…Hey, will you hear me out?
It's a story they've been whispering about for years, around Irabayashi, in Nagasaki. I can't say I've confirmed any of it myself, so take it as rumour — nothing more.
Irabayashi is that kind of place, you know. Steep slopes, old houses pressed close against their stone walls. Somewhere in that neighbourhood stood an old house where the same family had lived for generations. Nothing remarkable from the street — a wooden sliding door weathered dark by rain, eaves tilted just slightly, and at the back of the garden, an old well. Lidded, but long out of use. That sort of house.
Inside, there was a four-and-a-half mat room. Small, facing the veranda, oriented toward the direction of the well. Even in daylight it held a certain dimness. The tatami had faded to a pale, sun-bleached white, and the air near the pillars carried a cold, pressing weight. That's the kind of room it was, apparently.
One night, a male relative came to stay. He'd travelled from far away, and there were no other rooms to spare.
He wasn't the fearless type, but he didn't think much of it either. He laid out his futon without ceremony — feet pointing toward the well, because that was simply the natural way to lie in that room. He didn't give it a second thought.
He woke once in the night.
Nothing had made a sound. He hadn't seen anything. Only — when he came to himself — the pattern of the ceiling was different from before. His pillow was at the other end. His body had turned a full one hundred and eighty degrees.
His feet were pointing away from the well.
You'd think he'd rolled over in his sleep. I want to think that too. But what he said was this: the futon wasn't creased. Not at all. The only thing disturbed were two hollows in the pillow — two impressions, the shape of a head. One where he had first lain down. The other at the opposite end, where he now faced.
As though someone had carried him there. Carefully. Gently.
When he told the family the next morning, their faces said *ah, again*. No anger, no surprise — just a quiet, "That's what happens when you sleep facing that way in that room." It had happened so many times, to so many people, that they'd simply grown used to it.
But that isn't the part that frightens me most.
As he was leaving, he glanced back from the veranda toward the garden. On the lid of the well, a thin layer of dust had settled — dry dust, in that damp Nagasaki air. And in one spot, it had been swept clean in a perfect circle. As though someone had been sitting there for a long, long time.
…Whether that house still stands, I honestly don't know. But somewhere on one of those slopes in Irabayashi, that dim little four-and-a-half mat room may be there still, even tonight.
If you ever find yourself staying in that house —
think carefully about which way to point your feet.
Then close your eyes.
