I’m a 27-year-old photographer from Tokyo, and I love capturing the beauty of quiet places. Last winter, I joined a group trip to a mountain lodge in Hokkaido called Yukimori Lodge, hoping to photograph snowy landscapes. The lodge was old, hidden in a forest, and far from any town. A strange letter invited me, promising a free stay with other guests. When I arrived, a snowstorm trapped us, and eerie events began. People heard whispers, saw shadows, and then started disappearing. Was it a ghost, a monster, or something worse? This is the story of what happened at Yukimori Lodge, a night of fear I can’t forget.
The trip began on a cold December evening. The lodge was a wooden building with creaky floors, a big fireplace, and windows showing endless snow. Eight guests arrived, including me: Yuki, a 24-year-old student; Ken, a 38-year-old writer; Aya, a 30-year-old chef; Taro, a 26-year-old hiker; Miki, a 45-year-old teacher; Ryo, a 22-year-old musician; and Hana, a 35-year-old nurse. A caretaker named Mr. Kaze, a quiet old man, greeted us. He said the lodge’s owner, Mr. Mori, was away, but he left a note welcoming us. The note said, “Enjoy the snow. Stay warm. Beware the wind.” It felt strange, but I ignored it.
At dinner, we ate hot soup and rice by the fire. The group was friendly but nervous. Yuki said she came to study local myths. Ken was writing a ghost story and thought the lodge was perfect. Aya cooked extra food, joking about hungry spirits. Taro wanted to hike but saw the storm growing worse. Miki told us about a legend: the yukimori, a sickle-wielding wind spirit that cuts people in the snow, leaving no trace. Ryo laughed, playing a song on his guitar. Hana checked the windows, saying the storm might trap us for days. I took photos of the group, but one picture showed a blurry shadow by the window. I thought it was a mistake.
That night, the storm roared, shaking the lodge. I heard a strange sound, like sharp blades in the wind. At 2 a.m., Yuki screamed. We ran to her room, but she was gone. Her window was open, snow blowing inside, and her notebook was on the bed, open to a page about the yukimori. It said, “The wind takes one who seeks the truth.” We searched the lodge, but Yuki wasn’t there. Mr. Kaze said she might have wandered into the storm, but Taro found scratches on the window frame, like claw marks. My stomach felt cold. The group stayed in the living room, too scared to sleep.
The next morning, the snow was too deep to leave. The phone line was dead, and our phones had no signal. Ken suggested someone was playing a trick, but Aya said the scratches weren’t human. Miki read the notebook, which described the yukimori as a spirit punishing those who enter its forest. The next line was, “The wind silences one who writes.” Ken, the writer, laughed nervously but kept working on his story. That afternoon, he went to his room to get his laptop. We heard a loud thud, like something falling. Ken was gone, his papers scattered, with one word written in red ink: “Yukimori.” The window was closed, but snow was inside, like it came from nowhere.
Six of us were left. Taro said we should check the attic for clues. We found old photos of the lodge from 50 years ago, showing eight guests like us. A newspaper clipping said they vanished in a storm, blamed on the yukimori. Aya cooked dinner, but her hands shook. The next line in Yuki’s notebook was, “The wind tastes one who cooks.” After dinner, Aya went to clean the kitchen. We heard a sharp whistle, like wind through a crack. The kitchen was empty, with a knife stuck in the table and snow on the floor. Aya’s coat was gone.
Now there were five. Miki said the yukimori was real, a spirit tied to the lodge. Taro thought it was a person using the legend to scare us. Hana checked the doors, but they were locked from inside. The next line was, “The wind chases one who walks.” Taro, the hiker, wanted to search outside despite the storm. He put on his coat and boots, saying he’d find a way to town. We begged him to stay, but he left. An hour later, we found his scarf caught in a tree, covered in frost, but no footprints. Taro was gone.
Miki, Hana, Ryo, and I stayed close. The notebook’s next line was, “The wind quiets one who teaches.” Miki, the teacher, clutched a candle, praying. She went to the library to find more about the yukimori. That night, a strange hum filled the lodge. We ran to the library, but Miki was gone, her candle still burning, with snow around it. The windows were locked. My heart raced. The next line was, “The wind plays with one who sings.” Ryo, the musician, was strumming his guitar softly. He stopped, eyes wide, and went to his room to rest. When we checked, he was gone, his guitar smashed, strings curled like claws.
Only Hana and I remained. The next line was, “The wind heals one who cares.” Hana, the nurse, was checking my flashlight when the lights went out. I grabbed her hand, but she slipped away in the dark. When the lights came back, she was gone, her bag open with bandages spilled out. The final line was, “The wind sees one who captures.” That was me, the photographer.
I ran to the basement, finding a hidden door behind a shelf. It led to a tunnel, cold and damp, with icy walls. At the end was a small room with a stone statue of a figure holding a sickle, its eyes glowing in the dark. Old bloodstains marked the floor. I heard the wind howl, but it was inside the tunnel. I turned and saw Mr. Kaze, his face pale, holding a sickle. He said, “The yukimori needs eight to sleep another 50 years.” I realized he wasn’t human—he was the spirit, tied to the lodge. I threw my flashlight at him and ran back through the tunnel, up to the lodge, and out into the storm.
The snow was blinding, but I kept running. I fell, and the wind screamed around me. Then, silence. A helicopter appeared, its lights cutting the fog. Rescuers pulled me out, saying they got a strange signal from the lodge. I told them about the others, but when we flew over Kagejima, the lodge was gone, just a flat, snowy field. Back in Tokyo, I found my camera, but all photos were blank except one—a blurry image of a sickle in the snow. Was it the yukimori, or my fear? I don’t know, but I’ll never go to a remote lodge again.