The Red Mask of Shibuya Underpass

Over the past six months, four children between the ages of 9 and 12 have disappeared in Tokyo's Nishio ward. Coincidentally, all disappearances occurred within a 500-meter radius of the Shibuya Underpass, a pedestrian tunnel beneath an old railway, often used as a shortcut by local children. Police found no signs of struggle or concrete witnesses, but unsettlingly, mentions of an old urban legend, the 'Red Mask', began to surge across local communities and 2ch threads. While most responses were scornful, consistent references to 'a woman in a surgical mask', 'children voluntarily following her', and a 'silent question' presumably asked just before their disappearance, were chilling. One anonymous user even shared a blurry photo taken near the underpass, showing a figure in a long coat and a white surgical mask stark against the concrete background. Though dismissed as an ordinary passerby, for me, statistical anomalies and mass hysteria were more intriguing than ghosts, and this series of events demanded close investigation.

Late afternoon, I headed to the Shibuya Underpass, equipped with a professional audio recorder, a high-intensity tactical flashlight, and a 360-degree camera. My objective was to collect environmental data, including ambient sounds, light levels, temperature changes, and visual records of the tunnel's current state. Missing children flyers, their edges already curling, were affixed to a utility pole next to the entrance. The tunnel entrance seemed to swallow the light. The moment I stepped inside, the city's murmur abruptly ceased, replaced by a deep, damp silence, the smell of mold, and distant exhaust fumes. The floor was uneven and strewn with debris. Intermittent drips of water from ceiling cracks created irregular echoes. My footsteps reverberated with an unusual loudness.

The echoes of my footsteps began to behave abnormally. Instead of naturally following, they sometimes preceded my steps or seemed to return from multiple directions simultaneously. The sound of water drips also distorted, sometimes appearing to move along the tunnel walls, or suddenly stopping for a few seconds before resuming. Occasionally, from beyond the reach of my flashlight, a faint, almost imperceptible 'rustle' like silk or thick paper could be heard. A specific section in the middle of the tunnel exuded a noticeably cooler aura, several degrees lower than its surroundings. At that spot, the flashlight beam flickered intermittently, despite the batteries being new. The air felt heavy and viscous. Graffiti on the walls seemed to shift at the periphery of my vision. A spray-painted caricature's smile momentarily widened, and shadows cast unnatural elongations. A faint, metallic scent, like old blood mixed with disinfectant, briefly wafted through the air.

The feeling of being watched grew stronger. I instinctively checked behind me, even though I knew nothing was there. The ordinary urban noises from outside felt eerily distant. I tried to rationalize all these phenomena as auditory illusions, temperature inversions, and psychological stress stemming from the disappearances, but their persistence gradually eroded my composure.

At the very end of the tunnel, half-hidden beneath a pile of old newspapers, I discovered a child's backpack. It was scratched but intact and clearly recently discarded. The moment I reached for it, an intense chill, incomparable to anything before, froze the air. My flashlight flickered wildly, threatening to die out.

Then, a dry, reedy whisper, unlike any echo, sounded as if it were directly in my ear. It was Japanese. "私… きれい？ (Am I… pretty?)" The voice lacked any natural human intonation; it was flat, like a recording.

I spun around, aiming my flashlight into the darkness. Less than a meter away, a figure stood. It was distinctly human-shaped, clad in a long, dark trench coat. Its face was obscured by a white surgical mask. The figure did not move or breathe, yet the air around it shimmered faintly, like heat haze. My flashlight beam seemed to bend or be absorbed around the figure, and its shadow stretched and distorted unnaturally. Before I could react, the figure, without a sound or any physical transition of movement, suddenly stood directly in front of me, blocking the tunnel exit. It simply 'was there'.

The surgical mask on its face did not move physically, but rather 'twisted' like soft rubber, revealing an incredibly wide, jagged, blood-red gash where its mouth should have been. It was torn from ear to ear, far beyond the limits of human anatomy. Inside was a black abyss. A sharp, metallic 'snip-snip' sound reverberated through the tunnel walls, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere, swallowing all other noises. It was like the closing of enormous scissors. My ears rang.

The figure lunged. Not running, but a swift, unnatural glide. I stumbled backward, hitting the rough concrete wall. A cold, incredibly strong hand gripped my wrist. There was no warmth, no pulse. It wasn't merely physical pressure; it was a profound, alien 'pull' that felt as if my very existence was stretching and deforming. I struggled frantically, my professional composure shattered. My head hit the concrete with a chilling thud. The last thing I saw before my vision blurred was that impossibly wide, grinning maw, the black abyss within, and a flash of dull silver metal reflecting the dying flashlight beam. I tasted blood in my mouth, but the pain was secondary to the feeling of 'being disassembled'. The grip on my wrist momentarily released. It was an inexplicable, momentary reprieve. I fell forward, scrambling blindly, half-crawling and half-stumbling, bursting out of the tunnel entrance into the faint twilight.

Standing outside the tunnel, I gasped for air. The spot where I hit my head throbbed. On my right forearm, where the figure had gripped me, there was no bruise, no scratch. Instead, a thin, perfectly straight line, like a healed surgical incision, ran from my wrist to my elbow. It wasn't red or inflamed. It was simply 'there', impossibly clean, subtly altering the texture of my skin.

My audio recorder was intact. Playing it back in my office, amidst my own panicked gasps and stifled screams, there was a distinct, clear segment. It began with the flat whisper: "私… きれい？" followed by my scream. Then, the sharp, metallic 'snip-snip' sound, like tearing metal. But after I fell, for a few seconds, the recording captured a soft, moist 'gurgling' sound. This was followed by a faint, ragged gasp, and finally, a chillingly precise 'snip'. After that, the audio abruptly cut out.

I survived. But the encounter left a crack in my perception. I unconsciously keep touching the 'scar' on my arm. That metallic, disinfectant smell now faintly but persistently permeates my apartment. Sometimes, I find myself tracing the outline of my own lips with my fingers. And when I look in the mirror, especially when I see my own smile, I pause. A deep unease washes over me. I avoid the Shibuya Underpass. But the missing children flyers remain in my memory. The next disappearances will surely be children who took that shortcut. I know with chilling certainty the silent question they must have been asked. And no matter what their answer, they, too, would have met the same fate as the children before them. And perhaps, a part of me is still in that tunnel, watching from the distorted shadows.