【Japanese Horror】The Hundred Horror Tales — Episode 34: Do Not Trust Yourself | Haunted Kaidan Tales
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Episode 34 – “Do Not Trust Yourself| Haunted Kaidan Tales” (Full Text)
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Episode 34 — Do Not Trust Yourself
The smell of the extinguished candle still lingered in the tatami room.
The darkness had deepened just slightly, and the remaining flame swayed quietly.
No one spoke right away.
Aoi sat with a small space left open at her right side.
Of course, no one was there.
And yet, looking at that empty space, it felt as though someone had been sitting there just moments ago—
a faint trace of presence still clinging to the air.
Sōma glanced at that space once, then returned his gaze to the flame.
“Mind if I go next?”
Aoi looked up.
“Your turn, Sōma?”
“Yeah.”
He answered shortly, then spoke in a low voice.
“Three months ago, I had a strange dream.”
Three months ago, I had a frightening dream.
I can barely remember what it was about.
The place, the scenery, the sounds—none of it is clear.
There’s only one thing that remains vividly.
A sense of urgency.
That I must not forget.
That it would disappear the moment I woke up.
Only that certainty remained, strangely sharp.
In the dream, I was desperately trying to write something down.
I searched for paper, grabbed a pen, and tried to leave words behind with trembling hands.
I was in a hurry.
Above all else, before it vanished.
That much, I remember.
But I can’t recall what I was trying to write.
And then, I woke up.
It was just before dawn.
The room was silent.
My throat was dry.
My heart was beating a little faster than usual.
The contents of the dream were already fading like mist.
“…What was that?”
That mutter is the only thing I remember clearly.
It must have been important.
I know for certain I was trying to write something down.
That much is clear.
But I can’t remember what that “something” was.
I fell back asleep as I was.
When morning came, I put on my uniform.
As I absentmindedly slipped my hand into my jacket pocket,
my fingers brushed against something.
A small, folded piece of white paper.
At first, I thought it was a receipt.
But the folds were too deliberate.
A faint chill ran through my chest.
I took it out and slowly unfolded it.
There was only one line written on it.
—Do not trust yourself.
That was all.
No explanation. No context.
Just a single sentence.
But the handwriting was unmistakably mine.
The way the strokes stopped, the way they flicked, the pressure of the pen—
there was no way I could mistake it.
And yet, I had no memory of writing it.
I do remember trying to write something in the dream.
But I don’t remember writing those words.
I stared at the paper for a while.
Then, quietly, I exhaled.
“Subconscious…?”
Maybe I wrote it half-asleep.
Sleepwalking.
A gap in memory.
There were explanations.
There was logic.
And yet—
The urgency I felt in the dream
should have been about remembering something.
So what was this line?
Was it meant to help me remember?
Or—
A warning not to?
Three months ago, I put the paper into my desk drawer.
I decided not to think about it too deeply.
I judged it as nothing more than coincidence.
…And yet.
Now, I’m thinking about that paper again.
I barely remember the dream.
It’s not just that I can’t remember—
the more I try to recall it, the more it fades.
Only the sense of urgency from that morning remains.
After that, a few strange things started happening.
The first was on the school stairs.
It was lunchtime. I was heading to the school store, walking down the stairs side by side with a friend.
My right foot missed a step.
It wasn’t anything unusual.
A staircase I used every day.
I grabbed the handrail, so I didn’t fall, but a brief, unpleasant sensation shot through my ankle.
“Watch it.”
Someone behind me laughed, and I laughed it off too.
That should have been the end of it.
That night, at home, I was cutting vegetables after my mom asked me to help.
I nicked my right index finger.
The blade slipped.
The bleeding stopped quickly, and it didn’t hurt much.
I put on a bandage and went back to the table like nothing had happened.
The third time was in the classroom.
As I stood up, I hit my right elbow against the corner of my desk.
A dull pain ran through it, leaving a lingering numbness.
That was all.
None of them were serious.
Not even enough to go to the nurse’s office.
But there were three of them.
At first, I didn’t think much of the first two.
But after the third, something crossed my mind.
Right foot.
Right hand.
Right elbow.
All on the right side.
It was just a coincidence.
That’s what I told myself.
And yet, at the same time, that dream flashed through my mind.
I don’t remember what happened in it.
Just that urgency.
That feeling that I had to write something down.
For a brief moment, I wondered if there was a connection.
But I immediately dismissed it.
A dream is just a dream.
It has nothing to do with reality.
Forcing a connection would be more unnatural.
That was when I remembered the note.
Do not trust yourself.
Maybe it meant not to mix things together.
To doubt the part of me that tries to connect dreams and reality.
That interpretation made sense.
There was logic to it.
But—
I don’t remember finishing what I wrote.
I remember rushing to my desk.
I remember holding the pen.
I remember writing something.
But I have no memory of the moment the sentence was completed.
