Hey — are you listening?
You know the story of Mount Hakkōda. The winter of 1902, when soldiers of the Imperial Army vanished into the snow. It's in the history books, so everyone knows the incident itself — but what I heard was what came after.
Just — lean in a little closer.
This is something I heard two or three years ago. Apparently it happened to someone a friend of mine knows, up in Aomori. I have no way of verifying it, so I can't say whether it's true. But they say the person couldn't bring themselves to go near the mountains for a good while afterward.
This person's hobby was mountain photography, and in early December they went up into Hakkōda alone. They planned to be back at the lodge by evening, and had spent the early afternoon walking around the area near the statue of Corporal Gotō. You know the one? Standing perfectly at attention in the snow, frozen in that same posture for over a hundred years.
The sky was overcast that day, and snow was drifting down. Almost no wind — a quiet afternoon where the only sound was the click of the shutter. They'd made a full circuit around the statue and were thinking it was time to head back, when something felt off.
Not a sight. A smell.
Snow mountains have no smell — that's what they said. Odorless. Just cold air and nothing else. But all at once there was this scent, heavy and indescribable — like a waterlogged military uniform, old cloth soaked through and beginning to freeze.
They stopped and looked around. No one. Just trees and snow and the distant statue.
But the smell didn't fade. If anything, it grew stronger.
And then it came from behind.
Crunch — crunch — crunch.
Footsteps in the snow. But not ordinary footsteps. Not boots, not hiking shoes — something heavier, more numerous, perfectly in time with one another. Not one person. Many, all moving to the same rhythm. The sound of a march.
They turned around.
No one was there.
But the sound kept coming. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. And it was getting closer. No footprints in the snow. Only the sound — steady, certain — drawing nearer.
They couldn't run. Their legs wouldn't move. They just stood there.
When the sound was at its closest — something touched their left cheek.
A hand.
Cold, but soft the way a human hand is soft, and it was pressed there slowly, gently, as if cradling the cheek. Just for a moment.
Then nothing. The smell was gone, the sound was gone, and the snow was falling quietly again.
But what the person said was — the hand was shockingly cold, and yet there was something about it. Not pressing, not grabbing. Just a light touch. The feeling of it was like — like reaching out.
As if it were telling them: we are still here.
The statue of Corporal Gotō still stands there, they say, buried in snow each winter.
Snow settles on the statue's cheeks too — but a local once mentioned that sometimes, just around the statue, there are patches where the snow has melted away.
Whether someone is touching it, or whether it is being touched —
— I don't think I'd want to go and find out.
