His Haunted Footsteps

By Kaelyn Buzzo

They call him the boy from the haunted forest.

 

Tormented by the brutal death of his birth parents and burdened with a terrifying curse, Masahiko spent two years of his childhood in the dark woods of Aokigahara – the infamous suicide forest. His unique power – the ability to see yōkai, supernatural entities – kept him alive, but a trail of pain and destruction stalks his footsteps. 

 

Plunged headlong into a deadly mystery that leads him back to the mysterious haunted woods of his youth, Masahiko begins to unearth horrifying secrets. Everyone Masahiko has ever loved ended up hurt or dead – and if he can't discover a way to end it once and for all, he'll soon join them...

 

Step into a thrilling paranormal fiction novel that expertly weaves together authentic Japanese mythology with high-octane suspense and a dash of horror. His Haunted Footsteps is a page-turning read perfect for fans of supernatural powers, eerie spirits, and Japanese folklore. Grab your copy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kaelyn Buzzo
• Release date: Oct 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223482840

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Come here, you little monster.

A hand wrapped around the boy’s leg, pulling him from his hiding spot under the great oak tree. He was dragged across sticks and rocks that pierced his flesh. He kicked out with his free leg, striking his pursuer’s nose.

Blood splashed onto the boy’s face. Painting his skin in blood and tears. His pursuer released his ankle, letting out a pained cry. The boy scrambled to his feet, limbs shaking as dirt and bramble pressed into his palms and knees.

You little rat! his pursuer roared into the late afternoon air.

The boy ran. Other voices followed him. Taunting him. Cursing him.

Lungs heaving, the boy fled farther into the forest. Away from his pursuers. Away from the ones who wished to hurt him.

All because of his curse.

Shadows encompassed most of the landscape, the sun inching closer to its nightly resting place. Soon, it would be too dark to see them. Exhausted, the boy stopped in a clearing. He searched for a new hiding place. One which would not be discovered like the last one.

Over here. The whisper tickled his ears, barely audible over the harsh pounding beating his chest.

The boy whipped around, but there was nothing. No one was there, only abundant foliage, bushes, and trees.

Where are you, you accursed child? his pursuer growled nearby.

The boy’s heart plummeted. His stomach followed suit. His legs shook. Eager to flee and hide, the boy fought the tears blurring his vision.

A seductive whisper of This way reached his ears. The alluring utterance was an enticing balm to the chaotic violence of his pursuers.

The boy scanned the area around him. A slender hand—so pale it was nearly white—stretched out from a bush. The nails were uncharacteristically sharp, resembling spiked thorns.

A single finger beckoned the boy forward. He paused, disquieted by the presence.

Hurry, child, a voice whispered behind him.

Clenching his fists tight to his stomach, the boy shook. This was a dangerous choice. He could feel it in his bones.

I think I see him!

The boy gasped and spun around. Trembling, he backed away from his pursuers and closer to the mysterious presence. They were coming for him.

Nails gripped the back of his shirt. Good choice, child.

The boy didn’t have a chance to protest before he was yanked backward, and everything changed.

CHAPTER ONE

Birds chirp as they flit from tree to tree, singing to the passing hikers below. A thick canopy of dense foliage threatens to block out the sun as the goyomatsu and hinoki trees wind and twist, fighting to find the sky.

A middle-aged couple fitted with professional hiking gear chatters as they traverse the fluxes of hardened lava which form the floor of the Aokigahara Forest. Stare long enough and the tree roots emerging from the lava begin to look like faces. Some twisting in agony, others in fury. Also called Jukai, or the Sea of Trees, it is more infamously known as the suicide forest.

Trailing a comfortable distance behind the couple is a young man wearing a loose white t-shirt, light-blue jeans, sneakers, and a backpack that he adjusts every now and then. His hair is the color of a snow-capped mountain, and his eyes are the color of the subduing blue of the ocean. For someone of Japanese descent, these features are unique. But what draws the eye is not physical features alone; there is something more prominent in its ability to pull others’ attention.

The young man’s brow pinches. Only the barest tell. And then it is gone.

He comes to an abrupt stop, then pointedly detours from the center of the trail and directs his attention to the trees above, as if he is purely admiring the sight. His focus stays there until some invisible point has been passed, after which the young man returns to walking the trail freely. Every now and then, he repeats the strange maneuver. Sometimes going so far as to wait a whole ten minutes—for what, no other is able to figure out just from watching—before recontinuing.

A bystander would likely find the young man undeniably beautiful at first glance and then… undoubtedly strange. Quirky, if not more than a little socially awkward. And then, after coming to such a hefty resolution, they’d go about their day.

