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▶ The Haunting of Azusagawa Furusato Park
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Azusagawa Furusato Park
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A park—suddenly there.
Deep in the mountains,
not a single person in sight.
Only a presence,
peering from the shade of the trees.
For years now,
no one dares to come close.
When the sun is high,
no one notices.
No one cares.
But
as the afternoon fades,
the shadows creep in—fast.
The mountains darken too quickly,
and the cold descends even faster.
The children’s voices
that should be echoing—
fall completely silent.
The forbidden hour.
6 PM.
Something black begins to move.
Those who see its shadow
can no longer move.
They become stones—
strangely shaped—
and remain there
as residents of the park.
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Everyone dismisses it as fiction.
They can laugh in the daylight—
but after sunset,
their smiles stiffen.
They remember, suddenly,
the story of the fallen warriors—
driven into these mountains
by the villagers.
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A park that appeared
as if it never belonged.
The story
was never just the past.
A promise the villagers made—
one that can no longer be kept
in an aging world.
In exchange for life,
you must offer
the sound of children’s voices.
Even if you bring children,
you leave by 4 PM.
If you forget something,
you never go back for it.
Have you seen the driftwood
from the Azusagawa River?
Don’t you think
its shapes are… unnatural?
The children who ran back home
say nothing.
The souls of children
flow into the Sea of Japan.
In March—
plump firefly squid
begin to glow at night.
Some people decorate their homes
with driftwood from the river.
Some become obsessed
with eating firefly squid.
Those who once played outside
too late as children—
without realizing it—
had their souls taken.
The dull rhythm
of the Matsumoto Bonbon festival.
They keep dancing,
as if empty inside.
A cursed midsummer night
returns again and again.
Even now—
if you listen closely at night,
you may hear
a crowd of children
from a park
where no one should be.
Kamikōchi.
From a bus window,
you might glimpse the forest—
a Japanese macaque
emerging from the shadows.
But for a split second,
something not a monkey
is mixed in.
Few notice.
Among the baby monkeys—
a human child’s face.
A sorrowful gaze
pierces through you.
In Kamikōchi,
twilight falls all at once—
and time stops.
Overtourism, these days.
Cars are not allowed into Kamikōchi.
Families switch to buses,
or park before entering on foot.
Even empty, forgotten parks
off the tourist path
draw wandering visitors.
And from deep within the mountains,
something watches—
without blinking.
Like Hokkaido,
spring in the highlands
arrives all at once.
Plum blossoms burst open
as if they had been holding back.
White magnolias follow.
Cherry blossoms bloom—
and in an instant,
become a blizzard of pink and white.
Large petals of magnolia,
the lively colors of dogwood.
Golden Week is approaching.
And the children—
will come again.