A mountain campsite, high above a thousand meters, lay heavy under the night sky. Five university friends sat around a campfire, beers in hand, engaged in conversation. With dusk falling, the surrounding darkness grew dense.
“Hey, I heard there was a fatal accident here ages ago,” said Sugimoto, who was known for his love of scary stories.
“Cut it out, man,” Chika replied with a nervous laugh, her shoulders tense—she was easily frightened.
The soft glow of lanterns illuminated their faces, while leaves rustled in the night breeze and sparks drifted up from the fire.
—When it happened.
“Waaaah!”
Suddenly, every lantern flickered out.
“What happened?”
“Whose voice was that?”
Panicked, they scrambled for their phone lights. Only the campfire offered a faint glow.
“Hey—Kenta’s gone!”
The friend known as Kenta had vanished.
At dawn, they called the police. What remained were bizarre clues.
Mud-caked footprints circled the tents—like something crawled into camp. Embedded in the embers lay Kenta’s wristwatch, half-melted.
“That is his watch, right?”
The friends were speechless.
Police launched a search, but found no Kenta. Suspicion seeped into the group.
“Did someone turn off the lanterns?”
“What if Kenta did it himself?”
“But why would he melt his own watch in the fire?”
Sugimoto suddenly spoke up.
“Hey… did you guys notice the footprints?”
“What about them?”
“All the prints were coming in, right?”
A chill ran through them.
These prints didn’t lead away—they came from somewhere else.
Silence fell.
“So… perhaps someone—or something—was here?”
An unknown presence may have crept in during the dark. And Kenta—
Stillness reigned, broken only by a bird’s distant call.
Then—drip… drip…
They heard water dripping from inside the tent.
“What is that?”
Shining their lights, they saw a dark stain spreading across the tent floor. It looked like water—but smelled muddy and strange.
Sugimoto stifled a shudder.
“This… this is blood…”
Then, from outside the tent, came a faint sound.
Scrape… scrape…
Like something crawling along the ground.
“No way…”
Hearts pounding, they watched as the zipper of the tent slowly lowered.
And there stood—Kenta.
But he was changed. Covered in mud, his hair plastered to his face. His eyes unfocused; his lips pale, tinged blue.
“Kenta…?” someone whispered.
He answered in a terrible monotone.
“…cold…”
With that, he sank to his knees, then raised his head—and his eyes held something no human should possess.
“Help me…”
That was Kenta’s final plea.
He collapsed to the ground, lifeless, as though a tether had snapped.
Mud smeared his lips—and traces resembling someone’s muddy handprints marked him.
