Hachijōjima — End of the Exiled, Depths of the Fog

Though it lies less than an hour from Tokyo by air, Hachijōjima (八丈島) never quite sheds its uncanny air of remoteness. The island's silhouette, shaped like a gourd, was born from the merging of two volcanoes, one to the east and one to the west. Beneath the surface, the earth has not yet gone to sleep.

The Edo shogunate used this island as a place of exile. Ukita Hideie (宇喜多秀家) and a great many others — criminals, conspirators, inconvenient men — were sent here, and most never set foot on the mainland again. It is said that the island's soil has accumulated, layer upon layer, the lingering obsessions of those who rotted away still longing to return.

The western volcano erupted repeatedly throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries by recorded account alone, and has at times thrust new landmasses up from the seafloor. On an island where the very earth periodically bares its teeth, the exiles were caught between eruption and wave with nowhere to flee. Much of the supernatural lore rooted in this place is built upon that foundation — the terror of being sealed in.

Among the oral traditions passed down on the island, there is a story of figures seen walking in procession along the shore on foggy nights. They have no faces, make no sound, and simply continue walking in the direction of the open sea. An elder of the village is said to have spoken of them quietly: "They are only the ones who could not cross over, trying once more tonight to go home."

Even now, with the island developed as a resort destination, there are said to be areas near the rim of the Higashiyama Caldera (東山カルデラ), deep in the island's interior, that tourists are reluctant to approach. When islanders are asked why, most say little — only that on days when the fog runs deep, it is better not to go.