Chapter 4: Old Wounds

The early morning sun did little to banish the lingering sense of dread that had settled in Mikoto’s chest. Her sleepless night had left her exhausted, her nerves frayed and raw. The events of the previous night haunted her thoughts—the whispers, the figure outside her window, and the overwhelming fear that had consumed her.

Despite the daylight, the house felt just as cold and unwelcoming as it had the night before. Her grandmother was already awake, as usual, quietly moving about the house. Mikoto found her in the kitchen, preparing tea with the same methodical precision as the day before. The only sound was the faint clinking of the teapot as her grandmother poured the hot water.

“Good morning, Grandmother,” Mikoto said, trying to keep her voice steady.

Her grandmother glanced at her briefly, her expression unreadable. “Morning,” she replied curtly, setting the teapot down on the table. There was a stiffness in her movements that Mikoto hadn’t noticed before, a tension that seemed to vibrate just beneath the surface.

They sat down in silence, the tea steaming gently between them. Mikoto hesitated, her hands wrapping around the warm teacup as she tried to gather her thoughts. She had so many questions, so many fears, but she didn’t know where to start or if she even dared to ask.

Finally, she couldn’t keep the words in any longer. “Grandmother,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, “have you ever seen… something strange outside at night?”

Her grandmother’s hand froze mid-sip, and for a brief moment, Mikoto saw something flicker across her face—fear, or perhaps recognition. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the same cold, distant expression.

“This village is old,” her grandmother said, echoing the words she had used before. “There are things here that cannot be explained. It is best not to dwell on them.”

Mikoto’s heart sank. The response was the same vague warning she had received before, offering no comfort, no answers. “But… last night, I saw something. Outside my window. It was—”

“Enough,” her grandmother snapped, her voice harsh. She set the teacup down with a sharp clatter, her eyes narrowing. “You will not speak of such things. Not here. Not in this house.”

Mikoto flinched, shocked by the sudden outburst. Her grandmother’s eyes were hard, cold, and there was a finality in her tone that made it clear the subject was closed. Mikoto swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. She had hoped for some kind of reassurance, some acknowledgment that she wasn’t going mad. But all she received was silence and a stern rebuke.

Her grandmother stood up abruptly, her movements stiff and abrupt. “I’m going out for a while,” she said, her back turned to Mikoto. “I have errands to run. You should stay inside today.”

Mikoto nodded mutely, too shaken to respond. Her grandmother left without another word, the door closing with a heavy thud behind her. Mikoto sat at the table for a long time, staring into her tea, her thoughts churning.

Why was her grandmother so adamant about ignoring the strange occurrences in the village? Was she hiding something, or was she simply afraid? The questions swirled in Mikoto’s mind, each one more unsettling than the last.

Unable to sit still any longer, Mikoto stood up and began to pace around the small kitchen. The house felt emptier with her grandmother gone, the silence oppressive. Her thoughts kept returning to the figure she had seen, its hollow eyes and twisted smile haunting her even in the daylight.

She needed answers. She needed to know what was happening in this village and why she was being targeted. But where could she start? The villagers seemed just as secretive as her grandmother, and Akane had warned her against asking too many questions.

As Mikoto paced, her eyes fell on a small, worn door at the end of the hallway. It was slightly ajar, revealing a steep staircase leading down into the darkness. She had seen the door before but had assumed it led to a storage room or basement. But now, with her grandmother gone and the house eerily quiet, curiosity got the better of her.

Taking a deep breath, Mikoto walked toward the door. The floorboards creaked beneath her feet, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence. She hesitated at the top of the stairs, peering into the darkness below. The air that wafted up from the stairwell was cool and damp, carrying with it the faint scent of earth and something metallic.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the light switch on the wall, but when she flicked it, nothing happened. The bulb had burnt out, leaving the stairwell shrouded in darkness. Mikoto bit her lip, unsure if she should proceed, but something compelled her to go down, a need to uncover whatever secrets her grandmother might be hiding.

She descended the stairs slowly, one hand on the railing, the other gripping the wall to steady herself. The steps were steep and narrow, and the further she went, the colder the air became. It wasn’t just the physical coldness—there was an unnatural chill that seeped into her bones, making her shiver.

