While Futaba was asleep, she heard the sound of a doorbell.
At first, it rang faintly, like the delicate chime of a small bell echoing through a misty night, but slowly, the sound grew louder — cutting through the stillness of her bedroom and pulling her from the depths of her dream. The tone of that bell was oddly distorted. It was not the ordinary chime of her doorbell that she was used to hearing every day. Instead, it carried a strange, low, and chilling resonance — as if it had come from somewhere impossibly distant yet whispered directly into her ear.
She woke up immediately, her heart pounding fast in the darkness.
A sliver of moonlight seeped through the thin gray curtains, casting long, twisted shadows of the furniture across the floor. The silence that filled the room was so deep that she could hear her own heartbeat echoing in her ears. The air still held the damp, cold scent of rain that had only stopped a few hours earlier. The atmosphere felt heavy — every breath she took was thick, as though the very air resisted her lungs.
She sat still on her bed for a while, her eyes fixed upon the door. Then, the bell rang again.
This time, it was louder — not frantic, not playful, but deliberate. Each ring came with an unnerving rhythm — once… a pause… and then once more, calm yet intentional.
Curiosity and fear intertwined inside her chest, weaving a tight knot that made it difficult to breathe. She tried to reason with herself, telling her trembling mind that it might just be someone who came to the wrong house, or perhaps a neighbor in need of help. Yet somewhere deep within, an instinct whispered otherwise. It told her that this was not right. That something cold and foreign had reached her doorstep.
A shiver ran down her spine. It wasn't just fear — it felt like a faint breeze had brushed against her bare skin, though the window was tightly shut.
Driven by a mix of dread and desperate curiosity, she slowly got up. Her bare feet met the icy surface of the wooden floor, the faint creak beneath her steps echoing through the still air. She walked carefully toward the front door, each step measured, deliberate, and soundless — as if time itself had slowed within her house. She didn't dare turn on the lights. Somehow, she knew that if she did, whoever stood outside would know she was awake.
When she finally reached the door, she bent down slightly and peered through the peephole.
Outside, the night was drenched in darkness, broken only by the dim orange glow of a streetlight a few meters away. Within that faint light, she saw the outline of a tall, slender figure standing perfectly still. There was no movement, no sound of breathing — only the shadow of a man waiting.
And then she recognized him.
It was the man she had once helped on that rainy night — the same man she remembered clearly, wearing a black-and-red yukata and a straw hat.
But this time, he wasn't wearing the fox mask.
The face that stared back at her was pale — deathly pale — as though drained of every drop of blood. His expression twisted into a grin so wide it seemed unnatural, his lips darkened to an inky shade that looked painted on. His eyes were hollow, like deep, bottomless pits that swallowed all light. That smile was not one of warmth or gratitude. It was the smile of something that should not exist in the world of the living.
Futaba froze, her breath caught in her throat. Her heart pounded harder, each beat louder than the last.
She instinctively stepped back, unable to tear her gaze away from the peephole. But then her eyes caught something — something in his hand.
A black umbrella.
Her stomach dropped. That was the umbrella — the same one she had taken from in front of the shop that night. The umbrella etched with strange patterns that resembled the seven sins at its handle.
A sudden wave of cold surged through her body, crawling up from her feet to her head like liquid ice.
She turned her head sharply toward the corner beside the door — the spot where she had placed the umbrella upon returning home that day.
It was gone.
The space was empty.
Her breath hitched. Panic took over her entirely now. Her chest tightened; her heartbeat felt like the frantic drumming of a trapped animal. She could hear it ringing in her ears, louder than the whispering rain outside. Without thinking, she stumbled backward, her body trembling uncontrollably until her back hit the wall with a soft thud.
Then she ran.
She ran as fast as her legs would carry her, her bare feet slipping slightly against the smooth floor, her hair brushing against her face as she turned toward her bedroom.
Behind her, the silence shattered.
A loud, violent BANG! echoed through the house — the sound of the front door being struck with tremendous force. The impact shook the walls, the frame, even the air. The sound came again, followed by the metallic rattle of the doorknob twisting — slowly, deliberately — as though a cold, unseen hand was trying to open it from the other side.
Futaba froze mid-step. Her breath became shallow. She could hear the faint vibration of each impact through the wooden floor. Then came the sound she feared most — footsteps.
Soft, steady, measured.
Thump… thump… thump…
The steps moved slowly, almost lazily, but each one reverberated through her house like the beat of an ancient drum.
She rushed toward the bedside table and grabbed her phone with trembling hands. Her fingers shook so violently that the device almost slipped from her grasp. The screen lit up, casting a pale light across her frightened face — her skin drained of color, glistening with sweat.
But something was wrong.
The phone was on, yet it wasn't alive. The signal bars were gone, the apps were unresponsive, and the clock froze at the same time she had fallen asleep. The network was gone. The entire device seemed cut off from the world — except for one single contact name still visible on the screen.
Shenshuji.
She pressed it without hesitation, the only shred of hope left within her. The dial tone rang once — only once — before he answered.
Her voice came out as a trembling whisper, barely audible, heavy with terror.
