The Kudzu Man of Sapporo

I never believed in ghosts, not really. I moved to Sapporo for the engineering job, expecting snow and silence, not the creeping dread that settled over me like a wet blanket. My apartment was a small box in a complex that smelled of old tatami and loneliness. The first night, I heard it: a low, rhythmic chanting, muffled, as if coming from the walls. I convinced myself it was the pipes, or the wind whistling through the cracks. But it was too deliberate, too human. I’d press my ear to the cold plaster, and the sound would stop, only to resume when I pulled away.

A week later, I needed to escape the claustrophobia. I took my motorcycle into the city, the biting Hokkaido air stinging my face. I found an old ryokan tucked between modern glass towers, its wooden facade weathered and dark. The woman at the front desk was ancient, her face a map of wrinkles. She didn’t smile, just handed me a key and pointed to the stairs. The room was sparse: a futon on the floor, a low table, and a window that looked out onto an overgrown courtyard. The only decoration was a faded portrait of a man in a business suit, his eyes seeming to follow me.

That night, the chanting was louder, closer. It seemed to come from the courtyard. I peered through the frosted glass. In the dim light, I saw a figure standing among the weeds. It was tall, impossibly thin, wearing a dark suit that hung loose on its frame. Its face was obscured, but I felt its gaze. It raised a hand, and I saw its fingers were abnormally long, almost like vines. It beckoned. I stumbled back, heart pounding. I didn’t sleep.

The next day, I tried to rationalize. I went to the cafe downstairs, ordered strong coffee, and asked the young waitress about the courtyard. She paled. ‘You see the man?’ she whispered. ‘He’s been there for years. Some say he was a salaryman who died in the bubble economy. He wanders, looking for something.’ I asked why no one did anything. She shrugged. ‘He doesn’t harm anyone, just watches. But sometimes, he helps.’ She wouldn’t elaborate.

That evening, I returned to my room, determined to confront the figure. I waited until midnight. The chanting began, but this time, it was different. It was accompanied by a scraping sound, like nails on wood. I threw open the window. The courtyard was empty, but the weeds were bent, as if something had moved through them. I saw a trail leading to the back fence. My curiosity got the better of me. I put on my jacket, grabbed a flashlight, and slipped outside.

The air was cold and still. The chant was a whisper now, coming from the direction of the fence. I pushed through the weeds, my boots sinking in soggy earth. There, against the fence, stood the man. Up close, I saw his face was smooth, blank, like a mannequin. His eyes were black pits. He pointed at a spot in the ground. I didn’t want to, but I felt compelled. I knelt and brushed away dead leaves. There was a small metal box, rusted and half-buried. I opened it. Inside, a photograph of a young woman, and a name: Yuki Tanaka.

The chanting stopped. The man tilted his head, as if waiting. I realized he wanted me to find her. I asked, ‘Who is she?’ His form flickered, and I saw a look of desperation. He pointed at the ryokan. I understood: she was inside, or connected to it. I turned to go, but when I looked back, he was gone.

I spent the next hours searching. I asked the ancient woman about Yuki. Her face turned to stone. She said, ‘My sister. She disappeared years ago, in the winter. She left a letter, saying she would end it near the old shrine in the hills. They never found her body.’ She handed me a key to a storage room.

I opened the storage room. It was filled with old furniture and boxes. In the corner, under a tarp, was a trunk. Inside, wrapped in a blanket, was a diary. I opened it. It was Yuki’s. The last entry, dated the day she vanished, read: ‘He follows me. The man in the suit. He says he knows where I go. He wants me to follow him. I’m scared.’ I felt a chill. The man wasn’t a protector; he was a predator.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat in the dark, listening. The chanting was louder than ever, but now I recognized it as a summons. It called my name. I felt an overwhelming urge to go to the courtyard. I fought it, grasping the futon. The door rattled. Then, silence.

I ran to the window. The man was there, but he was not alone. Beside him stood a woman, translucent, sobbing. It was the woman from the photograph. She was trying to speak, but no sound came. The man reached out and touched her shoulder, and she dissolved into mist. He turned to me, and his face, for a moment, was Yuki’s. Then it reverted.

I understood: he was not a man. He was a yokai, a spirit of loneliness, who had taken the form of a salaryman to lure the disheartened. Yuki had been his victim. He wanted me next. I grabbed a ceremonial bell from the trunk—an offering, perhaps—and rang it with all my strength. The sound shattered the still air. The man recoiled, covering his ears. He let out a sound that was not human, a shriek like tearing metal.

He vanished, and the courtyard was empty. The chanting stopped. I stood there, shaking, the bell in my hand. In the morning, I left the ryokan, never to return. But I still hear it sometimes, in the silence of my apartment: a low, rhythmic chant, and a voice that calls my name. And I know that somewhere, that thing is waiting, patient, for the next lonely soul to become his. I hope it’s not you.