At the bottom of the stairs, Mikoto found herself standing in a small, musty basement. The only light came from a tiny window near the ceiling, casting just enough illumination for her to make out the vague shapes of old furniture covered in dusty sheets. The walls were lined with shelves, filled with jars of preserved food and various tools, but there was nothing unusual—at least, nothing that stood out at first glance.

She began to explore, her footsteps muffled by the thick layer of dust that coated the floor. The basement was cramped and cluttered, with boxes and old belongings stacked haphazardly in the corners. But as she moved further into the room, something caught her eye—a large wooden chest, partially hidden beneath an old tarp.

Mikoto’s heart raced as she approached the chest. It was old, the wood darkened with age, and the metal latch was tarnished with rust. She hesitated for a moment, her fingers hovering over the latch, before she gathered the courage to open it.

The lid creaked as it lifted, the sound echoing in the small space. Mikoto peered inside, expecting to find old clothes or trinkets, but what she saw made her blood run cold.

Inside the chest were old, faded photographs—hundreds of them, stacked in neat piles. Each photograph was of the village, taken long ago. The houses looked the same, though more weathered now, but it was the people in the photographs that caught Mikoto’s attention. They were the same villagers she had seen in the square, their faces eerily familiar despite the photographs being decades old.

She picked up a handful of photos, flipping through them with trembling hands. The more she looked, the more she realized that the villagers hadn’t aged a day. The same faces, the same expressions, frozen in time.

Her breath quickened as she continued to search through the chest. There were other things too—old letters, faded with age, written in a language she couldn’t read. Strange symbols were scrawled in the margins, symbols that made her skin crawl just by looking at them.

At the bottom of the chest, buried beneath the photographs and letters, Mikoto found something that made her heart stop—a small, weathered journal bound in cracked leather. It looked ancient, the pages yellowed and brittle with age. She hesitated, her fingers trembling as she reached for it, feeling a sense of foreboding settle over her. Whatever was written in that journal, she instinctively knew it held the answers she was searching for—answers that might explain the strange happenings in the village, and perhaps even her grandmother’s distant behavior.

Mikoto took a deep breath, steadying herself before she opened the journal. The writing inside was small and cramped, the ink faded but still legible. The first few pages were filled with mundane entries—records of the weather, notes about the harvest, mentions of villagers she didn’t recognize. But as she turned the pages, the entries became darker, more frantic, the writing more chaotic.

The journal’s owner, whoever they had been, wrote of strange occurrences in the village—people disappearing without a trace, only to return days later, changed in ways that terrified their loved ones. They wrote of whispers in the night, voices calling out from the darkness, and of shadowy figures lurking at the edge of the forest, watching with hollow eyes.

Mikoto’s hands shook as she read the increasingly disturbing entries. The writer spoke of a curse, one that had plagued the village for generations. They described rituals performed by the village elders, meant to appease the ancient spirits that dwelled within the forest. These rituals, however, often required a sacrifice—one that the villagers were all too willing to make.

Her blood ran cold as she read the final entries. The writer had become increasingly paranoid, convinced that the curse was inescapable and that the village was doomed. The last entry was short, written in a shaky hand:

“They are coming for me. I can hear their whispers. I will not let them take me. I must end this.”

The rest of the page was blank, save for a few dark stains that Mikoto couldn’t identify. She closed the journal with a shudder, her mind racing. The curse, the rituals, the sacrifices—it was all too much to comprehend, yet it felt like the pieces were finally beginning to fall into place.

But what did this have to do with her? Why was she being targeted? And what role did her grandmother play in all of this?

Mikoto’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden noise from upstairs—a loud, sharp creak, as if someone had stepped on a loose floorboard. Her heart skipped a beat, and she quickly closed the chest, shoving the journal into her bag before rushing back up the stairs. She wasn’t sure what she expected to find, but the idea of being caught down here with that journal filled her with dread.

As she reached the top of the stairs, she hesitated, listening for any other sounds. The house was silent, but the heavy, oppressive atmosphere was back, pressing down on her like a physical weight. She carefully pushed the basement door closed and stepped into the hallway, her senses on high alert.

“Grandmother?” she called out, her voice barely above a whisper.

There was no response.

Mikoto moved through the house, her footsteps cautious. The air was thick with tension, each creak of the floorboards making her heart race. When she reached the living room, she found it empty, just as she had left it. The tea set still sat on the table, untouched, and the door was still closed.

