Junzaburo's story

The frozen ground crunched beneath the weight of father and son like bones, their wooden sandals leaving odd tracks that stretched for leagues.

Wordlessly the father pointed off into the woods, a patchwork of dark trunks across a white canvas.

 “I don’t see it father.”

The father held up his hand indicating silence and slowly unslung his pack and rearranged his travelling clothes for freer movement. The son followed suit and strung his bow to fill his supporting role as hunter. However, this was no ordinary hunt. Weeks ago people talk had spread of strange happenings in the villages surround the Tameikinomori, or “Sighing Woods”. Wood collectors said that winter had come early to the deepest wood in an uninhabited valley. A sickness spread to three of the villages. The sick started to walk feverishly in their sleep into the wood, first the young and very old, then women, and finally full grown men. The father was renowned for his skills at tracking and hunting, as well as archery and swordsmanship, and was duty-bound to protect his vassals that remained.

Something moved in the wood, almost as slow as to be confused for a swaying bough. Something black.

“Headsman Hino. Frost bitten, naked. Dead. Shoot him!” , the father spouted in spurts, visibly containing his nerves lest he run screaming back towards civilization.

The son let an arrow fly, and it caught the lurching corpse in the neck, a gift of another twig to the dark trunk. The corpse lurched onward, impossibly. The father rushed forward and in a swift spinning motion beheaded the once proud old man. No blood came gushing out, but the body fell to it’s knees and groped about the ground as if searching for lost coins.

More of the black “trunks” in the distance began to move, and spinning about the father and son saw a host of darkened corpses, shuffling and dragging themselves rigidly to encircle them. With a panicked meeting of eyes the father and son agreed. The son threw down his bow and followed his father rapidly towards the thinnest clump of villagers. The cut their way through the reaching arms as if hacking through a thicket, and burst into a sprint towards anywhere else.

After an unknown amount of time the came abruptly to a clearing, both of mind and trees. The father rested his hand on the son’s shoulder. “Junzaburo. You did well. There is no shame in fear, do not hide your face from me, or your tears. This is not over. I fear it has just begun.”

The looked into the clearing then at the four gates that formed a box, corners touching. The empty space between the gates both attracted attention and repelled observation. Something was there, swirling like mist after a door has been opened into the night, and yet nothing was there but white ground.

Time had stopped. The snowflakes hung in the air, frozen now more than they had ever been. The son saw himself as if from above, saw the villagers standing silent as the stumps of trees they seemed to be encircling the otherworldly grove, the gates to nowhere, centering nothing, the father- closer now reaching one hand out towards the gate, fallen to one knee. The son floated until the forest spread out before him, the grove a gaping screaming mouth in a grimacing icy and tree stubble face. In an instant, he plummeted back to the horror that awaited.

The father was standing now, as if preparing to embrace something much larger than himself, arms spread as wide as possib- no, wider than possible. The son was lifted from the ground to his feet against his volition, despite his fear. The father swiveled as if spun by an invisible giant’s hand, slowly to face the son.

His face was pale and streaked with white vertical lines, his eyes unfocused and mouth slack. His toes barely touched the packed snow. His tongue worked in circles as if drawing ideograms begging for help.

“You know what you must do…. Son.”

The voice came from inside the son’s heart, but in the voice of the father.

“You must overcome the Oni that is holding us. It has taken my body, but our wills are one.”

The son struggled against invisible bond that held him aloft, and slowly reached for his sword.

“It is consuming what remains inside my body, it does not yet know I have found refuge in you, son. You must distract it, and strike my body down while it feasts inside.”

The son drew his blade and gathered all his willpower to overcome the binding on his arm and hurled his sword at the facing gate. The katana tumbled in an impossible arc upwards and curling in a corkscrew, pierced point first through the gate. A blast of cold wind and a screeching cry flew from the gate, and the bond which held the son aloft released. He sprang forward closing the gap between father and son, and in one motion reversed his stance, drew his father’s blade as if it were his own, and spun cleaving through the icy air, the spiritual fibers that clung to the father like webs, and the once proud head of the family. The severed neck spat white fire, reaching into a curled claw that stroked almost lovingly at the face of the son, torturing his body with equal measure of the torment that faced his soul. The pain, terrible agony and loss filled the son, and just as suddenly all- nothing.

The son awoke, lying in a glade, the soft grass of spring licking at the right side of his face. Winter was no longer, and the gates gone without a trace. Only the body of desiccated body of the father lay as proof to the nightmare vision. The son stood, still clutching the sword of the father. Holding it up, he saw his reflection- half the hair on his head bleach white, the left side of his face frozen emotionless and pale as if never touched by the sun. The land reflected in the blade lay white and still, and something swirled just behind his shoulder. Whipping around, nothing. The son ran, clutching the blade, seeking answers, dreaming constant terror. He is still running, ever towards, ever away. 
... 
from the unspeakable depths of the mind of Danny Donny-Clark