【Japanese Horror】The Hundred Horror Tales — Episode 3: The Forbidden Altar | Haunted Kaidan Tales
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Episode 03 – “The Forbidden Altar| Haunted Kaidan Tales” (Full Text)
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The Hundred Horror Tales — Episode 3: The Forbidden Altar
“…Hm. That Aoi girl sure talks a lot.”
With a quiet chuckle, Grandpa Seikichi sipped from his teacup.
“But tales like that—‘things only the chosen can see’—they’ve been around a long time. Back in my day, we had a story like that too.”
Sōma looked up slightly.
Aoi, still clearly shaken, was staring at Seikichi with wide eyes.
“But today, this isn’t about stairs. Let me tell you a tale… about something far older—something that’s always been there.”
He glanced down at the candle before him.
Then, with a gentle breath—
Fff…
The flame wavered, then vanished into smoke.
The room dimmed just a bit more.
“On the outskirts of the village, there’s an old Jizō Hall, standing alone at the end of a narrow path barely wide enough for one person. It’s tucked away in a grove of trees, hidden from view.”
“Kids these days probably don’t even know it exists. Even in my time, folks stayed away from that place.”
“Still, on the first day of every month, someone from the village had to go clean it. It was tradition—duty passed down. My family, too, had our turn once a year.”
“You see… that hall mustn’t be neglected. Left alone, it stirs. And when it stirs, it doesn’t forget.”
Sōma furrowed his brow slightly.
Seikichi noticed, and continued, his voice steady.
“It was long ago. I was still a boy when our family’s turn came up.”
“My grandfather was supposed to go, but he was bedridden with a bad cold. So my father went in his place.”
“I wasn’t supposed to follow. He told me not to. But of course, that only made me more curious.”
“In the end… I snuck after him.”
Miwa gave a quiet laugh.
“Hard to picture you like that, Dad.”
But Seikichi didn’t respond. He only stared into the faint trail of candle smoke.
“…I shouldn’t have looked. I truly believe that now.”
“I can’t even recall if there was an actual Jizō statue inside that hall.”
“All I remember… is that something else was enshrined in there. Something that didn’t belong.”
The room seemed to grow just a little colder.
“The Jizō Hall in our village was… a little different.
No red paint. No bell hanging at the eaves.
Just a tiny shack—weathered, blackened wood boards nailed together.
The roof was covered in moss, and even walking nearby made it feel hard to breathe.”
“That day, my father carried a broom and a cloth.
He didn’t say a word—just walked.
I followed him from a distance, hiding behind the trees to watch.”
“When he slid open the door of the hall, a chill wind blew out from inside.
That was the only time the wind blew that day.”
“It was dim inside. I couldn’t see anything at first.
But when I saw him step in, I couldn’t help myself.
I crept closer.”
“I peered through the crack in the door.
Still, I couldn’t make out much.
I couldn’t even tell where the Jizō statue was—or if there was one at all.
But I felt it—something deep in the back of the hall.
Something was there.”
“My father pressed his hands together toward whatever it was, and then began cleaning.
He swept the floor, wiped the walls… and finally, he reached the stone pedestal at the back and ran the cloth over it.”
“And then—clack.
A sound echoed out.
A small drawer slid out from beneath the stone.”
“I thought it was some kind of hidden mechanism.
My father frowned slightly and leaned in to look.”
“There was something inside… looked like folded paper, maybe.
But he didn’t touch it.
He just closed the drawer gently, shut the door—and left.”
“He never said a word on the way back.
He must’ve known I was following him, but he didn’t turn around once.”
“…But that night…”
Seikichi’s voice lowered.
Everyone in the room instinctively straightened up.
“My father shouted in his sleep—loud enough to wake the whole house.
‘I saw it,’ he kept saying. ‘That… that wasn’t human.’ Over and over.”
“His face was pale. His forehead was soaked—not just with sweat, but like he’d been drenched in water.”
“My mother and I rushed to him, asking what was wrong.
But all he said was, ‘Don’t look… don’t look…’ again and again.”
“…We didn’t sleep a wink after that.”
Sōma inhaled sharply.
Miwa looked down, frowning.
Only Aoi kept her eyes fixed on Seikichi—frightened, but unable to look away.
“…From that day on,” Seikichi said quietly,
“My father… was never the same man again.”
