The Teketeke of the Closed Tunnel

In late autumn, a bizarre rumor began to circulate in Matsue, a small railway town. It spread rapidly through local internet communities, soon transforming into hushed whispers among the populace. The story concerned an old railway tunnel, once part of the Sanin Main Line, but closed after the construction of a new bypass. For decades, the tunnel had been nothing more than an ancient relic, but then, one day, it transformed into an ominous place. Three disappearances occurred within six weeks, all witnessed last near the tunnel's entrance at dusk. Police reported "unexplained circumstances" and "accidental occurrences," but the villagers, especially the youth, told a different tale. Multiple witnesses claimed to have heard a unique, repetitive sound near the old tracks: "Teketeke." The sound would reportedly grow louder before abruptly vanishing. Blurry, distorted security camera footage from a nearby convenience store was said to have captured a faint, low, and fast-moving object near the tunnel entrance on two nights when disappearances occurred. Online conversations filled with dread linked these incidents to Japan's chilling urban legend, Teketeke – the vengeful spirit of a woman severed by a train, who crawls on her elbows, seeking to inflict her fate upon others. The eerie convergence of local disappearances, testimonies of impossible sounds, and a terrible, ancient myth demanded a thorough investigation of the phenomenon.

My first visit to the site was beneath a low, overcast sky. Despite recent dry weather, the air was heavy with a damp, chilling cold. Rusty old railway tracks led directly to the tunnel’s mouth. The roughly hewn concrete arch was partially collapsed on one side, speaking of decades of neglect. There were no official cordons, only a faded, handwritten sign warning of the unstable structure. The ground outside the tunnel was uneven, strewn with gravel, broken glass shards, and occasional rusted bolts. Surprisingly, despite being an unused area, no bird song was audible. A faint, almost imperceptible vibration resonated from the ground, perhaps an echo from a distant active railway line, yet it felt alien here. My equipment registered a subtle, localized drop in temperature near the tunnel entrance. Inside, the air was significantly colder, thick with the scent of damp earth, mold, and a metallic odor reminiscent of old blood or rust. I examined the walls, finding no signs of forced entry or struggle, only the predictable scars of time and decay. The silence within was profound, seemingly swallowing even the sound of my own footsteps.

As I ventured deeper into the tunnel, the last vestiges of natural light completely disappeared. The intense beam of my headlamp cut through the oppressive darkness, revealing only a limited scope of curved concrete walls. It was then that the anomalies began. I paused to document a section where the concrete had collapsed, and I heard it. A distinct, rhythmic

scratching… scratching… scratching…

It came from a distance, yet was clearly discernible. But the sound didn't propagate as expected; it wasn't an echo from a specific direction down the tunnel, but rather a localized tremor that vibrated my eardrums, as if reverberating from the air itself around me. I called out, but my voice was immediately swallowed, the echo strangely weak, as if absorbed. The scratching stopped. My heart pounded, and I listened intently in the unnatural silence. A moment later, a cold, sticky droplet landed on my cheek. I looked up. The tunnel ceiling was perfectly dry. A few seconds passed, then the scratching resumed. This time, it was closer, and faster.

Teketeke Teketeke Teketeke.

It sounded like fingernails rapidly scraping rough concrete, but the speed was impossible. My rational mind couldn’t connect the sound to any known physical explanation. My headlamp flickered. Not due to a battery issue, but as if the light itself was resisting an unseen force, momentarily dimming and brightening in response to the sound. Beneath my feet, directly from the tunnel floor, I felt a deep, chilling cold rise. A coldness that permeated through the thick soles of my boots.

Teketeke

The sound intensified, now undeniably approaching. Its rhythm accelerated into a frenzied crescendo. The air around me crackled with an unseen pressure. My headlamp died completely, plunging me into suffocating, absolute darkness. As my cold-sweaty fingers fumbled for my backup light, the sound was directly upon me. No longer a distant scratching, but a furious, raspy

GRRR-AACK-AACK-AACK!

erupting right behind me—the sound of bare bone and desperate force scraping against stone. An enormous, impossible cold, powerful enough to be a physical blow, slammed into my back, shoving me forward. As I stumbled and fell, the backup light clicked on, and I caught a horrifying, fleeting glimpse. It was impossibly low to the ground. A darkening, torn human torso-like form, flailing its arms, rushing toward me with monstrous speed. There were no legs. Where the torso ended was raw, a shredded edge. The sound was not fingernails, but the bone and cartilage of severed limbs desperately, impossibly scraping concrete. It defied gravity and inertia, moving in jerking, unnatural thrusts, closing the distance in a single, terrifying lunge.

My boots caught on loose railway sleepers, and I tripped. As I fell, a searing cold gripped my left ankle. An unbelievably strong, inhuman force tried to drag me into the absolute darkness. The scratching had now transformed into a furious, raspy roar just centimeters from my ear, accompanied by a foul, metallic breath that seemed to suck the warmth from my lungs. I thrashed wildly, managing to wrench my ankle free with a sickening pop. Just before desperately crawling backward out of the tunnel’s grasp, I caught one last glimpse of its face. Not skeletal, but a mask contorted and enraged by pure, ancient hatred, with no light reflected in its eyes.

I emerged from the tunnel hours later, disoriented and physically ill, my left ankle throbbing terribly. The outside air was still damp, but it offered a blessed relief. My equipment was scattered, my main headlamp irreparably broken. Back in the office, in the safety and rationality of my space, the experience began to solidify into something concrete and terrifying. The raw, red abrasion on my left ankle, stretching from just below the sock line to my heel, wasn’t a typical scrape from gravel or a fall. It was a series of deep, parallel grooves, as if a large, rough hand had tried to grip the bone itself, leaving behind a cold burn that persisted for days.

Even more unsettling was the audio recording from my field recorder, which I had forgotten was still running. Amidst my desperate fleeing, my terrified gasps, and the raspy scratching, there was a brief, impossible section of recording. There, the "

Teketeke

" sound was perfectly clear, followed by a series of inhuman, desperate clicking sounds and a faint, high-pitched giggle. Then, silence. But the most profound change was within me. Now, in the dead of night, in the sudden silence between passing cars, or when I turn a corner too sharply, I sometimes hear it. A faint, rhythmic

scratching… scratching… scratching…

Never loud enough for anyone else to hear, never long enough to pinpoint exactly. But it’s always there. A subtle, chilling reminder that some things, once disturbed, are impossible to leave behind. The case file remains open. Now, with new, undeniable, and deeply personal evidence.

The Teketeke of the Closed Tunnel

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