Today's story is a folk tale from Japan, in first-person narrative.
The story I'm about to share comes from Japanese folklore and is one my uncle often told me when I was a child. It takes place in a small village where my grandmother and uncle were evacuated during World War II. At the time, Tokyo was too dangerous, even after the war ended, so they stayed with relatives in the countryside. According to my uncle, strange and unexplainable events were common in that village, as if times of change brought out mysterious happenings.
One of the village's peculiar landmarks was a sacred tree, the goshingi, just outside the village. One day, a crack resembling a mouth appeared in its trunk, almost as if it were alive. Locals also reported seeing enormous five-foot-long koi fish swimming in nearby rivers, or lanterns floating in a line along the roads late at night. My uncle swore he once encountered something even stranger—a phenomenon he called the Deaf-Shake.
At the edge of the village, there was a dense forest known as the "Rainy Forest." It had an odd reputation: no matter how heavily it rained inside the forest, the moment you stepped out, the skies would be clear. My uncle and his friends frequently ventured into its depths, using an abandoned settlement they discovered as their secret hideout. The settlement was a cluster of small, dilapidated houses deep in the forest. They never told their parents about it, and it became their private playground, where they played hide-and-seek and practiced archery.
One day, as twilight approached, they realized one of their friends was missing. Panic set in, and the fading light of dusk only heightened their fear. Everyone began shouting, "Come out! Stop hiding!" They frantically searched the settlement. As they called for their friend, a strange, low sobbing began echoing through the forest. At first, they thought one of them was crying, but when my uncle turned to scold the group, everyone's face was frozen in shock. None of them had made the sound.
The sobbing grew louder, transforming into the unmistakable cries of a baby. The sound was shrill and desperate, like a baby in distress. It was so intense, it felt almost alive, like a warning of some impending danger. Suddenly, their missing friend burst out of a small storage hut, wide-eyed and trembling. He was just about to explain himself when they all noticed something at the entrance of one of the old houses.
In the dim light of the setting sun, a shadowy figure appeared—a faint silhouette that resembled a woman holding a baby. The shadow wavered, flickering like a mirage, but the longer they stared, the clearer it became. The woman seemed to be gently rocking the baby in her arms. Something about the scene sent chills down their spines. My uncle shouted, "Run!" and the group bolted out of the settlement, racing through the forest until they reached the village.
That night, they told an old villager named Yoshino what they'd seen. Yoshino nodded gravely and said, "That's the Deaf-Shake." He explained that years ago, many children in the area had died in tragic circumstances. One of the stories was about a deaf mother who carried her baby on her back while working in the fields. The baby cried and cried, but she didn't notice because of her deafness. Eventually, the baby suffocated because the carrier strap had loosened, and the baby's head hung at an unnatural angle. By the time she realized what had happened, it was too late. Overcome with grief, the mother became a wandering spirit, doomed to eternally rock her baby and soothe its cries.
The story haunted my uncle. He felt pity for the spirit but couldn't shake the chill that ran down his spine every time he thought about it. A few days later, he and his friends decided to return to the settlement. This time, they brought offerings—candles, sweets, and prayers. They placed them at the doorsteps of the houses, hoping to soothe the restless spirits. They even recited Buddhist chants, feeling the weight of their prayers in the heavy silence of the forest.
Afterward, they returned to playing their usual games in the settlement, but they always left before sunset. One day, however, as they were about to leave, the sky suddenly darkened, and rain began to pour. What made it strange was that moments before, the sun had been shining brightly. They tried to leave the forest, but something was wrong. No matter which direction they went, they couldn't find their way out. Panic set in as each of them argued over the correct path. My uncle, acting as the leader, insisted they follow him. "This is the way home," he shouted, trying to calm the group.
As they moved forward, the faint cries of a baby began to echo again. It came from the direction they were heading. One of his friends, pale and shaking, yelled, "We're going the wrong way! The cries are leading us back to the settlement!" My uncle hesitated, torn between instinct and fear. The rain pattered loudly on the leaves, drowning out their frantic whispers. He finally shouted, "Cover your ears and trust me! Follow me!"
With their ears covered and heads down, they pushed forward, moving toward the cries. Finally, they stumbled out of the forest and into the village. The rain stopped the moment they emerged, and the familiar sight of their homes brought a wave of relief. Exhausted and shaken, they parted ways, each heading home in silence.
When my uncle arrived home, soaking wet and pale, his parents demanded to know what had happened. Furious, they forbade him from ever entering the forest again. But later that night, the head of their household, an older woman, called him into her room. She told him something that made the hairs on his neck stand up.
"The Deaf-Shake isn't what you think," she began. "That story about a deaf mother? It's not entirely true. This village has a dark history. In the old days, during times of famine, some families would kill their newborns to reduce the number of mouths to feed. Usually, they would strangle the baby right after birth, saying it never lived. But if the child grew too big, it became harder for the parents to do it. Some mothers pretended their child's death was an accident—rocking them too hard or letting them fall. They claimed they couldn't hear the baby's cries, but deep down, they knew what they were doing."
The old woman leaned in closer and said, "The baby's cries you heard weren't a call for help. They were curses—anger and sorrow from those who died. They want to lead you back into the forest, to trap you, just as they were trapped in death." My uncle sat frozen, the weight of her words sinking in. He realized that the cries in the forest hadn't been guiding them to safety—they'd been luring them back to their doom.
The old woman continued, "That settlement? It was where these things happened. Those children's spirits can't rest, and they'll do anything to take someone with them. You were lucky to escape. Never speak of this again."
My uncle kept his promise and avoided the forest from that day forward. But the memory of the Deaf-Shake stayed with him, a chilling reminder of the village's dark secrets and the restless spirits that still wandered the Rainy Forest.