming at the priest,
demanding he return her child.”
A: “So… what happened to her?”
Monk:
“A mother’s love can be overpowering.”
“Even when the priest tried to restrain her with all his might,
she broke free—
and fled the temple.”
(The monk’s expression turned slightly apologetic.)
“Later, he and several villagers returned to her house,
but both mother and child were gone.”
“What they found inside…
were unfamiliar ofuda* plastered all over the walls,
and in the corner of the room—
a pile of rotting food scraps,
reeking with decay.”
*Ofuda: Japanese talismans or sacred paper charms, typically used to ward off evil spirits. The ones found here were not identifiable as belonging to any known temple.
At that moment, I remembered exactly what we’d seen on the second floor of the inn.
It was the same. All of it.
Monk:
“Everyone there thought the same thing:
that the mother, unable to bear the grief of losing her child,
had been performing some sort of ritual in that place.”
Monk:
“And though it defies belief...
that’s how such a thing came to be.”
“The villagers, realizing what had happened,
banded together to search for the mother.”
“The priest, along with his disciples,
rushed to the home of the second mother—
but they were already too late.”
“The father, paralyzed with fear,
watched helplessly as his wife spoke to the thing,
calling their child’s name.”
“Seeing this, the priest began to chant sutras,
approaching the creature…
but the mother, baring her eyes completely white,
let out a screech and lashed out to protect it.”
It still didn’t feel real—
and yet I was sweating like hell.
Monk:
“The villagers couldn’t even bring themselves to move.
But the priest and his disciples, unwavering,
pressed forward.”
“They seized the frenzied mother and brought her back to the temple—
the creature following close behind.”
“The priest chanted relentlessly,
laying down lines of salt as they walked,
warding the path inch by inch.”
Monk:
“When they arrived at the temple, the head priest brought the mother to the ondō*.”
“He bound her body and confined her inside.”
*ondō（御堂）: A small shrine or sanctified structure used for containing or restraining spiritual entities in certain Buddhist traditions.
A:
“They did that to her…?”
A’s voice trembled with pity.
Monk:
“It couldn’t be helped.
Separating mother from child was the only way forward.
If they hadn’t done that, they would’ve been powerless.”
Though it hadn’t been this monk’s doing,
A turned his face away in quiet protest.
A pause. Then the monk continued:
Monk:
“Her body was restrained to prevent self-harm,
though the details of that… were never shared.”
“Then they tied sacred ropes around the ondō
and formed a circle around it—
the priests and their disciples.
All began chanting sutras in unison.”
“They could hear the mother groaning from within—
but fearing the child might hear and recognize her,
they raised their voices, louder and louder, to drown her out.”
“As they chanted desperately,
the child appeared.”
“It circled the ondō over and over, searching for its mother.”
“How it could tell where she was—
or whether the chants were doing anything at all—
no one knew.
All they could do was continue chanting with everything they had.”
The monk took a breath.
B:
“And then… what happened to it?”
His voice was barely more than a whisper.
Monk:
“The creature circling the ondō began to falter—
its steps slowed, and eventually it dropped to all fours.”
“Then its limbs began to bend—grotesquely, unnaturally—
until it crawled like a spider, scuttling across the ground.”
“One of the priests who witnessed it said—
‘It was like watching a human being regress.’”
“And then, it let out a low, guttural moan—
its arms and legs seemed to wither, then disappear—
until the thing collapsed to the ground, no more than a writhing grub.”
“As dawn broke and the sky brightened,
even that form began to shrink… shrivel…”
“And when it was all over—
all that remained…
was a single umbilical cord.”
I listened to the monk’s story, completely absorbed.
It felt like he was describing our story—
just with the edges smoothed out into some old folktale.
Then A spoke up.
A:
“Wait… you mean that umbilical cord—”
The monk nodded slowly.
Monk:
“Yes. It’s the one we found this morning—
lying on the stone behind the ondō.”
B:
“You’re kidding…”
His voice was hollow, stunned.
Me:
“Why? Why did it come for us?”
The monk folded his hands in his lap, and quietly answered.
Monk:
“We still don’t know.
This temple keeps records written by past head monks—
but there’s no mention of anything like this happening to someone
who wasn’t the mother.”