She let out a slow breath, trying to calm her racing heart. Maybe she had imagined the noise. After all, her nerves were already frayed from everything that had happened. But as she turned to go back to her room, she froze.

There, in the reflection of the glass cabinet door, she saw it—a figure standing in the doorway behind her.

Mikoto’s breath caught in her throat as she spun around, her eyes wide with fear. But the doorway was empty, the hall beyond it dark and silent. She stared at the spot where the figure had been, her heart pounding so loudly she could hear it in her ears.

She hadn’t imagined it. She had seen something—someone—standing there, watching her. But now it was gone, leaving only the lingering sense of dread that clung to the air.

Mikoto backed away slowly, her mind racing. She needed to get out of the house, to clear her head and figure out what to do next. She grabbed her bag, making sure the journal was secure inside, and quickly left the house, not bothering to close the door behind her.

The sun had climbed higher in the sky, but the forest that surrounded the house still cast long shadows across the ground. The village was quiet, the stillness almost suffocating as Mikoto walked down the path toward the village center. Her thoughts were in turmoil, the fear gnawing at her insides.

As she reached the edge of the forest, she paused, glancing back at her grandmother’s house. The unease that had been growing inside her since she arrived in Shizukawa was now almost unbearable. She felt like she was being watched, even now, as she stood in the open, the forest looming behind her.

Mikoto turned and continued walking, her mind returning to the journal. The entries had mentioned rituals and sacrifices, but they were vague about the specifics. What had the villagers been sacrificing, and to whom? And more importantly, why did it seem like the curse was still active, still tormenting the village even after all these years?

She knew she couldn’t rely on her grandmother for answers. The old woman was clearly hiding something, and Mikoto was beginning to suspect that whatever it was, it involved the curse. But where could she go for information? The villagers were unlikely to talk to her, and even Akane had warned her against asking too many questions.

As she walked through the village, Mikoto noticed something strange. The streets were emptier than usual, with only a few villagers out and about. Those she did see hurried past her without a word, their eyes downcast, their expressions tense. The air was thick with an unspoken tension, as if something terrible was about to happen.

Mikoto’s stomach churned with anxiety as she made her way to the village shrine. It was an old structure, tucked away at the edge of the village, surrounded by ancient trees that towered above it like silent sentinels. The shrine was small, but well-maintained, with offerings of food and flowers placed neatly on the steps.

She climbed the stone steps slowly, her heart heavy with trepidation. The shrine was quiet, the air thick with the scent of incense. Mikoto hesitated at the entrance, unsure of what she was looking for, but feeling a strange compulsion to enter.

The interior of the shrine was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from a few flickering candles. The air was cool, the stone floor cold beneath her feet. The walls were lined with old paintings and scrolls, depicting scenes of the village and the surrounding forest. But it was the altar at the far end of the room that drew Mikoto’s attention.

The altar was simple, a small wooden table draped with a white cloth. But what sat atop it made Mikoto’s blood run cold.

There, in the center of the altar, was a large, ornate knife—its blade long and curved, with strange symbols etched into the metal. The handle was wrapped in old, faded cloth, stained with dark, dried blood. It looked ancient, yet it was clear that it had been used recently.

Mikoto’s hands trembled as she approached the altar, her eyes locked on the knife. The symbols on the blade seemed to pulse with a dark energy, sending shivers down her spine. She had seen those symbols before, in the journal. They were part of the rituals, the same rituals that the villagers had performed for generations.

But why was the knife here, at the shrine? And what was it used for?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft sound from behind her—a whisper, barely audible, yet unmistakable.

“Mikoto…”

She spun around, her heart leaping into her throat. But the shrine was empty, the only sound the faint rustling of the wind outside. Mikoto’s breath came in short gasps as she backed away from the altar, the knife’s presence feeling increasingly malevolent.

“Mikoto… come to us…”

The voice was clearer now, echoing in the small space, coming from all around her. It was the same voice she had heard in the night, the same voice that had called to her from outside her window.

Her fear overwhelmed her, and Mikoto turned and fled from the shrine, stumbling down the steps as fast as she could. She didn’t stop running until she was far from the shrine, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her heart pounding in her chest.

She knew now, without a doubt, that the village was cursed. And whatever was haunting Shizukawa, it had its sights set on her.

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