World's Scariest Places: Volume One (Suspense Horror Thriller & Mystery Novel): Occult & Supernatural Crime Series: Suicide Forest & The Catacombs

by Jeremy Bates

  “I think it’s amazing. I mean, not in a good way. It’s just such a special place. It’s so different than Tokyo, you know?”

  I thought about that for a moment and wasn’t sure I agreed completely. Tokyo was a forest of glass and steel while Aokigahara was a forest of trees and rocks, but both were graveyards of sorts. Because, if you knew anything of the merciless corporate culture in Japan, the shiny skyscrapers that dominated Tokyo’s skyline were really nothing more than impersonal tombstones, the people who worked within them slaves in an endless sojourn to get through to the next day, to reach the “golden years” of retirement. Ironically, many died spiritually long before that. Just ask that poor guy who’d left his suit and briefcase and dress shoes in his car.

  I was about to mention this but didn’t know how to convey it intelligibly in words. Instead I said, “Yeah, it’s a crazy place.”

  “It’s these types of trips I’m going to miss when we leave Japan. We should have done them more. Why didn’t we do them more?”

  I shrugged. “We’re always working.”

  “Because we’ve stayed at STD. We could have had way more holidays somewhere else.”

  She always called HTE that—STD. It was her joke. Something we caught and couldn’t get rid of.

  “You know,” she went on, “my friend Francine got a job with a university. She gets six months off. Six months. Half the year. And she still gets paid more than we do.”

  “We can apply at a university, if you want?”

  “It’s too late, Ethan. We’ve been here too long.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  She glanced at me, apparently thought I was angry, which I wasn’t, not really, and ballet-toed to plant a kiss on my cheek.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Don’t make fun of me.”

  “I’m not. I enjoyed it.”

  Smiling, she said, “I’m going to go talk to John.”

  I glanced ahead at John Scott, who was telling Tomo some story.

  “Okay.”

  She hurried to catch up. I watched as she squeezed in between John Scott and Tomo. John Scott hooked his arm around her shoulder, said something that made her laugh, then, after what I considered to be an inappropriately long amount of time, withdrew his arm again.

  Neil took Mel’s spot next to me. He was whistling that popular American Civil War song—the one everyone calls “The Ants Go Marching” nowadays—though I couldn’t recall the original title.

  I glanced sidelong at him. Neil Rodgers. More affectionately referred to as “Neilbo” or “Mr. Rodgers” or sometimes “That Fucking Kiwi” when spoken about in jest by the people we worked with. A Canadian coworker named Derek Miller went after him the most for being what he called “an oddball serial rapist.” That was going overboard, of course, but Neil was admittedly a bit of an oddball. I think Neil would even admit it himself if you asked him. He didn’t have tape holding his glasses together or anything like that, but he did have a handful of idiosyncrasies. He only owned one suit, for example, which he wore every day. I knew this because there was a small hole in the seat, next to the left pocket. He kept his cell phone in a pouch attached to his belt, like he was Captain Kirk and it was his phaser. And he would always eat the same thing for each meal. Rice, fermented beans, some nuts, and a salad if he had a day shift. Rice, a piece of chicken, and three or four pork dim sum if he worked evenings. His wife prepared the dishes for him, packing them in a Tupperware container that had his name written on the lid in black marker.

  Nevertheless, of the twenty or so full-time teachers at our school, I’d say he was the most popular among the students—at least, he was the most requested for private lessons. We taught everyone from kids to the elderly, either one on one or in small groups. The majority were sleepy salary men forced by their companies to learn English, or bored housewives wanting someone to talk to. After years of delivering the same lessons over and over, I sometimes dreaded certain classes with certain students in which I would be going over past participles for the thousandth time.

  Not Neil.

  He had a zany, manic energy. He was like that kid’s television presenter Mr. Rogers, hence the moniker “Mr. Rodgers.” This was why the students liked him so much. They knew he was always giving one hundred percent.

