**
The forest of Aokigahara was said to be the home to demons and other evil creatures, but Takeshi Iwamura had no faith in such tales: he was a man of the senses and what he could not hear, smell, touch or taste, he considered belonging to the land of fairy tales. However, when nightfall claimed the forest and swathed it in the cradle of darkness, when the trees loomed high above the ground as if on their toes to reach the opaque dark above—then he could not help but wonder if there was any truth in these stories.
Somewhere in the distance a branch snapped, a bird cried out. The forest returned to its absolute stillness. He laughed out loud, as if the situation amused him. From far above, the stubborn rain forced its way through the protective canopy of tree tops and lurched its way towards the ground where Takeshi was seated, arms wrapped around his beloved Mizuki. Dusk was approaching, and the day had already left the forest in the possession of only these two. Takeshi glanced around the mute forest, but could detect no movement besides his own trembling hands.
Before long he would have to think about the future. The choice of Aokigahara as refuge had been an impulse decision: it was the obvious place for the one who wished to hide something. Or someone. His entire body was shaking, and not just from the chill of twilight. The adrenaline had not yet left his blood and his heart was still racing. For a moment he let the pounding beat from within his chest fill his entire physical being. Like a war drum announcing triumph.
Nothing disturbed his inner pleasure besides the incessant rain and the impending night. Soon the forest would be swathed in darkness and even if the tales surrounding it did not bother him it would be risky to stay the night in the Aokigahara. Where would he go? He had not thought that far. Also, there was Mizuki.
Gentle as a feather’s touch, he removed strands of wet hair that were clinging to her face and dried the soft rain drops falling on her pale cheeks. As they ran down the side of her face, they looked like tears. Of course, Mizuki would not cry again. Not in this world at least. He lowered the lifeless body onto the uneven ground, offering it dirt, roots and rocks as A bed. Her white face gave no expression of discomfort despite the hard mattress. The area at her temple, where the rock had hit, was dark with blood and the wound glared at Takeshi, staring straight into his soul. He covered it with the sleeve of her dress.
Then he dried his wet face with the sleeve of his own kimono and lay down next to Mizuki. Her body had already succumbed to the cold. It penetrated through his dress, past the layer of skin and blood, and into his very bones. Exhausted, he fell asleep and did not wake until hours later, when dusk had bequeathed them entirely to the hands of the Night.
During this time a thick fog had lowered itself over the Aokigahara, leaving Takeshi surrounded by nothing but diffused silhouettes. Yawning, he got up and adjusted his dress. When he stretched out his hand in front and it was swallowed up by the fog in an instant.
The fog was so thick he could not even see Mizuki next to him. He searched for her with his hands, sought the coldness that had rushed through his body, but found nothing but the earth and rocks where she had lain. With sweeping gestures he turned over the dirt around him and felt the tiny stones pierce his skin. As much as he tried, Mizuki was nowhere to be found. Where she had lain was now nothing but roots, moss, and dust. After a while he could only reach one conclusion: she had gone. He scrambled to his feet, all the while bolting glances here and there as if in anticipation of some attacker. Then again, had they been further than a metre away he would not have seen them through the fog any more than he could understand where Mizuki had gone. Instinct, however, took over. Once again his body was shaking beyond control, despite not being cold at all!
A rattling sound put every nerve in his body on edge and he adopted one of the attack stances that he had practised throughout his life. Where the sound originated, he couldn’t determine. To the left was only fog; to the right, the same. A sharp white surge of fear climbed up his spine, vertebrae by vertebrae. It clamoured into the nerves of his conscious mind, shallow enough to put his hair on end; deep enough to cloud his thoughts.
He couldn’t distinguish anything in the fog, but heard the chanting of the trees as they swayed in the wind like lonesome dancers on a darkened stage. No audience present, yet observed by someone in the gallery. Just like Takeshi. Somewhere he felt a clutching stare, but who it was or from where it came, he did not know.
Closing his mouth killed the sound. Only then did he realise it had come from his own teeth, and he laughed at his own faint-heartedness. At the same time he recognised, with dejection, that while he had been looking for Mizuki and the imagined threat he had lost his bearings. Whichever way he turned now, he met fog and the occasional obscured shape of sticks and stones. With every turn, the trees seemed to shift their position, to create new and unrecognisable landscapes. Just like Milton’s hero in the tale he saw the Underworld: but instead of fire this one was made from wood and earth.