The young man halts again. Seeming to find what he has been searching for, he looks both ways to ensure he is not being watched. Satisfied, he leaves the safety of the trail and enters the forest’s embrace.

The vast acreage of land settled at the base of Mount Fuji is encompassed by a sea of trees, numerous ice caves, some of which have not yet been explored, and a soil-covered floor of lava that could swallow his cries for help. The echo of his footsteps is swallowed by the tiny holes in the lava. Every branch that snaps underfoot and every huff of breath deterred from alerting others nearby.

It would be easy to go missing here and get lost in its thick vegetation. The cell phone signal is spotty due to the high iron content in the soil. Any who stray from the trail has the misfortune of getting lost in the vastness of this natural maze. Dried magma layers on the ground enable tree roots to dig shallowly and stretch over the ground in a curling, captive embrace.

It is a place not many dare to enter. It is said that otherworldly creatures have taken control of Aokigahara to keep man and evil from tainting the expanse of sacred land. Some believe the forest has already been taken over by evil.

He swallows. Inhales. And waits.

The lure had been cast. Foggy memories become clear. The last time Masahiko had been in Aokigahara, he was an eight-year-old orphan. That was ten years ago, right at the base of this large hinoki tree. Its trunk is three times thicker than the other trees around it, its branches and frond-like branchlets spreading wide to push back the branches of other encroaching trees. Yes…Masahiko remembers. The last time he had been in this very spot, he’d been betrayed. Like unwanted goods, he was given away.

Knowing this, Masahiko is back. To the same spot. All in search of the ones his soul refuses to let go of. No matter how much it hurt.

Standing six feet tall, Masahiko has grown a lot in ten years. Straight white hair tickles his jaw, falling over white eyebrows and blue eyes that have seen more than most. A long, straight nose leads down to soft lips accustomed to pinching shut. He is lean, almost thin, if not for the slight muscle tone he has recently gained back.

Sweat pools on his forehead. He wipes his clammy palms on his pants. He ghosts a hand over his left hip, then squeezes it painfully tight. The scar there throbs in rebuttal. His heart mirrors the feeling.

A gust of wind cuts through the trees, billowing to where he is standing. Leaves scatter, dancing wildly to the unnatural wind. Masahiko dares not blink nor turn away.

I know you’ve been following me. Show yourself.

Masahiko? The question wavers from the concealed presence hiding in the thicket of trees. Doubtful. Hopeful.

Word still travels fast in Aokigahara, I see.

A figure hops down from a branch settled high above the hinoki. They land on the ground with impressive ease and stand to their full height. Masahiko inspects his old friend, the other taking the chance to do the same.

A powerful tengu, Shingo holds a white staff that never leaves his side, though he doesn’t need it to walk. Brown wings with highlights of gold and white flare out from his back. He wears black tattsuke-hakama and no shirt, exposing a bare, toned torso hardened from extensive training, that of which is dripping in sweat. Masahiko passively wonders if Shingo has flown straight from training to see what the commotion is about. His stern-set features, more likely to glare daggers than smile, stare at Masahiko in astonishment. Harshening his features more, a scar shoots through one of his eyebrows, hovering over light brown eyes closer to gold than brown. When the light hits the gold in them, it brightens the tengu’s stormy features. One side of his head is shaved, layering into feathers that match his wings. Abruptly, the tengu’s expression closes off, his arms crossing over.

Where have you been? Masahiko withers at the uncompromising tone.

America, he responds.

And why have you returned?

To make amends.

The daggers in Shingo’s gaze sharpen impossibly further. His discontentment pulsates in its intensity. Amends? You expect I’ll welcome you with open arms. A slight crack forms in the steel formation. And then, Shingo bursts, After ten years!

Air gathers, spirals, and gusts, shaking the branches of the trees. Masahiko is left momentarily speechless. Shingo, I didn’t–

A chill of awareness hits Masahiko like the familiar swipe of a caress wafting across the nape of his neck. His attention flicks to that spot by the tree. The spot where Masahiko had last seen him. His guardian, friend, and betrayer. And there he is. Blending with the shadows in the same spot as before. Watching…waiting…listening…

Will you come out? Masahiko requests lightly. And without hesitation, the figure steps forward, the darkness peeling away.