“My father used to be a quiet man, but kind.
He worked hard in the fields and never spoke more than needed—
but he was steady, grounded… someone you could count on.”
“But after that day… he changed.
It was as if he was afraid of something—
he stopped meeting anyone’s eyes.”
“At night, he’d constantly glance toward the windows, whispering things like,
‘Someone’s watching… shut the door… it’s coming this far…’
Over and over, always in a low voice.”
“At first, my mother and I thought it was just exhaustion.
But day by day, it got worse.”
“…The most terrifying change was his eyes.
After that night, his gaze wasn’t the same anymore.
Like he had seen something he should never have seen.”
“One night, he suddenly cried out—
‘Don’t open it! If you look inside, it’s over!’
He kept muttering those words like a broken record, over and over in his sleep.”
“My mother shook him, tried to wake him, but he wouldn’t respond.
His face was deathly pale.
His forehead drenched—
not with sweat, but like he’d been soaked in water.”
“I called out to him, too.
But all he said was, ‘Don’t look… don’t look…’
like he was possessed.”
“From that night on… he was no longer the same man.”
“He stopped speaking to anyone.
Didn’t touch his tools.
Barely ate.
He just sat in the corner of the room, glaring out the window—like he was waiting for something.”
“And then, one night…
A full moon lit the path outside.”
“My father suddenly stood and said,
‘I have to go back there.’
That’s all.”
“My mother tried to stop him.
I begged him not to go.
But he didn’t say a word.
He just walked down that narrow path… and disappeared into the dark.”
“That was the last time we ever saw him.”
The room fell still.
Not a breath was spoken.
“By morning, the villagers helped us search.
We found the Jizō Hall, the door left slightly ajar—
but my father wasn’t there.”
“I peeked inside.
At the base of the stone altar… that drawer—
it was open.”
“No one knows what was inside.
But lying next to it… was a small wooden tag.”
“My father’s name was written on it, in black ink.”
“After that, the village rules changed.
No more opening the door.
Cleaning had to be done from outside.
Never go in.
Never touch anything.
That’s what we teach now.”
“Still… now and then, someone hears it.”
“A whisper on the wind—
‘I found you…’”
Seikichi narrowed his eyes slightly.
“I don’t know what my father saw.
But something’s in that hall.
That much… I’m sure of.”
“And what truly scared me—
was what came after.”
“A few days after he vanished,
a small wooden box appeared at our doorstep.”
“Inside was a black drawer-like box.
And on its lid, written in red paint…
a single character.”
Seikichi stopped there, gaze lowered.
The candle flame wavered.
No one spoke.
“…The character written on the lid of that box—was ‘供’.”
“It can mean ‘offering’…
but it can also mean ‘sacrifice’.”
“The box was empty.
But on the underside of the lid… there were strange marks.
Like someone had clawed at it—
from the inside.”
“When my mother saw it, she didn’t say a word.
She just took the box and burned it in the garden.”
“She never asked where it came from.
And I didn’t say a thing.”
“But even as it burned,
the box… kept making noise.”
Crack… crack…
“Almost like it was laughing.”
Seikichi’s voice dropped to a murmur.
“After that, a new rule was added to our home—
‘Don’t whistle at night.’
They say the sound… calls to the offerings.”
“That’s why, to this day…”
“…I find silence at night the most terrifying of all.”
The candlelight flickered gently.
And no one made a sound.
“Phew… I sure talked a lot.”
Seikichi drank the last sip of tea from his cup and gently set it down.
“Well, that’s just how the story goes.
An old tale, from long ago.
There’s no way to prove any of it now.”
Even so, his eyes seemed to gaze somewhere far off.
“But there’s one thing… I still remember clearly.”
“When I stood in front of the Jizō Hall,
there was no wind—
and yet the door creaked open, just a little.”
“It felt like something inside…
was watching me.”
No one said a word.
Only the flicker of the candle disturbed the air in the room.
Seikichi slowly leaned forward,
his gaze resting on the candle before him.
His expression was quiet… almost sorrowful.
Then, softly—he blew.
Fff…
The flame danced once,
then vanished into the dark without a sound.
The room grew deeper.
And in the silence,
a chill breeze passed through,
as if brushing along someone’s spine.
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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?
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• Twitter: @KaidanTales
• YouTube: @HK_Tales
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