  “Do you think this is a good idea?” I asked him now, mostly to shut him up. The nostalgic tune was out of place in the forest, almost creepy.

  He blinked at me. “Camping here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was your idea.”

  “It was the Israelis.”

  “But you and John Scott were keen for it.”

  “I thought it would be interesting.”

  “And now?”

  My eyes scanned the trees. “It’s still interesting.”

  “You want to back out?”

  “It’s not like we’re the first people who’ve come here to check it out. They have trails.”

  “But how many people camp overnight?”

  “Who’s going to know?”

  “Do you think we’ll see a body?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “I’m not sure. Well, I guess. If we see one, we see one.”

  As I contemplated how honest I was being with myself, I realized there had been another option to pass the time until the weather cleared up. We could have stayed at a Japanese inn with those tatami-matted floors and screen doors. I was sure Mel and Tomo would have been up for this option. But I didn’t know about Neil; he was notoriously cheap and had likely agreed to camp only because it was free.

  I glanced ahead again. Mel was still next to John Scott. She was dressed in a violet K2 jacket and jeans. I had on an identical jacket, only mine was black. We didn’t buy them to be cute. They had been fifty percent off in some store in Shinjuku, and neither of us had brought warm jackets with us to Japan. That was the thing with teaching overseas: your worldly possessions were limited to what you could pack into a suitcase or two.

  Mel kept turning her head to look at John Scott, making me wonder what they were talking about. I caught a couple words, but that was all.

  Neil resumed whistling. I asked him, “How’s Kaori?”

  “She’s taking the kid to Disneyland this weekend.”

  “How old is Ai now?”

  “Four.”

  “She’s going to school?”

  “She’s in kindy.” He nodded at Mel and John Scott. “How do they know each other?”

  John Scott said something to Mel. She punched him playfully on the shoulder.

  “They went to high school together.”

  “You don’t like him, do you?”

  It was a good question. Did I like John Scott? I had a bad habit of judging people quickly and sticking by those judgments even when they were proven to be completely wrong. In the case of John Scott, however, I didn’t think my initial impression was off. He was a mouthy jock.

  “What does it matter?” I shrugged. “I don’t know him.”

  Neil nodded, as if I’d made a salient point, and began to whistle once more. I couldn’t be bothered to tell him to stop.

  Three Japanese hikers were coming down the trail toward us. Two men, one woman, all attired in hiking clothes and armed with clear plastic umbrellas.

  “Konichiwa!” Ben called amicably. “Konichiwa!”

  His pronunciation was worse than mine. The Japanese returned the greeting, smiling and bowing.

  “How is your hike?” Ben asked.

  They appeared confused.

  “Walk?” I intervened. “Good?”

  Several hesitant nods.

  “Hey—sumimasen?” John Scott said. He struggled expressing what he wanted to say in Japanese, gave it up, and switched to English. “We’re looking for some other trails. Not the main ones. You understand?”

  They did not. In fact, they seemed eager to move on.

  John Scott
held them at bay with: “Yo, whoa, wait, wait, wait.” He turned to Tomo. “Translate for me.”

  “Translate what?”

  “What I just said. Secondary trails, off this main one?”

  Tomo seemed reluctant.

  “Dude,” John Scott said. “Just ask.”

  Tomo asked.

  The eldest of the three Japanese—full head of white hair, matching mustache, gold-rimmed glasses—frowned. He shot something back. Tomo replied, holding up his hands, but was promptly cut off. The man began shouting. I saw spittle fly from his mouth. Every time Tomo tried to appease him, he shook his head and his arms and raised his voice louder. I watched, dumbstruck. I’ve rarely seen Japanese people lose their temper. They had a saying: the nail that stands out gets hammered down—hard. This could mean anything during a typical day. Don’t leave work before your coworkers. Don’t make business decisions on your own. Don’t ever, ever be late.

  Don’t show your emotions.