“The truth is,
we still don’t fully understand what ritual that woman performed.
So much remains a mystery.”
B:
“Didn’t you ask her? The mother?”
The monk looked down.
Monk:
“We didn’t ask her—
because we couldn’t.”
We stared in silence as the monk began to speak again.
When the monks opened the ondō to check inside,
they found the mother collapsed from exhaustion.
She had likely spent the entire night crying out for her child.
They immediately carried her outside and tended to her,
but when she awoke, her mind was completely gone.
Whether it was from the trauma of losing her child twice,
or something far darker—something unholy—
no one could say for certain.
Not long after, news came to the monks, who were still weary from chanting through the night:
the other mother had been found.
Her body had washed up along the nearby shore.
Her entire body had been torn open—bitten through by something.
And yet, her face was described as serene.
Peaceful.
Smiling.
No one knew what had really happened.
But in the monk’s journal, one final line had been written:
“She died being devoured by her own child, with a smile on her face.”
“She died being devoured by her own child, with a smile on her face.”
It sounded unbelievable—too grotesque to be true—
and yet, the monk's words sank deep into our bones.
None of us questioned him. We couldn’t.
Then the monk continued.
"The house where the mother’s body was found...
The villagers agreed it had to be torn down.
And while clearing it out, they discovered a small bundle of notes—
scribbled pages that appeared to be written by the mother herself.”
The monk explained what they had found.
It wasn’t a diary or a letter, exactly.
It was more like a growth record—
an eerie log of her child’s transformation,
documenting what had happened
after she began the ritual.
No one knows exactly how it was written.
Some parts had deteriorated, some words made no sense at all.
But the contents... I remember them.
I’ll write them down here as best I can.
They’re fragmented, strange.
Hard to understand, maybe.
But this is what I remember.
?? Month, ?? Day — Began construction of the hall.
?? Month, ?? Day — No changes.
…
△ Month, △ Day — (Child's name) came back.
△ Month, △ Day — Cannot move well.
△ Month, △ Day — Limbs have begun to form.
△ Month, △ Day — Crawling now.
△ Month, △ Day — Moving around on all fours.
△ Month, △ Day — Beginning to speak.
△ Month, △ Day — Standing upright.
The growth record also included pages and pages of the mother’s emotional reflections.
Apparently, the other mother had built her own ondō in the attic, and the father had no idea it even existed.
“I can’t say I understand everything myself,” the monk said quietly.
“But if you compare the mother's growth journal with the temple records, you’ll notice something—
It seems that the creature had begun to devolve, retracing its growth in reverse.”
That made chilling sense to us.
The monk avoided further speculation, but continued:
“From that point on, similar cases appear sporadically in the temple’s written accounts.
But none of them explain how these mothers came to learn about the ritual.
And in every case... the mother either died, or was left in a state where she could no longer speak.”
He said he regretted not being able to intervene sooner.
“This is the first time I’ve encountered anything like this,” the monk confessed.
“I’m still struggling to understand it myself.”
“Why was it you, and not a mother, who found that... thing?”
“A child’s growth is something only the mother can perceive. Even those who live alongside her shouldn’t be able to recognize it.”
I remember thinking, Is that even possible? How can that make any sense?
That’s when B, clearly shaken but needing to know the truth, finally asked the question that had been hanging in the air.
“Um... the mother... is it... the landlady?”
The monk fell silent for a moment. Then he answered.
“Yes. That’s right.”
“Makiko-san wasn’t originally from this village. She came here after marrying Mr. ○○ (the innkeeper).
They had a son together. By all accounts, they were a very happy family.”
What the monk told us after that was, sadly, pretty much what we had already begun to suspect.
The landlady’s only son had gone missing several years earlier—vanished into the sea one day and never found.
A large-scale search was conducted, but his whereabouts remained unknown.
The grief-stricken landlady was comforted by those around her, and over time, she began to recover—bit by bit.
The inn continued to do steady business, and as time passed, even the memory of the tragedy started to fade from the minds of those around her.
Then, without warning, the second floor of the inn was closed off.
People found it odd, of course, but didn’t pry too deeply.
And now we know where that led.