Standing at nearly seven feet, Shiki is an imposing yōkai—an oni, with two mighty horns the color of onyx protruding from the top of his head. Thick horns reach toward the sky before curving in and upwards, thinning out to deadly points to form a deadly crown. Shiki wears a black kimono with a matching silk heko-obi, wrapping tight around his tapered waist. His pale complexion contrasts well with his darker hair—a pure black voluminous mass lengthened to his middle back. Earrings hang from both ears, a white rectangle with three red lotuses planted vertically down it. Eyebrows slash harshly above eyes as dark as his hair. A long nose leads down to a sharp, defined jaw. The oni is a masculine figure, quietly dominant, holding more strength and power than Masahiko or any human could ever dream of possessing in their lifetime.

Do my senses deceive me? Surely… Black orbs examine Masahiko, darting this way and that from top to bottom. Slowly, then surely, as if unaware of his actions, Shiki raises a trembling palm to cup Masahiko’s cheek.

Masahiko hesitates, then cups it in return. I may not be as strong as you, but nothing was going to stop me from returning.

A shadow of a smile touches Shiki’s lips, and Masahiko is quickly drawn into an embrace. Shiki rests his cheek on the top of Masahiko’s head, inhaling strongly. You have been dearly missed.

Masahiko relaxes, temporarily released from an unseen burden. The familiar sweet scent of May lily wafting off Shiki’s black kimono eases him further.

Shingo’s wings ruffle, agitated by the intrusion. You have much explaining to do.

Masahiko steps away, removing himself from Shiki’s embrace. Old fears prick at the hairs on the nape of his neck. Masahiko peeks at Shiki, finding solemnity. No trace of acknowledgment of what had occurred ten years ago in the very spot in which they stood.

Come. He will wish to see you. And with that, they set off to find the last member of their group. Traveling deep into Aokigahara, a forest from which few return, though for the vast majority, this is intentional.

Hopping over a tree root, Masahiko tries his best to keep up with the tengu’s vigorous pace. Shiki follows silently behind Masahiko without a word of protest. Only twenty minutes had passed since they’d begun their journey, and while the tengu’s sweat had dried since their meeting, Masahiko’s had not. It pools down his back as he lightly pants, muscles protesting. And despite all this, he is failing miserably: the tengu is so far ahead of him that Masahiko worries he might lose sight of him soon.

As Masahiko carefully circumvents large rocks and twining roots, the sound of flapping draws his attention. Up ahead, Shingo flies effortlessly onto a fallen log. Standing atop it, the tengu turns, upper lip peeling up peevishly as he notices Masahiko’s stare. Without bothering to help Masahiko, he hops down from the log, then turns his back and continues on his way.

Hurry up, human, Shingo calls back impatiently.

Shingo’s cold attitude shoves guilt down Masahiko’s throat. It’s not my fault, he thinks, but the punishing feeling fills his chest until it grabs hold of his beating organ and squeezes. He’d never thought the day would come that he would see the tengu again. He’d dreamt of a warm reunion, but the reality wasn’t so kind. Guilt is a companion Masahiko has walked with daily since he was a small boy. Disappointment and sadness twine together at the tengu’s denial.

Masahiko hoists himself up to climb over the log. A section of his hip pulses as his feet hit the floor. A throbbing reminder of what Masahiko left behind in America. His stride stutters as his foot hits and stumbles over a small rock. Masahiko trips and falls forward. His other foot quickly adjusts, and Masahiko rights himself. Masahiko looks up to continue walking and halts with surprise to find Shingo has backtracked, outstretched arms jerking back to cross stiffly together, and Shiki has come up behind Masahiko. Both are within arm’s reach, closer than they had been moments before.

Expression tightening, Shingo quickly turns to stalk off ahead. Exercise caution before you break a measly limb, human.

Shame hangs like a coat over Masahiko. It layers heavily with the other coats that Masahiko wears. Weighing him down. Gripping the backpack’s straps tightly, Masahiko mutters, Sorry.

Masahiko pushes aside a branch to clear the path ahead. He holds on to it and waits for Shiki to proceed. As he passes, the imposing yōkai lightly brushes his fingers through Masahiko’s hair, showing his thanks. Scalp tingling after the affectionate gesture, Masahiko releases the branch and joins the others waiting patiently for him. At least, Shiki is. Time being of the essence, Shingo taps his barefoot impatiently, crunching leaves and dirt underfoot. Masahiko sighs to himself but refrains from reacting to the tengu’s agitation. Instead, he absorbs the quiet echo of Aokigahara, the gentle flutter of the leaves as the trees sway. It’s been over ten years since he walked this path. Masahiko is shaken by aching feelings of nostalgia that strengthen irrevocably as they reach their destination.

