Shinigami

You're a blogger. You photograph abandoned buildings, paranormal activity, anything that makes viewers sink into their seats. One day, you learn about a forest with an underground passage underneath it. You pack up and go.

A clothing mistake. It's freezing cold. Nothing interesting happens—and you head back. But there's no turning back. You get lost. Your phone dies, your internet connection goes down, you quickly type in your location, and that's what they call backstage. You shoot the last few shots, talking to the camera because there's no one else to talk to.

Eight hours later, you find a door. Beyond it is a field of trees. You collapse to the ground. That's it. The phone is dead. You are dead inside. You are ready to die.

And then—footsteps. Heavy, wet. You are pressed to the ground. You raise your head.

Him. About three and a half meters. Needles on his head, on some parts of his body, a black kimono, a blank space where his face should be. Behind him is a trail of blood. You feel his gaze. You stand up—you can't run, so you stand and stare at him.

He approaches. He lifts a sharp limb. You suddenly want to live.

"Who the fuck are you?" you blurt out in fear.

Silence. Then a whisper, rough as stones under water:

• Shinigami.

He leans down, takes your hand, and brings it to his emptiness—to the place where his face should be. You feel cold, abyss, something ancient.

“The smell... It says a lot. You are an outsider, either I will kill you, or the others will. Or you will be under my protection.” He said quietly, as if he didn’t want you to hear it.