Would you mind hearing me out for a bit?
This is a story about the Tanzawa mountains. Those peaks out in Kanagawa.
I can't say I've verified any of it myself, but there are people who talk about this sort of thing. Apparently, deep in those mountains, there's a place the locals call the "Mountain God Tunnel." Word has it that for as long as anyone can remember, there's been an understanding around those parts — that particular spot is somewhere you'd do well to avoid.
Anyway, this would have been three, maybe four years ago, or so I'm told.
A man went into the Tanzawa alone. He was experienced — had walked that same range dozens of times. His gear was in order, the weather was fine. It was late October, the days already short, but he'd planned to go in before noon and be back down by evening, from what I understand.
But evening came, and he didn't return.
At first, people figured he'd simply run a little late. That was the thinking, apparently. But the night passed with no word. A search began the following morning, and it turned up nothing. No pack, no footprints. No sign he'd fallen into a stream, no indication of a run-in with wildlife.
As though somewhere along the way, the path itself had simply ceased to exist.
The only thing left behind was his car, sitting in the trailhead car park. That was all.
According to the locals, the truly dangerous days on that mountain are the ones when the fog comes in — and not the ordinary morning mist or evening haze, but that white fog that rises without warning even under clear skies. Visibility drops to two or three metres. You can see nothing but your own feet. When that fog appears, they say, the path changes. The trail you're walking suddenly becomes one you've never seen before. You find yourself going in circles, and yet the scenery is different every time around.
You might say that sort of thing happens on any mountain. But that particular part of the Tanzawa, apparently, is something else.
Not long before the man disappeared, another hiker had walked the same route. That person made it back down safely — but they mentioned having seen something strange near the entrance to the tunnel.
A figure, standing in the fog.
There was someone at the edge of the path, they said. Standing perfectly still, facing toward them. Not dressed for hiking — just ordinary clothes, like any person you might pass on the street. When the hiker made to call out, the figure turned and walked, slowly, into the tunnel.
The hiker didn't follow. Something told them not to — some instinct they couldn't quite name — and they turned back the way they'd come.
When an old local heard about this afterward, they said quietly, almost to themselves: "That's what calls them." And then: "Anyone who follows it doesn't come back."
They said nothing more after that.
There is one other thing that stays with me, though.
Some time later, the missing man's family went into the mountains. Not so much to search for clues — more, I think, to say goodbye. When they stood before the tunnel, they said a wind came from inside it.
November in the mountains, so a cold wind would be nothing unusual. But this wind, they said, was different.
It was warm. Faintly, unsettlingly warm.
Like the heat of a living body, they said.
That family hasn't gone near the mountain since.