A tall vermillion torii made of wood marks the start of the path to the abandoned shrine. The black top beam of the torii curves upwards, the base of the pillars painted the same color. Two fierce fox statues wearing red yodarekake—symbolic bibs believed to repel demons and sickness—guard the sides of the torii. The statue on the left is white and clasps a knife in its teeth. The other is black and wields a gold rope under its paw. Through the torii, Masahiko can see the stone steps which lead to the gardened grounds—and the sight of the matching vermillion honden fires flares of nostalgia. On the honden are gold-edged hanging markers paired with ornate gegyo. Metal decorations cover the sharp end points of the building’s wooden eaves. Kaerumata, strut shaped like splayed-out frog legs, attach to the pent roof of the shrine to complete the marvelous architectural structure that had been Masahiko’s home for two years.

Shingo calls over his shoulder, The loud jostling I hear from your bag best not be an irrelevant gift for reparation for your elongated absence.

Irrelevant? The tengu’s hearing is exceptional, but Masahiko already knew that. And, to his astonishment, remarkable hearing aside, the tengu has guessed right. Masahiko has brought gifts. But from the tengu’s predisposed displeasure, the tiding of its reception going well is adverse. Like what?

Pickles, Shiki supplies unhelpfully. Shingo nods readily in agreement.

That is oddly specific, says Masahiko.

The tengu actually shudders, then hisses in distaste, Vinegar.

Unbelievable, Masahiko says. He trails behind them. Every step closer to the torii makes his heart beat faster. I remember you used to drink heaping piles of sake. And somehow vinegar is too much for your delicate palate?

Your obsession with pickled foods scarred us all, a new presence chimes in beside him.

A great spotted woodpecker squawks loudly, startled by Masahiko’s ear-splitting shout of surprise. Masahiko’s hand flies to his chest to calm his racing heart.

The newcomer laughs, covering the lower half of his face gracefully with the sleeve of his white kimono. Oh, how I’ve missed your expressive reactions, young Masahiko.

Yuuma, Masahiko whines in frustration.

The kitsune is an admirably elegant figure with a composed persona and enchanting, eye-catching beauty. Lustrous white hair falls over refined shoulders. His kimono is a shocking white paired with a silver silk heko-obi decorated in iridescent embroidered patterns of winding plants twining together in a beautiful display. A kitsune’s power lies in the number of tails it hones. Though only three are currently visible, whipping leisurely back and forth behind Yuuma, Masahiko knows the kitsune has at least eight. Nine tails represent the most powerful.

Yuuma extends a thin, pale hand toward Masahiko. The nails are pointed and sharp. Masahiko hesitates for a second, then clasps it. Immediately, Yuuma yanks Masahiko closer, who withers under the intense power pulsing from the kitsune. Soft violet eyes probe the carefully placed layers of Masahiko’s shield. But Masahiko is no fool. He knows the kitsune’s examination had begun long before he made his presence known.

To return after all this time, Yuuma begins, countenance drawn for a fleeting moment. Then, he smiles down at Masahiko. The kitsune’s next words, a velvety deception of sweet honey, slip through the cracks of Masahiko’s core. Yuuma looms over Masahiko, his fearsome presence building rapidly. …a substantial event must have transpired. So, tell us, young Masahiko, why have you returned? And who dared to hurt you?

CHAPTER TWO

Does there have to be a tide-turning reason for me to return? The rebuttal sounds weak, even to Masahiko’s ears. He adjusts his backpack, the weight suddenly heavier than before. I returned because I could. No other reason.

A single claw-tipped finger under the chin. That’s all Yuuma requires to force Masahiko’s averted gaze back onto him. Shame strikes Masahiko. His bluff is flagged instantly by Yuuma. The kitsune hums, then says, You are, and forever will be, a horrible liar.

He’s lived with humans so long he fears us as they do, Shingo says bitingly. Masahiko cringes at the jab. They are prodding for answers Masahiko is not ready to give. He is reluctant, too afraid of what it would change.

Feeling dejected, Masahiko fiddles with the backpack. Do you want your gifts or not?

Shingo starts to march forward, ready to shake some sense into Masahiko. Yuuma blocks him with an outstretched arm.

Shingo readies to argue. A sharp warning glance and a whispered threat that Masahiko is unable to hear from Yuuma, and Shingo holds his tongue. Yuuma’s thin, slashed pupils momentarily return to Masahiko before the kitsune turns his gaze away and gestures to the torii gates. Come. You have been missed. Too many days have passed. Too many birthdays have been missed since you have been home. Yūgen has been empty without you.

