Hey, will you hear me out?
I came across a strange story — something about Ikebukuro. I can't say I've verified any of it, and I'm hazy on who told me in the first place… but there was something so unnervingly real about it that I haven't been able to let it go.
Apparently, a short walk from Ikebukuro's east exit, there's an alley called Mikuni Alley. Maybe you've heard of it. It shouldn't be far from the station at all, and yet the moment you step inside, the roar of Ikebukuro just… fades away. Paper lanterns hang at intervals along the path, and the lettering on the signs looks frozen somewhere in the Showa era, like time forgot to move on.
The place used to be what they called an "aozosen" district — one of those postwar establishments. I don't think I need to spell it out. But what seems certain is that countless people passed through that alley carrying all manner of feelings, all manner of things they couldn't put into words.
There's a man I'll call K. Last autumn, after finishing work, K wandered into the alley alone — not out of any morbid curiosity, just on a whim. He was on his way back from drinks, maybe a little drunk.
The first thing he noticed when he stepped inside wasn't a sound. It was a smell. The scent of earth after rain, tangled with something cloying and sweet — like face powder. It slipped into his nose and he stopped short, thinking, that's odd. The night outside had been dry.
The lanterns swayed. Muffled voices from an izakaya drifted out. K walked slowly toward the far end of the alley. And somewhere around the middle — he heard someone laugh.
A woman's laugh. Low and muffled, but unmistakably laughter.
He couldn't tell where it was coming from. He stopped and strained to listen. The building on the left? A window on the right? But every window was shut, he said. One of the lanterns swayed — though there was no wind — and that was when he noticed it for the first time: at the far end of the alley, in the place where the light didn't reach, someone was standing.
Just an outline. That was all he could make out.
It seemed like a woman. He couldn't tell if she was wearing a kimono or not — only that she was slight, and still, and he had the feeling she was looking straight at him. K said he tried to call out, but his mouth wouldn't move. He couldn't take a single step forward.
Then something touched his shoulder.
Softly. Like fingers. But when he spun around, there was no one there.
K ran. He bolted out of the alley, and the moment he emerged, the noise of Ikebukuro crashed back over him all at once — taxi horns, the laughter of drunks, everything flooding in together — and only then did he realize he was trembling.
…The smell of the face powder, he said, clung to his clothes for a long time afterward.
That's all there is to it. But whenever K told that story, his voice would get very small. Just once, he let something slip — "I'm glad whatever was standing at the far end didn't come any closer" — and after that, apparently, he never spoke of it again.
Mikuni Alley is still there, they say. The lanterns are lit, the shops are open, and anyone can walk in.
Only, people who've gone all the way to the back — they say they get the urge to look over their shoulder. Like someone is calling their name from behind.
…Even though no one there should know it.
