…Whether any of this is true, I cannot say with certainty. I can only pass along what I was told, exactly as it was told to me.
There is, I have heard, an old public telephone in Shiba Park. Deep among the trees, beyond where the lights of Tokyo Tower reach. In the daytime it is nothing — just a weathered box. But at night, they say, it becomes something slightly different.
The person in question — a man, I believe, just shy of thirty — passed by that telephone on a night in late November. Past eleven o'clock, as I understand it. He had stayed late at work, missed the last train, and was making his way home on foot.
The park was sparsely lit, and fallen ginkgo leaves were pressed flat against the pavement. Each step made a soft, wet crush beneath his shoes. He could feel the cold, damp leaves through the soles — he was quite clear about that. And that night there was no wind, no insects — only the sound of his own footsteps.
As he passed the telephone, it began to ring.
Past eleven at night. In an empty park.
At first, he did not stop. A public telephone ringing in the city at that hour — a wrong number, surely. But it did not stop. Six rings, seven, eight… and somewhere in the counting, his feet simply ceased to move. He said afterward that he felt summoned. That was the word he used — summoned. Though by what, he could not yet say.
He picked up the receiver.
Cold, he said. Not the cold of metal — something wetter, something that seemed to cling to his palm. And the moment he raised it to his ear, he heard a woman's voice.
*"You finally… answered."*
A quiet voice. Not frantic, not raised — only relieved. The voice of something that had waited a very long time and had at last been rewarded. He asked, instinctively, who was calling. And the woman said:
*"I've been waiting… right here. For you."*
For you.
He said that every hair on his body rose in that moment — not across his back, but the fine hairs at the nape of his neck, lifting one by one, slowly. His hand shook as he tried to replace the receiver. He could not manage it.
And then — the very next instant.
A voice came from directly behind him.
*"Don't hang up."*
The same voice. Identical to the one on the line — and no more than five inches from his ear.
He spun around. There was no one. Only the wet ginkgo leaves pressed against the pavement, and not the faintest trace of another presence. And yet he had heard it. He said he had even felt the warmth of breath against his skin.
He dropped the receiver and ran.
I heard afterward that the area around that telephone has carried such stories for some time. Something about a woman, decades ago, found there — unidentified. Whether that is true or not, I cannot say.
But this much the man himself reported: when he looked back over his shoulder as he fled, the receiver — the one he had dropped — was back in its cradle.
Neatly. Properly replaced.
…If that telephone rings in the night, please — do not answer it. Whether answering is the worse choice or refusing is, I truly cannot tell you. Only one thing.
If you do answer — do not, under any circumstances, look behind you.
Because if you look, she will still be there.