Yūgen Shrine. That’s the name of Yuuma’s home, where the oni and tengu would often frequent during Masahiko’s time living there. For two years, Yūgen had been his home. Where he ate, drank, slept, and grew alongside the three yōkai. For Masahiko, it is an ethereal place, one of profound beauty. A refuge set in the echoing depths of the beguiling forest. It is flush with natural wonders, sensational beauty, and deceitful trickery.

An unfounded wariness settles over Masahiko as they walk to the torii. For those without special abilities or the belief in the power of the spiritual realm, the torii are merely wooden pillars that are easy to walk through or around. Nothing to be concerned about or to find comfort in as protection. Masahiko sees otherwise. A faint, nearly imperceptible shimmer can be seen around the gates: a barrier to keep out unwanted visitors. It stretches from the torii all the way around the designated area Yuuma established to protect Yūgen Shrine. Unwanted guests would find access blocked to the protected area or worse. Depending on how dangerous the threat is, the barrier could severely damage intruders who threaten to barge in.

Pausing, Masahiko watches as Yuuma continues up the path. Realistically, Masahiko knows that he would be welcome. After all, Yuuma has just invited him in. But he can also feel the tension between him and the yōkai. There is so much left unspoken, crawling beneath the surface, itching to dig its way out. A sickening thought unfolds. What if this is a sick prank? What if the barrier reacts when he tries to walk through? Would he end up with singed eyebrows or be blasted to outer space? Masahiko holds his breath and—

He passes underneath the massive torii without a hitch. An invisible wave crests, folding over him. A tranquil sensation joins it to temporarily soothe the doubt that prods him. The wave disperses as he steps onto the staircase. The barrier…

Will never reject you. Light shines over the silhouette standing atop the stairs to Yūgen. Fingers interlocked out of sight, Yuuma observes Masahiko’s stupefaction. Do not be so stunned, young Masahiko. Time may have passed—fretfully slow—since you last entered these grounds, but you will forever be welcome here. And then Yuuma affirms it by saying, Welcome home.

Breath hitching, Masahiko swallows heavily. I’m home.

Warmth swims over Yuuma’s features, and his lips curve into an affectionate smile. You have been dearly missed, sweet child. Now, cease your dallying and join me. There is another that will be thrilled to gaze upon you.

Excitement lightens the toll of his absence. Masahiko picks up the pace, hurrying up the steps to Yuuma’s side. They walk into the courtyard of the grounds where the honden sits in solidarity. It is not overtly large, and though it has not been used by humankind for many generations, it is well taken care of. The sight of it fills Masahiko with fondness, but something tall standing across from the honden, next to the small koi pond encircled by layers of rock, pulls Masahiko’s attention.

Stretching over eighty feet into the sky, its trunk width well past Shingo’s impressive wingspan, is a sugi. Around its trunk is a noteworthy shimenawa, the rope expertly braided together from rice straw, identifying the sugi as reiboku. Hanging from the thick rope is shide, the zigzag folded paper streamers made from washi, meant to signify a sacred barrier. Green moss layers the rugged bark of the tree in varying patches. Branches extend far and wide, creating a canopy overtop a portion of the shrine grounds, even covering the east side of the honden.

Masahiko steps up to the tree, grinning wildly and craning his neck to peer up. Hige Chourou! Wake up!

There is a creaking groan, as if the tree itself has awoken, and then— Do my eyes deceive me? Masahiko searches upwards to find the speaker. And there he is, on one of the uppermost branches, hanging upside down. The figure’s long white beard sways to and fro as the wrinkled, pint-sized man rocks side to side. Arms crossed, Hige Chourou purses his lips. He murmurs to himself. The trickster is playing games with a poor old man again. Has to be. How else would sweet little Masa grow so fast? Little Masa is only eight years old. Humans don’t grow that fast…right? Eyes larger than the average humans narrow, perusing Masahiko for a beat too long. No, only a few days have passed since the boy left…

Hige Chourou’s sorrowful tone reminds Masahiko that time passes differently for yōkai. Though they are not immortal, they have long lifespans and heal quickly, which allows them to far outlive humans. So, while Masahiko has grown in the years he’d been gone, the others have stayed the same without a wrinkle or gray hair to show for the passage of time.

The boy is no deception. Yuuma steps up, bowing in respect. Greetings, Hige Chourou.

Hmmm… Ignoring Yuuma, Hige Chourou begins to rock more aggressively. His bushy brows furrow in concentration. The branch bounces along with the motion, the leaves rustling together. The sound grows louder and louder, becoming a raucous cacophony as the branches join them.

Masahiko nervously steps forward. Hige Chourou, please be careful. The branch is going to break if you keep–

Crack!

The sound rips through the clearing, striking them all with its harshness.

