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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/nethylarexa on 2025-07-11 02:24:01+00:00.

Hi everyone,

This story is based on something that really happened to me and my cousin here in Japan, near Nikko. I’m not sure how to explain it — some parts still feel like a dream. I’m just sharing this because it’s something that’s stayed with me, and maybe some of you will find it as strange and unsettling as I do.

Sorry if it’s a bit long, but I wanted to tell everything clearly.

Thanks for reading.

It began on a cold winter morning, the kind where the sky still clings to the night long after the sun is supposed to rise.

My cousin and I had decided, on a whim, to go on a quick road trip to Nikko. We live in Tochigi — the city area — where life is a little faster, a little louder. Our whole family lives here too, along with other relatives, all of us tied to Japan by blood. Even though I was born elsewhere, Japan has always felt more like home. Especially Tochigi. Especially the roads that wind through it.

Most people know Tochigi because of Nikko — the historic shrines, the mountain air, the breathtaking scenery. And it’s true. Nikko is beautiful, almost like something out of an old storybook. No matter how many times you visit, the place still feels surreal. Like the land itself remembers something older than any of us.

To get there from where we live takes time. Around two hours, depending on the traffic. But I never mind the long drive. Actually, I love it. There's something comforting about the journey — the changing scenery, the silence between mountain tunnels, the way the trees seem to get older the deeper you go. Road trips are my escape. Even when I’m not running away from anything in particular.

That morning, we decided to go to the Lake Chuzenji area. The plan was simple — just a quiet winter trip before the snow got worse. We left early, around 6 a.m. The sky was still dark, painted in shades of blue and ash. The kind of dark that makes you feel like the world hasn’t fully woken up yet.

I remember we stopped at a 7-Eleven on the outskirts — the last one before the roads started turning narrow and forested. We grabbed coffee, snacks, and laughed about something stupid. Everything felt normal. Peaceful, even. The road ahead still had plenty of cars. We weren’t alone.

But that was before we entered the mountain.

There’s only one main road that leads into that part of Nikko. It cuts across mountains, winding up and down like a spine. Sharp curves. Steep climbs. Long drops hidden behind guardrails. For most people, it might feel dangerous — especially in winter — but I loved it. The thrill of it. The way you could feel the pressure in your ears change as you climbed higher. The trees on both sides were tall, bare, and skeletal. It looked like they were reaching for something above the mist.

I was using navigation that day, the one from google maps connected by carplay. As much as I love going on road trips, I’m horrible at remembering directions. I rely on my phone a lot — too much, probably. I had memorized the general route to Lake Chuzenji, but somewhere along the way, it started to feel unfamiliar. The trees looked taller. The shadows heavier. The turns sharper.

My cousin and I blamed the navigation. It has this annoying habit of rerouting us for “faster” alternatives — which usually means less traveled roads, narrower paths, and places that look like no one’s driven through them in years.

That’s exactly what happened.

We noticed there were no cars. Not ahead of us, not behind. It was like we had quietly slipped off the map. Like the world had decided we should be alone for a while. But weirdly, we didn’t feel scared at that point. Not yet. We actually loved it. The solitude, the cold air rushing through the open windows, and the familiar voice of Taylor Swift blasting on full volume — it made the detour feel like part of the adventure.

Until it didn’t.

All of a sudden, the music just… stopped.

Not faded. Not paused. Just gone — as if someone had taken a blade and sliced the sound out of the air.

I kept driving, slowing down a little as we noticed something strange up ahead. The road was still surrounded by trees, but now there were houses. Traditional Japanese ones. Old, wooden, with tiled roofs and shoji doors. Some had faded cloth banners hanging, possibly old shops or tiny restaurants. A few looked like they hadn’t been touched in decades. The wood was weathered gray, windows covered in grime. No lights. No signs of life.

Just silence.

“Why did you stop the music?” my cousin asked.

“I didn’t,” I said. “I thought you did.”

We both looked down at the navigation screen. It still showed the song playing. I checked my phone — same thing. Music was supposedly playing both on the phone and through the car.