"Help me…"
Those two words escaped her lips so weakly they almost vanished into the dark. Before she could utter another sound, the phone went dead. The light faded slowly, the screen dimming into black as if something had drained the very energy from it.
And then, she heard it.
A voice.
It wasn't loud, but deep and piercing — a voice that crawled under her skin and echoed from every corner of the room. It didn't sound as if it came from a person, but from the walls, the ceiling, the air itself.
"My umbrella… You are mine…"
The words stretched long and slow, each syllable dripping with venomous intent. Her whole body turned cold. The chill spread through her bones until even breathing hurt. The air thickened; it felt as though invisible hands were pressing down on her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. She didn't need to look. She knew he was there. Somewhere beyond the door, waiting.
Then came the footsteps again — closer this time.
She could hear the soft creak of the wooden floor under each step.
Thump… thump…
Then a pause — right outside her bedroom.
There was the faint metallic click of the doorknob turning, slow and deliberate, as if a cold hand were twisting it just to make her listen.
Her breathing stopped completely.
Her mind screamed only one word — Hide.
Her eyes darted frantically around the room until they landed on the wardrobe. Without hesitation, she ran toward it, flung the door open, and slipped inside. The smell of fabric and wood filled her nose — the comforting scent of home now tainted by fear.
She pulled the door shut as silently as possible, crouching down inside. She pressed both hands over her mouth, suppressing the trembling breaths that wanted to escape.
Outside, she heard the door to her bedroom creak open.
The hinges moaned softly — eeeeek… — followed by the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps entering the room.
Futaba shut her eyes tightly, every muscle in her body tense. She could feel her heartbeat pulsing in her fingertips, so loud she feared it would give her away. The air inside the wardrobe felt suffocating, as if the small space was shrinking around her.
The footsteps stopped.
Right in front of the wardrobe.
She could feel it — a presence, tall and looming, standing just beyond the thin wooden door.
The air grew colder still, and she could hear the faint sound of something being dragged across the floor — a soft scraping sound, rhythmic and slow, like the tip of an umbrella sliding along the wooden boards.
The sound moved back and forth, left and right, circling slowly, methodically — like it was searching for something.
She didn't move. Not a sound, not a breath. She pressed her lips together so hard they began to sting. Her tears welled up, but she didn't dare let them fall.
She wished she could disappear.
The scraping sound finally faded, the footsteps moving away one by one, their echoes dissolving into the dark. But even as the silence returned, that voice lingered inside her mind — a whisper she could not escape.
"My umbrella… You are mine…"
The voice stayed there — not coming from outside, but from within the darkness itself.
And in that suffocating stillness, Futaba realized that even though she could no longer hear the footsteps, she was not alone. The shadow had not left. It was waiting.
As she hid inside the closet, time seemed to crawl by in unbearable slowness. Every second stretched longer than an eternity. The sound of her heartbeat thudded violently inside her chest, echoing so loud that it drowned out everything else around her. But then—amid the suffocating silence—she began to hear it.
Footsteps.
Soft, deliberate footsteps walking across the floor of her bedroom.
Each step came slowly, but the weight of it struck her ears like hammer blows. Every tap against the wooden floor reverberated through her body, sending chills up her spine. The air in the room grew heavier, as if every movement around her was being pressed down by something unseen, something that demanded she remain utterly still.
She closed her eyes tightly. A tear slipped from her trembling lashes. Fear clutched her so completely that even breathing felt impossible. She tried to quiet her breaths, holding them deep in her throat, but her body trembled beyond her control. The coldness of the air seeped into her skin, crawling through her veins until she thought she might freeze where she sat.
Then—the sound came.
The creaking of the closet door.
It was slow at first, the faint scrape of wood against wood, deliberate and drawn out—as though whoever stood on the other side wanted her to hear it, wanted her to feel the dread twisting within her. The sound tore through the silence like a thunderclap in the night.
Her eyes flew open in pure terror. Her heartbeat stumbled. Through the thin crack between the doors, she saw a shadow. A shape. Someone was standing there.
He's found me, she thought.
But when the door swung open, what appeared before her was not the faceless figure she feared. It was not the dark presence that haunted her every thought. It was a face she knew. A face she could never mistake.
Shenshuji.
"You... what's wrong with you?"
His voice carried confusion and concern. He leaned closer, his tone trembling slightly, eyes wide with worry.
She stared at him, her vision blurred by tears. In that instant, her fear melted into overwhelming relief. The tension in her body snapped; she threw herself from the closet and into his arms, clinging to him as if she would never let go.
Her sobs broke free.
Through gasps and tears, she told him everything—about the strange man, the dark umbrella, the voice that whispered in the night, claiming her as his own. Each word shook as it escaped her lips, heavy with terror, with disbelief, with despair.
Shenshuji listened silently. His eyes remained steady, calm, his expression one of deep understanding. When she finished, he simply nodded. He did not question her words. He believed her completely.
His hand came to rest gently on her shoulder. The warmth of his touch grounded her, brought her back to the present, made her feel—for one fragile moment—safe.