Hige Chourou’s eyes snap open, lips mirroring a wide o as the branch detaches from the tree, ripping down the seams. It begins to lean, becoming perpendicular to the ground below with an unhurried swiftness. Wide-eyed and mouth agape in beseeching horror, Masahiko sees the branch rip free of the trunk, and Hige Chourou falls with it. With a shout, Masahiko jumps forward to catch the old man—and chokes out a gasp as he jerks to an abrupt stop. His backpack is clasped in a firm hold by Shingo. Hey! Let go—

Clack!

The branch crashes to the floor where Masahiko would have been. Parts break off, flinging in multiple directions as they clatter together. Masahiko unhooks his arms from the straps of his backpack, turning a ferocious glare on the culprit. Backpack held in his grasp, Shingo scowls back. Disapproval heavy as Masahiko ran to where the branch and Hige Chourou had fallen. But when he gets there, there is only the branch. Masahiko’s nostrils flare as the slight stench of rot fumes from the branch’s wound. Masahiko looks about frantic with worry. Hige Chourou! Hige–

You called? Standing on the tree horizontally, defying gravity, the kodama’s smaller body hovers over Masahiko.

Masahiko yells and pounds his fist upward in the direction of the sudden sound in instinctive retaliation. His knuckle grazes flesh, his fist just missing its mark.

Oh! My boy! You truly have returned. Hige Chourou applauds, cheeks bunching upwards in ecstatic joy.

Coming out of the momentary blank slate of his surprise, Masahiko pales. I hit you. He abruptly bows low, remaining there. Atoning for his violent actions. He had hit a kodama. Guardians of the forest, kodama are tree spirits who protect ancient trees and forests, and each made their home in sacred trees. Known as fierce protectors against evil, kodama are not to be toyed with. The sacred creatures could bless others, rarely showing themselves, but if wronged or if the tree or forest they protect is harmed, others would find themselves cursed. Even the yōkai are wary of wronging a kodama, and Masahiko is no exception. My sincere apologies for my thoughtless actions, Hige Chourou.

None of that, my boy! The kodama jumps from one foot to the other on the trunk of the tree. Masahiko rises from the bow, the kodama’s beard threatening to blind Masahiko as it flicks to and fro. Hige Chourou settles down on a low branch, one leg crossing over the other. Appease my curiosity! How old are you now?

Glad the kodama has chosen not to smite him, Masahiko steps back. Eighteen.

Hige Chourou’s leg falls from his lap and the kodama flails. Masahiko moves forward to steady the tree spirit, but as he is about to take the second step, Hige Chourou regains his balance with a steadying grasp on the branch, jaw going slack, snapping on the others observing them. That long? Shingo nods tightly. The kodama’s expression sombers. Oh, dear…time is so…fleeting. Only yesterday, you were climbing my branches and using them as a shield to avoid the tengu’s insistent rallies to train… Shingo perks up, his gaze narrowing in on Masahiko.

Masahiko clears his throat, sweeping his bangs back to rub the back of his neck. The space where a hawkish focus drills into him. Trying to ignore the hawkish gaze at his back, Masahiko set his bag down before unzipping it and reaching in to pull something out.

I think it’s time for souvenirs. And a change of topic. Lips twitching into a forced smile, Masahiko finds what he is looking for. It clinks dully as Masahiko tries to refrain from sounding it off. He lightly picks it up, holding it out so Hige Chourou can peer over the branch to see it. For you, Hige Chourou.

A gift? Hige Chourou combs his beard as he surveys the item. A tiny house?

A dorei suzu, Masahiko corrects with a grin. The clay bell is shaped like a wooden hut, a little home Masahiko had designed. He created it to look as traditional as possible to avoid offending the kodama. Holding it from the rope handle on top, Masahiko rings the bell. The chimes ring strikingly clear and pleasant as they clatter back and forth against the clay outer lining. I made it from scratch in my ceramics class in school in America.

Extraordinary, a peaceful and pure reverberation. Hige Chourou’s eyes drift closed, and he places his palm on the tree, its leaves rustling in reply. The kodama swells with pleasure. It is an incredible gift. Toss it up, and I shall attach it to one of our branches.

When Masahiko hesitates, concerned he’ll break the gift attempting to throw it to the kodama, the dorei suzu is snatched from his grasp and tossed to the kodama without a glance to take aim. The kodama catches it with ease, immediately getting to work to attach it to a branch. Shingo sticks his hand out without further ado and asks. And mine?

Masahiko pushes down the annoyance that rises at Shingo’s entitled demand and instead focuses on finding the tengu’s gift in his backpack. Close your eyes.

