I’m a 29-year-old journalist from Osaka, always chasing strange stories. Last autumn, I heard about Yami Village, a tiny place in the mountains of Gifu Prefecture, Japan, where people said time felt wrong. Locals avoided talking about it, but rumors spoke of a cursed mirror that showed more than reflections. I love mysteries, so I packed my notebook and camera, planning to stay a week in Yami Village to write a story. The village was quiet, with old houses and foggy forests, but something felt heavy in the air. What I found there was worse than any tale, a horror that still haunts my dreams. This is what happened in Yami Village, a place I wish I’d never seen.
I arrived on a cold October evening, driving a winding road through dark trees. Yami Village had no train station or bus, just 20 houses, a small shrine, and a river. My host, an old woman named Mrs. Sato, rented me a room in her wooden house. The house smelled of cedar and damp earth, with creaky floors and paper screens. Mrs. Sato was kind but nervous, telling me to stay inside after dark and avoid the forest. She pointed to a locked shed in her garden, saying never to go there. I asked why, but she shook her head, eyes wide, and left me alone. My room had a futon, a low table, and a window facing the misty forest. I felt watched, but saw only fog.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The wind sounded like whispers, saying my name. I checked my window, but it was locked. At 3 a.m., I heard soft footsteps outside, like bare feet on gravel. I looked out, heart pounding, and saw a shadow pass the shed—a tall, thin figure with no face, just a smooth, pale surface. It stopped, turned toward my window, and vanished. I didn’t sleep again, writing in my notebook to stay calm. The next morning, Mrs. Sato made rice and soup, acting normal, but her hands shook. I asked about the shed, and she said it held “old things” and changed the topic.
I walked through the village, camera in hand. The houses were old, some empty, with broken roofs. Villagers, mostly elders, stared at me, whispering. A man selling vegetables warned me not to ask questions, saying, “Yami keeps its secrets.” At the shrine, I found stone statues of foxes, their eyes chipped and eerie. A faded sign told of a mirror, brought to Yami 200 years ago by a traveler. The mirror, called the Yami Kagami, showed “truths” but drove people mad. The shrine locked it away, but strange things happened—missing children, screams in the forest, shadows at night. I took photos, feeling cold despite the sun.
Back at the house, I noticed a crack in the shed’s door. Curiosity won, and I waited until Mrs. Sato left for the market. I used a stick to pry the door open, finding a dusty room with boxes and tools. In the corner, covered by a cloth, was a tall object. I pulled the cloth, revealing an old mirror, its frame carved with foxes and twisted faces. The glass was dark, like black water, and my reflection looked wrong—my eyes were too big, my mouth too wide. I stepped back, but the reflection didn’t move. It smiled, showing sharp teeth. I ran out, locking the shed, my heart racing. That night, the whispers were louder, saying, “Look again.”
The next day, I tried to leave, but my car wouldn’t start. The village mechanic, an old man with scars, said the battery was dead, but his eyes darted to the forest. I stayed another night, hearing scratches on my window. I covered it with a blanket, but shadows moved behind it, like hands pressing the glass. I found a note under my door, in red ink: “The mirror sees you.” I hid it in my bag, too scared to tell Mrs. Sato. At dawn, I saw her standing by the shed, staring at it, then walking away fast.
I went to the shrine to learn more. Inside, I found a hidden drawer with old papers, yellow and crumbling. They told of the Yami Kagami’s curse. In 1820, a traveler left the mirror at the shrine, saying it came from a cave where spirits lived. Villagers looked into it, seeing dead loved ones or their own deaths. Some went mad, walking into the forest and vanishing. Others saw a faceless figure, the Yami-no-Kage, a spirit tied to the mirror. The shrine sealed it, but every 50 years, it “woke,” choosing new victims. The last time was 1975, when eight people disappeared. I counted the years—2025 was 50 years later. My hands shook as I wrote this down.
That evening, Mrs. Sato was gone. Her shoes were by the door, but the house was empty. I called her name, but only the wind answered. The shed door was open, swinging in the breeze. I didn’t look inside, afraid of the mirror. Instead, I ran to the village, but the houses were dark, like everyone had left. The river was loud, and fog hid the forest. I saw footprints in the mud, leading to the trees—small, like a child’s, but with claw marks. I followed them, holding my flashlight. The forest was thick, with roots tripping me. My light caught something—a figure in white, standing still. It had no face, just a smooth, pale surface, like in my first night. It raised a hand, pointing deeper into the forest.
I ran back to the house, locking myself in my room. The whispers were screams now, saying, “Look in the mirror.” I pushed the table against the door, but it shook, like someone was pushing. My camera, on the table, turned on by itself, showing the blurry photo from the shrine—a faceless figure behind me. I threw it down, but the screen flickered, showing my face, then the mirror’s twisted reflection. The door stopped shaking, but I heard footsteps inside the house, slow and wet. I grabbed my notebook, writing to stay sane, but my pen ran red, like blood.
At midnight, the window shattered, glass flying. Fog poured in, cold and thick. I saw the faceless figure in the room, standing by my bed. It held the mirror, small now, like it could shrink. My reflection was there, screaming, but I was silent. The figure pointed at the glass, and I felt pulled, like my body was fading. I grabbed a chair and smashed the mirror. The figure screamed, a sound like breaking bones, and vanished. The fog cleared, and the house was quiet. I ran outside, falling in the mud, and saw the village lights on again, like nothing happened.
The next morning, my car started. Mrs. Sato was back, acting normal, saying she visited a friend. The shed was locked, and she said the mirror was just a story. I drove away, never looking back. In Osaka, I developed my photos, but they were blank, except one—the faceless figure, holding a broken mirror. At night, I hear whispers, and my reflection in every mirror looks wrong, like it’s not me. I cover them, but sometimes, I feel eyes watching. Yami Village is far away, but its curse follows me, a horror I can’t escape.