But there was no sound. Nothing.

That’s when I really started to notice the quiet.

Not the good kind — not the peaceful hush of being deep in nature.

No, this silence was… wrong. It felt sharp, like it had edges. Like it was listening to us.

I slowed to about 30 km/h, suddenly unsure of where we were. Every house we passed looked empty, but not in a normal, peaceful way. More like they had been abandoned in a hurry. One house had its front door slightly open, a rusted bicycle in front, completely still. Another had faded curtains fluttering even though there was no wind. We passed a restaurant with a broken sign and rotting lanterns still hanging outside.

My cousin and I didn’t say anything for a while. We both just… looked. Our hearts started to beat in that silent panic — the kind where your body knows something is wrong before your brain catches up.

I remember thinking: This place looks like it used to be full of life. What happened here?

Then, for just a second, I thought I saw something move behind one of the sliding doors.

Something that was watching us.

I kept driving, hands tightening around the steering wheel. The road wasn’t that narrow, but it felt like it was closing in on us — like the trees and abandoned houses were slowly leaning closer.

I glanced at the navigation again. It was still working, calmly guiding us forward with that robotic voice. But something about it felt off. The route line was… flickering. Just a little. Like static on an old TV. I thought maybe it was the cold messing with the signal or the mountains affecting reception, but then—

“Turn left in 300 meters,” the voice said.

There was no left.

We were in the middle of a straight road. Trees on both sides. No side road, no sign, not even a clearing.

I looked at my cousin. “Did you see a left turn?”

She shook her head, eyes wide. “No. And it said that earlier too, like twice.”

I slowed down even more. 25 km/h. Then 20.

“Turn left,” the voice repeated, this time a little sharper. Almost… impatient.

We both stared at the screen. The map was showing a turn that didn’t exist. Just a floating road line going directly into the trees.

“This is weird,” I whispered. “Should we turn around?”

But the road behind us felt even darker now. Like something was waiting back there.

So I kept going.

The mini village stretched on longer than it should’ve. The houses were repeating. I swear we passed the same open door, the same red curtain, the same rusted lantern at least three times. At first, I thought it was just my mind playing tricks, but even my cousin noticed.

“Wait,” she said slowly, “didn’t we pass that restaurant already?”

I looked in the rearview mirror. The road behind us was completely black. No houses. No light. Just an empty stretch of trees, swallowing everything.

Then, the navigation glitched.

The screen blinked — once, twice — then turned completely white before restarting itself. The music that had been missing this whole time suddenly played one loud, high-pitched screech through the car speakers, like feedback from a microphone.

We both screamed. I nearly swerved off the road.

And then it was quiet again.

The navigation rebooted. The screen now showed a completely different map. One that didn’t match where we were supposed to be. It had no labels. Just a thin gray road, surrounded by black. No lake. No mountains. No signs.

I finally pulled over.

And that’s when we heard it.

Footsteps.

Crunching slowly on the frost-covered ground, just beyond the car.

But when we looked, there was no one.

Just the houses.

Still, quiet, and watching.

I didn’t want to stay parked for long, but my hands were shaking on the wheel.

“What was that?” my cousin whispered, not even looking at me — her eyes were locked on the fogging windshield, like she expected a face to appear behind it any second.

“I don’t know,” I said, trying to sound calm, but my voice cracked.

We waited for a few more seconds.

Crunch.

Another slow step. Definitely on the frost. Not a branch falling, not an animal — this was deliberate. Human. Or at least… it sounded human.

I hit the door lock button since my car is automatically unlocked if I put it in parking mode.

We both turned to look out the windows. There was nothing. Just the edge of the village, where the old houses lined both sides of the road. No movement. No lights. Just the heavy stillness pressing against the car.

“Let’s go,” my cousin said. Her voice was firm now. “I don’t care where — just drive.”

I agreed. I didn’t need convincing.

I slowly pulled the car back onto the road, careful not to go too fast in case something ran out in front of us. I’ve seen enough horror movies to kno...

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