Midori Hoshino wakes in utter dark. There’s soil under her nails and her hands tremble. Did she claw her way free, or…? She can’t remember. She stands alone on a pine-covered path, rotting leaves catching on her shoes, though they look new. Are you ready for something that never lets go?
Trees twist toward her. It’s the old campgrounds, but the rusty swinging gate that stops most teens is gone. Instead, a wax figure of a woman sits in a rocking chair, lantern on her old lap. The fire glints off the big scissors beside her boots. The air reeks of melted candle and cold earth.
Midori comes here each June to chase a dare—urban legends, a little thrill. This summer, she swore she’d unmask everything. Yet she’s here now, unsure how she got in, and her phone shows no bars, no time. She mutters, “This is dumb. I’m dreaming…right?” But she tastes iron behind her teeth instead of fear now.
She meets Ren. He wears his Edogawa soccer hoodie and leaves crunch in his red hair. He only stares at her feet when they talk. “Are your dreams like this too? I woke up twice. Each time there’s someone else with me, and then—boom—it all fades.” His voice sounds hollow, like a tape half-spooled.
Each child lost in the Scarlet Forest tells the same story years later: a woman stalks them if they fall asleep under her trees. Does anyone really believe it? Are ghost tales child’s play for you, or do you feel a chill here too?
Yuka, bark stuck to her shoes, climbs out from the shed clutching paper. She’s found pieces of newsprint, faces from missing posters all with eyes burned black. “Seven vanished here ten years ago, all teens. Their parents came day after day looking. No one ever found them.” Ren’s hands turn white as he grabs the story away.
Together, the trio searches for a way out. But moonlight never changes, clouds don’t move. All paths curve back to the old cemetery, where chilly stone sweets cover graves. The group starts to suspect every echo repeats a step they’ve taken before. “I pressed my palm-print into this slat hours ago,” whispers Yuka. “Then why’s there blood now?” Midori asks. Blood dots the fence, fresh and brown.
The wax woman stares straight through everyone now. When Ren falls behind, whispers cover him like moss—sharp, thin voices saying nothing whole. He sprints forward when they reach for him. Trials ramp up: eyes blink open along the trunks as pitch drips, a trail leading to someone’s open satchel full of modern food wrappers, untouched.
An old transistor radio hisses static when they dare power it with a found battery. Midori leans in. Over the pop and fizz, a thin child’s voice pleads, “Let us in again, Midori. Sleep near us tonight.” How’d they get her name? Why does the static pulse in time with her heartbeat?
Yuka vanishes by dawn when the ground cracks. All they find is her name scratched in fresh dirt by footprints going nowhere. Why didn’t they hold her hand tighter?
Ren panics with reason and steps backward into shadow. “She’s not real—none of this—Midori! Are you?” He arms himself with a snapped branch. That proves weak when new unnatural forms slither from the ponds—sharp-haired, mouthless figures old and wrong. Is terror fun for you if you can’t escape?
Midori holds firm, thinking, “I wanted thrills. Attention. But did I wish too hard on things best left alone?” Stuffed toys—gifts for the lost—now smile, gum stretched ripped in the dirt beside an abandoned bag. Ren’s ankle snaps in the rush, but the woman only sits, still, cold gaze unwavering.
Night. The air tightens, full of old roots and choking song. Midori tries the gate again. This time when she blinks, she’s elsewhere: childhood birthday, seven candles, but her sister isn’t laughing—she’s sobbing, her face stuck half on, half gone. It crackles apart to show red skin, white bone. Do your own remembered faces turn on you in dreams?
More voices call for her as ground fog grows thick. “Repeat. Wake.” Red-eyed shapes link hands—dozens, some wearing more recent school uniforms. Ren’s jacket now hangs from a branch, sleeves limp. Only her own body won’t let her leave. Is survival worth outlasting friends?
Finally, she stands before the wax woman, scissors raised by their own weight. “It’s because you watched. It’s your turn to stay now.” Do you feel the tickle of those words against your skin? The scissor tips meet at Midori’s brow—but stop. Her reflection ripples in polished steel, mouth open, eyes drinking her in. She speaks, “I wanted to know the real story.”
The forest blinks. Sunlight threads through the roots for a split second. But as the screen falls black, hands close round Midori from all sides—a tidal slow surge of not-yet-forgotten children, all grinning limply at her terror. Will she become just another story in the Scarlet Forest—orphans of thrill who won’t wake?
To be continued…