No one knows how or from where the landlady got the information, but she had created an ondō—a ritual chamber—at the top of the staircase leading to the second floor, and she began performing some kind of rite there.
The result of that ritual... is what latched onto us.
But that’s where this case differs from every previous account.
According to the monk, the “child” born of the rite should have attached itself to the mother—
But instead, it came for us, total outsiders.
The only explanation the monk could offer: the landlady had not given her child an umbilical cord.
In that village, the tradition of giving a child their umbilical cord as a protective charm had endured for generations.
But the landlady, being from outside the village, had never even heard of the custom.
Her husband—Mr. ○○—confirmed that.
And here’s where it gets even stranger—
Even though the second floor of the inn was sealed off, the landlady went and hired three part-time workers. Us.
Her husband, it turns out, had opposed the idea at first.
But the landlady tearfully pleaded,
“I miss my son... If I had boys around his age here, maybe I could feel like he’s come home.”
Reluctantly, he gave in.
What the monk said next was just his own theory, but...
He believed the landlady knew from the start.
That once her son returned, he wouldn’t recognize her—not as his mother.
He’d need someone else. A new “parent” figure.
And she brought us in to take that place.
After explaining all of this, the monk looked at us and said:
The monk bowed his head.
“I am truly sorry… for leaving you alone in that ondō.”
“But I had to save both you and Makiko-san.”
He continued.
“While you were inside, we had her restrained in the main hall—just like the previous generation did. We read the sutras the entire night.”
“Because we didn’t know... whether that thing would come for the ondō or for her.”
So that was it.
Whatever it was had attached itself to us—but going off the old stories, there was still a chance it might return to the mother.
The monk had read the danger in both directions.
To me, it didn’t feel like something he should apologize for.
Hell, he was the reason we were still alive.
But then I turned to B.
He was shaking. Staring the monk down with wide, furious eyes.
“I don’t buy it.”
“So her own kid comes crawling back and it’s okay if a few strangers get dragged down for it?”
The monk said nothing.
“Tell us everything.”
“You owe us that much. If you won’t, then I’ll go ask her myself.”
“Don’t tell me her husband didn’t know either. He sure acted like he did.”
The monk finally spoke.
“...Makiko’s husband didn’t know.”
“Bullshit!” B snapped.
“He talked like he knew the whole damn thing.”
The monk spoke calmly.
“This story... runs deep in this land. If her husband knew anything, it was only as an old legend.”
He didn’t look like he was lying.
But B couldn’t calm down.
“Don’t screw with me!”
“Take us to her. Let me see her face. Both of them!”
He was yelling now—shouting like he’d explode if he didn’t get answers.
A and I had to grab him to hold him back.
The monk didn’t flinch. He just sat there, listening. Silent.
And then, slowly, he stood.
“When I decided to tell you everything,” he said,
“I also decided you deserved to see everything with your own eyes.”
“I will take you to where Makiko-san is now.”
We followed the monk in silence.
I thought she’d be inside the main hall, but he led us down a kind of covered walkway to a separate building, a bit off from the rest.
As we got closer, I started to hear strange sounds—muffled groaning, and the low, steady chant of several monks.
And over it all, a loud THUMP–THUMP noise. Repeating. Violent.
By the time we were standing at the door, the sound was right there—just on the other side.
I was shaking inside, terrified of whatever we were about to see.
The monk opened the door.
And there she was—Makiko, the landlady.
Surrounded by chanting monks.
But what I saw... I can’t even say she was lying there. She wasn’t lying. She was bouncing—like a shrimp.
Flat on her back, curled like a crescent, snapping her whole body up off the tatami and crashing back down again.
Over and over, like a dying fish.
The sound—the one we heard outside—was her body slamming against the floor.
And sometimes, in between the slams, she’d let out this guttural moan—like something was clawing its way out of her throat.
I couldn’t look at her face.
I just couldn’t.
It wasn’t the same woman who smiled at us over breakfast the day before.
And somehow, this... this was just as terrifying as the thing from last night. Maybe worse.
We stood there frozen until the monk finally spoke.
“This hasn’t stopped since this morning.”
That’s when A broke.
“I—I can’t stay here. I can’t look at this.”
So we left.
Even hearing it—those sounds behind the door—was too much.
Too real.
Too human.