Spine straightening, Shingo retracts his palm to cross his arms. Why should I listen to your demands?

Masahiko cannot withhold a lengthy sigh, which makes Shiki and Yuuma smile. Shingo refuses to relent. Masahiko teases, Because if you don’t, you won’t get this awesome present.

Shingo stubbornly tilts his chin away but steals a quick glance at Masahiko’s backpack, his interest seemingly sparked. I doubt any gift would awe me. He pauses, then adds. This gift is for me, alone?

Yes. Masahiko smiles.

Shingo stabs his staff in the ground. Very well. Show it to me, then.

Masahiko smothers a laugh. Shingo tries to sneak a peek, but Masahiko hurriedly covers the opening of his backpack. No cheating! Close them or no souvenir.

With an undignified snort, Shingo obeys, the hardened line of his jaw as stubborn as he is. Masahiko pulls the gift out of the bag and says. Give me your hand.

Grumbling, Shingo obliges. Awfully bossy for a human.

Masahiko grasps Shingo’s calloused hand, worn from training. Okay. You can open them now.

Shingo stares at the item.

Masahiko rushes to explain. It’s a tantō. This one is made of Damascus steel. See the flowing, water-like pattern of the blade? That’s the signature of the steel. It’s reputable for its toughness and resistance to shattering. Shingo doesn’t respond. The jitters leave Masahiko, replaced with apprehension. The tengu does not like the gift. I thought you might like it. It can act as a concealed weapon. I thought it would be safer to have a backup in case your weapon brok—

Air slices centimeters from Masahiko’s cheek, a thunk sounding as the tantō embeds into a wooden post supporting the honden behind him. Yuuma hisses. Shingo!

Shingo strides past to yank the blade out, bark falling off the area ringing the clean indentation. Twirling the knife, Shingo admires the steel. This is a decent blade. Shingo strides back to Masahiko and continues. Your reflexes have gone soft. All that training as a child went to waste.

A live wire of memories filters through to the present as Masahiko’s body remains frozen. His chin lowers, hair falling forward to conceal the subdued terror contorting his expression. Startled from his stupor, Masahiko gasps as Shingo aggressively ruffles his hair. Fearful he’ll go bald, Masahiko ducks away, covering his messy hair to protect it from the tengu.

Thank you for the gift. Shingo bows. It is a slight one, but one that nonetheless shocks Masahiko. I will cherish it.

Taken off guard by the tengu’s empathetic display, Masahiko blushes, the color bright against his pale complexion. He dips his head in a shy nod.

Yuuma trails forward to peek into the backpack. Any gifts for your favorite kitsune?

Rushing to intercept Yuuma’s prying scrutiny, Masahiko drags the bag close. Your turn, Yuuma. Yuuma complies without further ado, long white eyelashes fanning out. Masahiko sets the bag on the ground, rustling around to grab the gifts. He carefully sets them in the elegant cup of Yuuma’s palms. Don’t be mad.

Why would I be mad?

Masahiko lowers his voice, embarrassed. You’ll see. You can look now.

Yuuma opens his eyes, and Masahiko hurriedly explains, A crossword puzzle book and a sudoku book…I know you get bored, so I thought this might help ease the boredom of long life. I also got you this. Masahiko pulls out a crinkled bag, handing it over to Yuuma. They’re sweet chili-flavored rice cake chips. I got a few different flavors for you, but that’s my favorite.

Yuuma flips open the book of crossword puzzles, then the sudoku book. The kitsune is engrossed, flicking back and forth between the two books. Seeing that Yuuma’s interest is caught, Masahiko moves on. Shiki?

The oni steps forward, his onyx horns glistening in the sunlight streaming through the trees. Like Yuuma, the oni is eager to comply. Shingo glances up from the perusal of his gift to click his tongue disapprovingly. And Yuuma, attention fastened on his own gifts, pops the bag of rice chips with an inquisitive hum. Masahiko pulls out Shiki’s gift but becomes distracted by Yuuma’s reaction to the chips. He watches as Yuuma sniffs the reddish powdered chip, nose wrinkling in a disgusted yet inquisitive expression. Yuuma takes a small nibble, inspects the chip once more, then downs the whole thing. Nodding to himself, Yuuma licks his lips and reaches for more.

A throat gently clears, and Masahiko reasserts his focus to Shiki, waiting patiently. Sorry, sorry. Here’s your gift.

Shiki gazes down at the gift. What is it?

