Hey, can I tell you something?
It's about the old Yoshinami Tunnel, out in Kanagawa… This came to me through a friend of a friend, so I can't say how much of it is true. But once I heard it, I couldn't shake it.
Apparently the tunnel isn't used anymore. It sits there, mouth open, along an old mountain road that nobody takes. Even in daylight it's dark inside, and even in summer the air goes cold. The concrete walls are stained, and black moss bleeds through in patches… just hearing that much is enough to make you never want to go near it.
This was more than forty years ago, supposedly — a motorcycle accident, right there in the tunnel. The one who died was a young man. Nobody knows his name. The locals just call him "a certain boy." Which is a little strange, isn't it? There's a story that if you say his name, he'll come. So they don't.
Apparently, for a time, there was a handwritten sign posted at the tunnel entrance. It read: *Please don't die anymore, a certain boy.* …Wait, doesn't that sound off? Not just "please don't die" — but *a certain boy* written in place of a name. No one knows who put it there, or whether it was meant to appease him, or warn the living. The stories don't agree. And the sign itself is gone now. Vanished at some point. Whether someone took it down, or whether…well.
But that's not the main part.
The friend of a friend — I'll call him K — was driving alone through that road late one night last autumn. He wasn't into haunted places or anything like that. He just thought it was a shortcut. Past eleven at night, by himself.
The moment he entered the tunnel, he said the air felt different. It was autumn outside, cool enough, but inside it was colder — and on its own, you'd think nothing of that. But at some point K glanced up at his rearview mirror.
Nothing behind him. Just the dark throat of the tunnel.
When he looked forward again — there, caught in his headlights, just as the far end of the tunnel was coming into view — a motorcycle. Riding ahead of him. No indicator, no tail light, nothing. Only a silhouette.
K's first thought was that someone was riding without lights. But something was wrong. The bike was swaying. Side to side, slowly, like it was about to fall — but never falling. Just drifting forward, swaying.
K hit the brakes without thinking, and as his speed dropped —
The rider turned around.
No helmet. A young face. Looking straight at him.
But K says that wasn't the worst part. Not the face, not the turning. What frightened him most was the mouth. It was moving. No sound reached him — but clearly, over and over, the same words, the lips forming the same shape again and again.
He couldn't tell what it was saying.
K came to his senses outside the tunnel, pulled over on the shoulder, shaking. The motorcycle was nowhere. Not on the road beyond the exit. Nowhere at all.
He heard afterward that even now, late at night, people sometimes hear something in that tunnel. Not an engine. The sound of tires dragging across asphalt. That sliding sound.
K told me he still thinks about it sometimes — what those moving lips were trying to say.
*Help me.* *Don't come.*
Or something else entirely, repeated over and over, without end.