And not human at all.
A little ways away from the building, we stopped and turned to the monk.
I asked what we were all thinking:
“I thought you said the exorcism worked?”
He nodded slowly.
“Yes... the one that had latched onto you—the thing that mistook you for its parent—I believe that was removed.”
He paused.
“You’re here, alive. And the umbilical cord remains. But...”
And then B spoke up—quiet at first, but certain.
“That’s it... There wasn’t just one.”
I didn’t get it right away.
But then it clicked.
He saw them.
Back then—on the stairs—B said he saw more than one shadow.
The monk’s face changed.
“There was more than one?” he asked, clearly startled.
B nodded.
The monk fell silent.
Thinking. Hard.
Then suddenly, like something snapped into place in his head, he turned to us and said—
“Go back to the house near the torii. Stay in that room. Don’t step outside. I’ll send someone to you.”
Before we could ask anything, he turned and ran—back toward the building where Makiko was.
We just stood there, speechless.
Left behind. Like the air had been sucked out around us.
Then we saw it—monks emerging from the building, carrying something large wrapped in a sheet.
It was moving.
Wriggling.
Twitching, like it was convulsing.
We all knew.
We didn’t say it, but we knew.
It was her.
Makiko-san was inside that cloth.
They carried her off—toward the ondō.
We watched them disappear down the path, not saying a word.
None of us could move.
But then we looked at each other. Just a glance.
And that was enough.
Something cold and heavy dropped into our stomachs, and we bolted.
Fast walking. Almost running—back toward the house.
From there on...
Honestly, nothing really happened.
Nothing worth writing down, anyway.
We reached the house.
After a while, another monk came by. He told us:
“Stay here for the night.”
He stayed with us too—just sat in the room with us.
Didn’t talk much.
So it was the four of us—us three, and that monk—just waiting in that strange, quiet tension.
Waiting until morning came.
The next morning, we woke up early and found ourselves half-watching a morning news show like everything was normal—Mezamashi TV or something like that.
We were just... pretending. Trying to act like it was over.
Then the monk came in.
We lined up in front of him, quiet, waiting for whatever he had to say.
He looked at us for a moment, then said:
“The spirit that latched onto you—it’s gone. The cleansing was successful.”
That alone was enough to make our shoulders drop in relief.
We looked at each other, nodded quietly. It was done. We were safe.
But then he added something.
His voice dropped.
“We couldn’t save Makiko-san.”
He looked... I don’t know. Not just sad. There was something deeper. Like guilt, or maybe anger.
Maybe both.
I asked him—
“Did she... die?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
But that just made it worse.
My mind jumped back to her—Makiko-san.
The way she was thrashing on that floor, like some... broken puppet.
I asked the monk—my voice barely audible—
“Is she... still like that?”
He didn’t answer.
Not really.
Just made this tight, pained face and looked away.
He said her condition now had nothing to do with exorcisms or hauntings anymore.
It was something else entirely.
Something deeper.
Something older.
He didn’t go into full detail, but according to the monk, the ritual that the innkeeper performed wasn’t exactly the same as the traditional “Child Calling Rite” that had been passed down in this region. It only resembled it—on the surface.
Somewhere, somehow, she must have learned about it. About the ritual. About how to call a lost child back from the other side.
And in her grief—after losing her son—she decided to try it.
But here’s the thing: she still had her son’s umbilical cord. The real one. The original piece that, in the old stories, was meant to guide a child back.
That one detail alone may have changed everything.
The monk admitted this part was just a theory, but... he believed she had built her own version of the ritual through trial and error. Piecing it together. Reworking it. Believing in it with all her heart.
Driven by pure conviction, she shaped something new—something warped.
The result was not the traditional rite. It was something else entirely.
Something had come back, sure.
But whether it was her son or not... no one could say.
The monk just shook his head and told us:
“There were... multiple things in that shrine.”
We can only imagine how deep the grief of losing a child must be.
But maybe it's not so hard to believe that a mother, with a hole torn through her heart, might cling to something—anything—to fill that space.
B kept pressing the monk about what would happen to the innkeeper next, but he wouldn’t say a word beyond “I don’t know.”
In the end, we were just… left in the dark, completely.