  So what was going on here? White Hair had totally lost it. Tomo realized the futility of arguing and gave up. I put my hand on his back and led him away. The others followed.

  John Scott said, “What the hell’s his problem?”

  Tomo shook his head. “He says we don’t be here.”

  “Why’s he here?”

  “He go lava caves, ice caves.”

  “What’s the big deal?”

  “He thinks we look body.”

  White Hair continued to yell at us.

  “What’s he saying now?” I asked.

  “He report us.”

  “Is it illegal to go off the path?”

  “Don’t think. He’s fucking crazy guy. Who cares?”

  “Fuck you, kemo sabe!” John Scott yelled back, flicking the finger.

  “Hey,” I told him, “cool it.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “You’re being a prick.”

  “Listen to the spaz.”

  “He has a point,” I said. “Maybe we shouldn’t be camping out here.”

  “Don’t give me that shit. This is all about us not being Japanese. Being gaijin. If we weren’t foreigners, he wouldn’t have gone off on us like that. They’ve got to get over their racism.”

  “You’re just feeding into their stereotype of the loud, obnoxious American.”

  “Yeah? And he’s feeding mine. Xenophobic asshole.”

  “This isn’t your country,” I said.

  “That gives him a right to spaz out?”

  “You know ‘kemo sabe’ isn’t Japanese, right?”

  “What is it?”

  Shaking my head, I walked on in silence.

  Not long after I’d first arrived in Japan I was at a restaurant with a bunch of friends. The deal of the day was all-you-can-drink shōchū, beer, cocktails, and high balls at a self-serve counter for three hundred yen. The catch was you only had thirty minutes to imbibe before you had to pay again. Being unapologetic boozehounds we were good-heartedly smashed within the hour. While taking the train home with my Scottish roommate, I was on my cell phone, speaking loudly to my ex, Shelly, back in the States, who’d just happened to call. The Scot sat across from me, staring silently at the glass in his hand, which he’d taken, full of rum, from the restaurant so he could keep drinking. I was oblivious to the old man who’d stalked over until he began railing me out in Japanese. I had no idea then how big a faux pas it was to speak on your phone on the train, and I argued back. The Scot stared up bleary eyed, said something, then puked all over himself. To his credit he managed to catch a fair bit of vomit in the stolen glass. The man, red-faced, stormed off the train at the next station.

  At the time I thought the guy was being an asshole for not minding his own business. In retrospect, I realized I was being the asshole by not conforming to Japanese societal norms. True, he probably thought of me as a typical gaijin, but that’s exactly what I was. So was he being racist? I don’t think so. Japanese have a complex set of sensitive rules to dictate social situations. They know those rules. Foreigners often don’t. Hence foreigners are perceived—and treated—differently. That’s simply Japan. You either get used to it, or you go elsewhere.

  We must have walked for another ten minutes before we found what we were looking for. To the left of the main trail a rope was strung horizontally between two trees. A placard hung from the middle of it and read “DO NOT ENTER” in English. Beyond, a narrow, lightly trodden path snaked away deeper into the forest. The spindly saplings lining the margins leaned inward, their branches interlocking overhead like bony fingers, forming a forbidding tunnel.

  The uneasiness I’d felt earlier was back, more persistent, and I began second-guessing the wisdom of our camping out here.

  Mel was apparently on the same page. She folded her arms across her chest, as if she was suddenly cold, and said, “Don’t tell me we’re going down there?”

  “Yes, of course,” Ben said.

  “Why don’t we camp right here?”

  “Here is no adventure.”

  “I’ve had a pretty good adventure so far.”

  “People will see us.”

  “Who? We’ve only passed those three hikers.”

  “We walk down the path,” Ben said, “find a good spot to make camp.”

  “That Japanese guy threatened to report us,” Neil said. “What if he does just that and the local police come? I don’t fancy getting arrested.”

  “Arrested? For what?” John Scott said. “Straying off the path?”