I only remember up to a certain point.
And yet, on the paper, there was a single, clean line.
Without hesitation.
Without corrections.
With none of the shakiness you’d expect from a half-awake mind.
Could I really have written something that precise
in that confused state, just after waking from the dream?
The incidents stopped after that.
Nothing else has happened since.
My daily life hasn’t been disturbed.
So there’s no problem.
That’s what I tell myself.
And yet—
The sense of unease hasn’t gone away.
The right side still feels… slightly heavy.
There’s no reason for it.
No proof.
And yet, that feeling refuses to disappear.
The incidents don’t matter anymore.
They’ve stopped.
That’s not the issue.
What bothers me is the memory of that night.
In the dream, I was sitting at my desk.
I was trying to write something.
That part, I remember.
But what I clearly remember is only up to a certain point.
The feeling of the pen moving across the paper.
The urgency.
The way I was rushing to line up words.
That much is vivid.
But before the sentence was finished, I woke up.
That’s how it felt.
Like it had been cut off midway.
So when I woke up, I thought I had to finish it.
What hadn’t been completed in the dream
had to be completed in reality.
At least, that’s what I must have thought.
And yet—
Before putting the paper into the drawer,
I looked at it once.
The sentence was already complete.
Do not trust yourself.
It wasn’t cut off.
It wasn’t unfinished.
It ended, clearly.
I must have felt something was off at that moment.
But the urgency was stronger.
I didn’t think too deeply about it.
I told myself I must have finished writing it in the dream.
But now, when I think about it—
I didn’t finish it in the dream.
I remember waking up before it was done.
That part is clear.
And yet, the paper in reality was complete.
So then—
When was that final line written?
After my awareness cut off in the dream?
Or—
After I woke up, without me remembering?
I try to trace my memory.
But that part alone is unclear.
I have the beginning.
But no end.
And yet, the paper has an ending.
That mismatch hasn’t gone away.
I went over the sequence of that night again and again.
I had a dream.
I woke up partway through.
Then I saw the paper.
The sentence was already complete.
For a long time, I believed that was the order.
But one day, a thought crossed my mind.
What if it were the other way around?
What if I didn’t write it because I had the dream—
but had the dream because I had already written it?
What if that dream wasn’t the beginning,
but a confirmation?
In the dream, I was in a hurry.
I felt a strong need to write something down.
But it didn’t feel like the urgency of writing something for the first time.
It felt more like I was trying to recall words I already knew.
If, before I had the dream,
I had already finished writing that sentence—
without realizing it—
to keep myself from being led somewhere,
or from choosing something—
and only then had the dream…
Then perhaps the dream wasn’t a warning at all.
Perhaps it was only tracing a decision I had already made.
The moment I thought that, a chill ran down my spine.
I tried to remember myself from that night.
But my memory before the dream feels strangely thin.
There shouldn’t have been anything unusual.
It was an ordinary day.
And yet, it feels like there’s a gap somewhere.
I had always thought the dream was the beginning.
But what if it wasn’t?
What if it started before that?
I could no longer fully trust the order of my own memories.
And for the first time,
the meaning of that line—
Do not trust yourself—
began to look slightly different.
Maybe it wasn’t the version of me in the dream I was supposed to doubt—
but the one sitting here now, trying to make sense of it.
I stopped myself there.
There was no need to think any further.
The incidents had stopped.
My daily life hadn’t been disturbed.
Nothing had gone wrong.
That was enough.
That’s the conclusion I chose.
And yet—
the sequence of events still refuses to settle into place.
Honestly, I don’t really understand it myself.
A sentence that should have been unfinished in the dream
was complete in reality.
The sequence is unclear,
and I can’t even tell where the dream ended and reality began.
And yet, nothing has happened since.
No accidents.
No strange dreams.
My daily life has continued as normal.
So it’s not something serious.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“Well, if you look at it from an occult perspective…
maybe some kind of guardian spirit used my body to leave that one line behind.”
I said that and shrugged.
I wasn’t being entirely serious.
But I wasn’t completely denying it either.
Do not trust yourself.
If that line was meant to keep me from being led somewhere—
then maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing.
So far, nothing has happened.
That’s the answer.
I said that, then turned my gaze to the candle.
I watched the flickering flame for a while,
then slowly leaned forward.
I let out a thin breath.
The flame swayed, then vanished without a sound.
For a brief moment, the wick glowed red.
Then it faded, and a thin trail of smoke rose into the air.
The darkness deepened once more.
I said nothing.
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The Hundred Horror Tales is an original Japanese horror anthology inspired by the tradition of Hyaku Monogatari.
Five storytellers gather around flickering candles to share chilling tales—urban legends, ghost stories, folklore, daily fears, and real encounters.
Can you endure until the last flame goes out?
Follow for more:
• Twitter: @KaidanTales
• YouTube: @HK_Tales
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