It was like everything had been covered in smoke, nothing clear, nothing real.
After we finished talking with the monk, the innkeeper’s husband came into the room.
I won’t lie—my stomach dropped.
His face was ashen, almost gray, and he looked completely worn down. Like someone who hadn’t slept—or eaten—in days.
Then, right in front of us, he broke down in tears and started apologizing.
He was crying so hard, we couldn’t make out half of what he was saying.
But watching him like that... none of us could bring ourselves to speak.
Was he apologizing to us for everything that had happened?
Or was he crying because of what his wife had done, and where it had led?
I still don’t know. Maybe I never will.
After that, we kept asking the monk the same question over and over:
“Are we really going to be okay? Nothing’s going to happen to us now, right?”
He just gave us this troubled look… and said, “You’ll be fine.”
After that, the monk called us a taxi and we were finally headed home.
The old guy who had carried me back to my place the morning before?
He ended up riding with us to the station.
Problem was, this guy wouldn’t shut up.
Didn’t pick up on the mood at all—just kept talking and talking while the rest of us sat there, completely drained from everything that had happened.
Then he said something that made my skin crawl.
“Still... a child eating their parent? Sounds like something out of a spider story, huh.”
We just sat there in silence, feeling sick.
But the old man kept going, totally unfazed.
“Hey, you kids better not go trying that ritual yourselves, alright? If you do, it’s on you.”
And then he laughed.
I couldn’t tell if he was trying to lighten the mood or if he was just a goddamn idiot.
But there was one thing I knew for sure:
The monk had hidden something from us.
That ritual, whatever it was—it wasn’t just some half-baked story.
The method, and what happens when you perform it... that was real.
It had been passed down in that area, along with the results.
And if this old guy knew that much, there’s no way the monk didn’t.
Realizing that—realizing that we’d been dragged through all of this, only to have the most important part kept from us—
It hit me like a punch to the gut.
The thing is, we’d trusted the monk.
And maybe that’s why—alongside the fear—this anger started bubbling up in me.
Not just confusion or unease. Something closer to betrayal.
When the taxi pulled up to the station, the old man offered to pay the fare.
We refused.
All we wanted was to get the hell out of that place.
That was the only thing on our minds. Escape.
Even that one word from the monk—“You’ll be fine.”
It started to feel like a lie. Like he’d just said it to get us out of his sight.
And yet, none of us had the guts to go back to that temple.
We just stood there on the platform, not saying a word.
Waiting for the train that’d take us away from all of it.
Since coming back… nothing’s happened.
And I guess the fact that I’m even writing this here proves that, right?
“Never going back there again.”
That line always comes up at least once whenever the three of us talk about it.
It really messed us up.
Left a mark we’re probably stuck with for life.
Oh, and B?
He can’t deal with spiders anymore.
Not after seeing what that thing looked like as it grew.
Can’t really blame him.
As for me… I’m just living a normal life now. Got a job, doing the nine-to-five grind.
I guess I’ve developed a bit of a thing about the dark—makes me uneasy in a way it didn’t before.
That saying, “time heals all wounds”?
Yeah... it might not be total bullshit after all.
This really is the last part—the after afterstory, I guess.
Later on, I ended up telling two of our other friends about what happened.
They saw the way the three of us acted and, to their credit, they believed us. More or less.
But then they went and did something unbelievably dumb.
Out of curiosity—just curiosity, can you believe that?—they decided to call the inn.
(Yeah. Seriously. What the hell, right?)
They said some normal-sounding lady picked up the phone.
Then they told us to call ourselves and check if it was the innkeeper.
“You should confirm it. Just to be sure,” they said.
They also mentioned something about crows cawing loudly in the background. Said it sounded unnatural.
But I couldn’t do it. No way.
Whether that woman was safe or not—whether she was even still human or not—I didn’t want to know.
I just… didn’t have it in me to find out.
No worries if this dragged on a bit—just wanted to say thanks for sticking with me till the end.
Maybe I didn’t get to the heart of the truth, and maybe none of this really makes sense.
But that’s how it happened. All of it. Just as it was.
No big twist at the end.
No clean resolution.
But still—
Thanks for reading. Really.
 After everything that happened, we slept like the dead. It was the monk){kind=link}