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Hey everyone. Idon't know where else to post this. Ineed towriteit down before I convince myself Iwas just hallucinating. I’m a grad student inJapan, doing fieldworkon forgotten local folklore. That'swhy Iwasout in theabsolute middle ofnowhere in Gunmaprefecturelast night.
My planwas to visit a tiny, dying village called Yomi-touge (notits realname) that supposedlyhas some unique traditions. Of course, my phonelostsignal hours ago, and mycar'sGPS, which I bought in 2015, decided to have atotal meltdown. Thesun went down. The mountainroads are narrow and winding,and a thick, soupy fogstarted to roll in. The kind of wet, heavyair that makesyoufeellikeyou’rebreathing water. Iwas completely, hopelesslylost.
After whatfeltlike an eternity of drivingat a crawl, Isawit. Alight. A single, brutallybright rectangle oflight cutting through the fog. Aconvenience store.One of thosebig chainsyou see everywhere, aFamilyMart or aLawson, I couldn't tell whichat first.I’ve neverfelt so relieved inmy life. I parked thecar and practically ran inside, thelittle doorchime sounding way too loud in the dead silence.
The insidewas…normal. Toonormal. Thelights were humming with a high-pitchedbuzz that drilled into my skull. The shelves were perfectly stocked. Theair smelled of cheapair freshener andsomething else…somethingsweet and hot,likeozone or burntsugar.
Hewas ayoungguy,maybe myage. Pale, drenched in sweat, with dark circles underhiseyeslike bruises. He moved with a painful stiffness,like every jointwas rusted. He muttered a "Irasshaimase…" without even lookingat me,hiseyes fixedon the counter.Hisarms were covered in these intricate, dark tattoos, winding fromhis wrists up underhis sleeves. I figured hewas just sick, oron a roughshift. Ifelt bad forhim.
I grabbed a can of coffee and went to the counter. "Sorry to botheryou," Istarted inJapanese, "I'm prettylost. Couldyoutell me where I am?"
He looked up, andhiseyesdidn't seem tofocuson me.Itwaslike hewas lookingat ascreen a few inches in front of my face. "We do not provide directional information," he said,hisvoice aflat, rehearsed monotone. "Will that beall foryou?"
Okay,weird, but whatever.Maybeit's store policy.As he reached for my coffee,his sleeve slid up. The tattoosonhisarm… they weren’t just pictures. For a split second, Iswear toGod, the lines ofinkshifted. They writhed,like tiny black worms underhisskin,and a patch ofhis forearmglowed with afaint, sicklyredlight. He flinched, asharp intake ofbreath, and quickly pulledhis sleeve down.
I just froze. I couldn’t have seen that, right? Iwas tired, myeyes were playing trickson me.
The personwho walked in… Idon’t know how to describe them.Itwas aman, I think. Hewas tall and wore an old, soaked trench coat. Buthis face…itwaslike my brain refused to processit.Itwasn't that he had no face,itwas that myeyes wouldslide right offit.Itwas ablur, aglitch, a 404error inhuman form.
Theclerkdidn't seem surprised. Hedidn't even seem to seehimas strange.His posture just became evenmore rigid. Theredglowonhisarm pulsedagain,brighter thistime, visible throughhis sleeve.
The facelessmandidn't speak. He just stood there. Theclerk, without aword, turned. But hedidn'tgo to the coolers. He kepthis back to theman, and heldouthis left hand,palm up. I heard asoft, wet, squelching sound. From a small, dark slit in the center ofhispalm that I hadn't noticed before, a smallcarton of strawberrymilk, the kindyou give tokids, just… emerged.Itwas producedout ofhis hand.Itwas wet with a clear, viscous fluid.
He placediton the counter. "Hereis the requested product," theclerk said,hisvoice straining. "The transactionis complete."
The facelessman picked up the strawberrymilk. He putit inhis coatpocket. And then he just… faded. Hedidn’t walkout the door. He dissolved into the hummingair,likeheat haze. A second later, hewasgone.
Theclerk letout a long, shudderingbreath and swayedonhis feet. He leaned heavilyon the counter,his face sheet-white. He looked utterly, existentially exhausted. Hesaw me staring, my mouth hangingopen, the can of coffeestill in my hand.
For the firsttime, aflicker ofsomething real,somethinghuman, crossedhis face.Itwaspure, undiluted terror.
"You… are not a regular customer," he whispered,hisvoice trembling. "Your… conceptis too stable. Please. Leave."
Ididn'tneed to be told twice. I threw a 500yen coinon the counter and ranout of there so fast I think I broke the sound barrier. Ididn't eventake my coffee. I justgot in mycar and drove, Idon't know in which direction, I just drove.
I'mat a servicestationnow, about 100kmaway. Thesunis coming up. I can't stop shaking.Itwasn't adream.I knowitwasn't. Because when Iwas fumbling for my keys, I realized I had accidentally grabbed thereceipt from the counter.
It’s not for my coffee.It’s for the other transaction.It justhasoneitem listed.It doesn't say "StrawberryMilk."It says:
ITEM: CONCEPTUAL SALVATION (FLAVOR:CHILDHOOD NOSTALGIA) - 1 UNIT
PRICE: ¥0
METHOD: ANNULMENT
Has anyone seen a storelike this? What thehellis happening in the mountains of Gunma? Whatdid I see? AndGod, that poorkid working the counter. Heisn't in trouble. He's a part ofit. He's themachine.
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