So, I know how you are about your horns…but I saw this at a store and— Shiki continues to stare. A flush of embarrassment blossoms as Masahiko stumbles over his explanation. It’s a ring. For one of your horns.

Yuuma peers up from the empty bag of chips. Is that a dragon claw?

Yes? It is a dragon’s claw. The kitsune’s sudden inquisitiveness makes Masahiko nervous, as if he had unknowingly made a mistake in his gift for the oni.

Shiki turns the large ring over, examines it, and then gives it back to Masahiko.

Rejection ravages Masahiko. You don’t like it?

Shiki tilts down, horns now within Masahiko’s reach. Oh! You want me to put it on? Uh, which horn would you prefer I…?

Shiki remains bowed, expression hidden from view.

Indecisive on the best of days, Masahiko hesitates under the pressure to decide. Shingo’s impatient grumbling jerks him into action. He latches the large ring around Shiki’s right horn, near the base where it is thickest. It fits snugly at home there.

Shiki straightens. He gently touches the jewel on his horn. A soft fondness lightens the oni’s features.

The oni is an imposing figure. The mass of his thick, long black hair crowns his horns and flows over his broad shoulders. The dragon claw surrounding the luminous onyx horn boldens his withstanding powerful presence.

Huh. The spitting image of an overlord, Shingo states bluntly, flicking his blade in circles with his wrist. I like it. Masahiko, are there ones for wings in America?

Uhh, no, I don’t believe so.

It does strike an imposing addition, Yuuma agrees, eating a second bag of chips he sniped from Masahiko’s backpack.

Shiki touches the dragon ring once more as if to ensure it is still there. Thank you for the gift, child.

I’m no longer a child, Shiki. The response comes out thinner than Masahiko intends. Masahiko clears his throat, lightening his tone. But you’re welcome.

Shingo scoffs, tossing the tantō in the air and catching it. However you may wish it, you will forever be a child compared to us. We are hundreds of years older than you.

That’s— A ringing sound comes from Masahiko’s backpack. Stiffening, Masahiko reaches for his phone, scanning the screen. It is the timer he’d set on his phone. He has to leave. Time goes by so fast, he murmurs. Then, louder, I have to go.

Scowl trained on Masahiko, Shingo flicks the tantō into its sheath. You’ve returned briefly, and you depart so soon?

Masahiko zips up his bag, not looking at any of them. I’ll be back.

Will you?

Masahiko’s jaw tightens, pushing down the rapid-fire feelings of sadness and longing for having to leave so soon. If I don’t go now, it will cause problems. I’ll be back, I promise.

Problems? Shiki’s tone plunges, deep and ominous.

Nothing I can’t handle. Masahiko pulls the straps tight over his shoulders. I have to go. I’ll see you all soon, I swear!

The yōkai all follow Masahiko down the shrine’s steps. Masahiko relaxes at the faint brush of Yuuma’s barrier as he exits Yūgen’s grounds.

Must you leave so soon? Yuuma asks.

Masahiko is saddened at the inquiry. In truth, he wants to stay, to spend more time with them, but he doesn’t want to worry Hanae.

I’m sorry. Next time, I will plan on staying longe–

As fleeting as a bird’s entrance, you fly in and flutter away to leave us again, Yuuma entreats with a wistful air. He inquires, Little bird, do you plan on keeping the secrets of the time missed hidden beneath the surface?

I don’t— Masahiko is lost, unsure what to do or say. The words do not dare leave their cage. Do not dare want to be heard.

Don’t what? Shingo sneers. Don’t want to bother spending time with us? Prefer to share your time with humans than with us spooky yōkai?

Cease your spiked prodding, tengu. Give him time, Shiki placates.

Shingo narrows his glare on the shadowed oni.

I agree. Our Masahiko is hiding something dire. Alas, your body cannot lie, and we are not blind. Yuuma scrutinizes Shingo. Well, most of us are not. Others are throwing a temper tantrum.

Shingo snarls, then mumbles, Am not.

Should I tell them? His head pounds. Should I tell them what happened? Would they…would it change? Would it break this invisible barrier between us?

I–

Yes, tell them what you did.

CHAPTER THREE

No. I…I’m hearing things. There’s no…there’s no possible way…he…he can’t be here.

Pulse spiking in horror, his fingers tremble. It has to be a mistake. His mind is playing tricks on him. Sick, twisted tricks pulled straight out of his nightmares. Swallowing a lump, Masahiko fists them, searching the clearing for the speaker.

A tree rustles in his blindside, and Masahiko jolts as if electrocuted, turning to the sound. A bird flies out and away in a hurry. No living soul dares step out of Aokigahara’s embrace. Rather