But before she could breathe again, before another word could leave her mouth—
The sound came.
A piercing, metallic strike.
Shhhhk!
The sound of steel slicing through flesh.
Futaba froze. Her eyes widened as the world shattered in front of her.
A black umbrella burst through Shenshuji's chest from behind. The metal tip pierced through him cleanly, glistening crimson under the dim light. His body jerked violently. The blood—his blood—splashed across her hands, her face, the floor.
For a heartbeat, the world fell silent.
Then came the dull sound of his body hitting the ground. The soft thud of weight collapsing. The dripping of blood, drop after drop, falling into the heavy air.
She couldn't move. She couldn't even scream.
Her mind refused to believe what her eyes were seeing.
Shenshuji's eyes remained open, still gentle even as the light in them dimmed. Then he was still. The warmth of his presence vanished into the silence, leaving only the crimson stain spreading across the floor.
Futaba's body trembled violently. A scream rose in her throat but never escaped. Her tears streamed endlessly down her face as she stumbled backward.
Then she ran.
She didn't think. She didn't look back. She only ran.
Her feet struck the wooden floor again and again as she fled the room, each step echoing her heartbeat—fast, frantic, desperate. She knew who had done it. She knew whose shadow was behind that strike.
The man. The faceless man.
Rage filled her chest, hotter than fire, burning through her fear. The grief that had crushed her heart only moments ago twisted into something sharper—something wild.
She ran through the darkened hallway, her breath ragged, her legs weak but unyielding. The house that had once been her home now felt like a labyrinth of ghosts and shadows. The faint smell of rain and iron clung to every wall.
And then, it happened.
Something hit her.
Blood—Shenshuji's blood—was floating in midair.
It twisted unnaturally, drawn together by some unseen force, swirling into a thick, red current that pulsed as though alive. Before she could react, it shot forward, slamming against her chest.
The warmth of it spread across her skin, then seeped in—through her pores, into her veins.
She screamed.
Pain seared through her body, a fusion of burning heat and bone-deep cold. Her vision blurred as her blood seemed to boil and freeze at once. Her veins stood out beneath her skin, glowing faintly in the dim light.
And then she heard it—behind her.
A voice.
..You want me... back..."
The sound was slow, heavy, distorted—like a whisper crawling across her mind.
"You saved me... You want me... We'll be together..."
Each word twisted through her head, cold and poisonous, seeping into the cracks of her breaking sanity.
But she refused to stop.
Gritting her teeth, she forced her trembling legs to move. She stumbled down the hallway, toward the one place she still believed could save her—her father's old room.
The door creaked open as she pushed it with all her strength. Inside, the air was thick with dust and memories long forgotten. Her eyes scanned the room wildly until they fell upon an old wooden chest in the corner.
She ran to it, dropped to her knees, and flung it open. Inside—just as she remembered from childhood—was a gun. Her father's gun.
Her shaking hand reached out, grasped the cold metal. She pulled it close, the weight of it grounding her, giving her something real to hold onto amidst the nightmare.
She raised the gun slowly, pointing it toward the doorway.
Her breath came in short gasps. Her lips trembled. Her tears had dried into salt on her cheeks, leaving only the raw heat of anger behind. She bit down hard on her lip—so hard that blood filled her mouth—but she didn't stop.
She waited.
The sound of approaching footsteps returned, closer and closer, echoing through the hollow house.
Then she shouted, her voice cracking with rage and grief:
"You killed Shenshuji... I swear I'll never be with you... You'll die here!"
The words tore through the air like a curse.
And then, from behind her—another voice.
"You can't refuse."
She spun around instantly.
The man was there. The same faceless figure, the same dark presence that haunted her nights. His form loomed close—closer than ever before. His shadow stretched across the floor toward her feet.
His eyes—or what passed for them—were pits of darkness. His smile curved faintly, emotionless and cruel.
She didn't wait.
Her finger tightened on the trigger.
Bang.
The first shot rang out, shaking the walls.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Each shot tore through the air, through the weight of the silence, through her fear. She fired again and again, until the figure jerked backward, until his body collapsed and hit the floor.
The echoes faded slowly, replaced only by the sound of her labored breathing.
Smoke rose from the barrel of the gun, curling lazily upward toward the flickering light above.
She stared at the fallen body. Her eyes were wide, unblinking. Her whole body trembled, but she couldn't tell if it was from fear or the exhaustion of what she'd just done.
Tears welled again—but this time they didn't fall. They stayed trapped, shimmering under the dim light.
The room around her was utterly still.
The flickering light overhead cast unsteady shadows, painting her silhouette on the floor beside the lifeless figure. Blood seeped slowly across the floorboards, reaching the tips of her shoes, mingling with the faint scent of rain that drifted in through the window.
She stood there, frozen in place—alone in a world that had gone silent.
The gun hung heavy in her trembling hand. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Her eyes, still locked on the motionless body before her, reflected the last shimmer of life flickering from the dying light above.
And then—just before the silence claimed everything—she heard it.
A sound.
A whisper. Barely there.
Like the dying breath of a demon swallowed by the dark.