  “Trespassing. They saw all our camping gear. They can put two and two together.”

  “This is public land.”

  “That sign specifically says not to enter.”

  “There’s no threat of punishment.”

  “What does that bit say there?” Mel said. She pointed to a placard next to the English one. It was smaller, the words written in kanji.

  “Don’t go in woods,” Tomo translated. “You get lost.”

  “That’s all?” I said.

  “See?” John Scott said.

  I glanced about, searching for other warning signs—and spotted a surveillance camera ten feet away, atop a black metal pole. It was partly hidden behind a tree.

  “What the hell’s that?” I said, pointing to it.

  Everyone looked. There were a few exclamations of surprise.

  “Who put that there?” Neil asked. “The police?”

  “Must be,” Ben said. “But it is no big deal.”

  “What do you mean?” Mel said. “They could be watching us right now.”

  “Even if they watch,” Tomo said, “they don’t care.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “They worry the suicide guys. You? Foreigners? They know you don’t suicide, right? They don’t care.”

  “So are we agreed?” Ben said. “We go in?”

  I looked at Mel. She shrugged resignedly, and that made up my mind too. Ben, grinning broadly, stepped over the line, then helped Nina. As she stepped over it her shorts rode up her legs. John Scott went next, scissor-style, then Tomo, then Neil, who caught a foot and almost tripped. I lifted the line, and Mel and I ducked beneath.

  Leaving the main trail behind, we ventured into the unknown.

  CHAPTER 4

  We walked in silence. The time for chatting and gaiety was over. What had begun as a novel idea, something to pass the time, had become serious business. We might not be technically trespassing, but we were definitely somewhere we were not supposed to be. Aokigahara was a place where people came to die. It was home to the dead, not the living. I think the reality of this was beginning to sink in for all of us as we proceeded down the stick-tunnel, which was both claustrophobic and menacing.

  Nevertheless, nobody made any mention of turning back. We were drawn forward, I suppose, by morbid curiosity. It was human nature to want to know what was around the next corner, regardless of what might await you.

  My heart was beating faster than normal, my senses heighten
ed, as if I had just downed a large energy drink. My eyes scanned the snarl of forest that bordered us on both sides, though I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to find. A dangling noose? A body? A white-faced ghost flitting through the trees toward us? I couldn’t hear anything besides the crackle of our footsteps and my excited breathing. I wondered again about the peculiar silence of the forest and said, “Hey, Tomo. Where are all the animals?”

  He glanced back over his shoulder. “What you mean?”

  “There’re no animals. No birds or anything.”

  “It fucking haunted forest, man. Birds scared shitless. They go other forest.”

  “What about the wind?” Ben said. “There is no wind either.”

  “I reckon that’s because of the trees,” Neil replied. “They grow too thick for any wind to blow through.”

  “If this trail is off limits, Tomo,” Mel said, “then why is it here? Who made it?”

  “The police. They use to find body.”

  “How many do they usually find each year?”

  “One hundred. Two hundred.”

  Mel stopped. “What?”

  We all stopped too.

  Tomo shrugged. “Sometime more, sometime less.”

  “I had no idea the number was so large.” Mel had blanched. “I figured—I don’t know—like a handful of people every year.”

  That was closer to the dozen or two I’d estimated the number to be.

  “Japan has the highest suicide rate in the developed world,” Neil said matter of factly.

  “Are we really going to see a body?” Mel asked.

  “It’s a big forest,” I told her noncommittally.

  “And probably if you do,” Ben said, “it will only be an old skeleton or something.”

  “Much better,” she said.

  “Do you want to go back?” I asked her.

  She looked at me. “Do you?”

  “Don’t be a cheesedick, dude,” John Scott said. “We’ve decided. We’re here.”

  “Do you want to go back?” I asked her again.

  “Pussssieeee,” John Scott said.

  “Stay out of this,” I told him.

  “I’m just saying—”