【Japanese Horror】The Hundred Horror Tales — Episode 18: The Sound of Stacking Stones | Haunted Kaidan Tales
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Episode 18 – “The Sound of Stacking Stones| Haunted Kaidan Tales” (Full Text)
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The Hundred Horror Tales — Episode 18: The Sound of Stacking Stones
“…Mr. Bear was a kind one, wasn’t he?”
After Aoi spoke, no one answered right away.
Three candles remained. The silence felt just a little heavier than before.
“Grandpa… do souls really dwell inside things?”
Aoi asked in a small voice.
“They do,” Seikichi replied quietly, his eyes fixed on the flame.
“But dwelling is not always a blessing.
A soul bound to form… if it loses its place to go, it remains.”
Aunt Miwa straightened slightly.
“…You mean it can’t pass on?”
“That’s right.”
Seikichi nodded slowly.
“Long ago, I heard a story from a man who once served as a grave keeper.
At midnight, in the cemetery, he would hear the sound of stones being stacked—
click… click…”
Uncle Shūji gave a dry laugh.
“Yeah, I already don’t like where this is going.”
“No matter how he searched for the source of the sound, no one was there.
But the next morning, whenever he made his rounds,
there would always be a new stone placed atop one of the gravestones.
Quietly… as if to say, I am here.”
The fire flared, and the shadows along the wall stretched long and thin.
Aoi instinctively grabbed Sōma’s sleeve.
“…Was it the sound of prayer?
Or was it a sound meant to call someone?”
Seikichi’s voice lowered as he spoke,
sinking slowly with the flicker of the flame.
The air in the room shifted—
growing faintly, unmistakably cold.
In this village, there was once a family known as the grave keepers.
For generations—since their grandfathers’ time—they had tended the cemetery and performed its rites.
The head of that household, a man called “Old Take,”
was stubborn and tight-lipped.
They said he never missed a single night of patrol,
not even during storms.
One night, when the moon was hidden behind clouds
and the darkness seemed deeper than usual,
Old Take walked between the graves with a lantern in hand.
That was when he heard it.
Click… click…
The faint sound of small stones being stacked somewhere in the dark.
At first, he paid it no mind.
Perhaps the wind had shifted a stone.
Perhaps an animal was building a nest.
But the next night, and the one after that,
at the same hour—deep in the dead of night—
the sound returned.
Click… click…
A pause.
Then again—click…
As if someone, patiently and methodically,
were stacking stones night after night.
Uneasy now, he raised his lantern and followed the sound.
No one was there.
Yet atop one old gravestone,
three small stones had been neatly stacked.
The following night, there were four.
The next—five.
It looked almost as though someone were offering a quiet prayer.
When he spoke of it, the village elders grew pale.
“That place,” they said,
“is where soldiers slain in war were buried together in a single mound.
Do not go near it at night.”
But Old Take would not be deterred.
“If someone is disturbing the graves, I must see it with my own eyes.”
And so, one night, he waited in the darkness—
without even a lantern.
The insects fell silent.
The air seemed to hold its breath.
And then, deep in his ears—
Click… click…
The sound drew closer.
Slowly. Surely.
Until the final stone struck—
right beside him.
No matter how hard he strained his eyes in the darkness,
he could see nothing.
Without a lantern, the night felt bottomless.
And yet—
the sound was there.
Click… click…
It was unmistakable.
The sound of human hands stacking stones.
As he listened, Old Take saw something pale within the shadow of a grave.
Something like an arm… perhaps a shoulder…
But below the waist, there was nothing—
only a wavering blur, as though the lower half had dissolved into shadow.
He could not speak.
He stood frozen.
The figure finished placing another stone,
then slowly turned toward him.
Its face was crumbled like earth,
its eyes hollow, empty cavities.
Instead of skin, moss and mud clung to it.
Click…
After stacking the final stone,
it brought its hands together in silent prayer
and bowed its head.
And when the moon finally broke through the clouds,
the figure dissolved—
as though melting into the wind.
When Old Take found himself able to move again,
six stones stood stacked upon the grave.
After that night, the sound never came again.
He would later say,
“It must have been a soul forgotten without proper mourning.”
He placed flowers upon the grave
and offered his own prayers there.
—Decades passed.
The gravekeeper’s house changed hands.
The village filled with a new generation.
Before long, no one even remembered the six stacked stones.
It was then that my friend—
Old Take’s grandson—
passed by that grave one night.
From deep within the darkness, he heard it.
Click…
A faint sound, like stones brushing together—
though there was no wind.
He told me it did not feel frightening.
Instead, his chest tightened with something else.
As if someone were calling quietly,
“Please… find me again.”
After that night, my friend began having strange dreams.
On a dark hill beneath a dim moon,
someone was steadily stacking stones.
Each time he tried to approach,
a sudden wind would blow—
and he would wake.
One evening, unable to ignore it any longer,
he went to the cemetery.
Before that grave, half-hidden by overgrown grass,
there lay a single small stone—
newly placed.
He picked it up gently.
After pressing his palms together in quiet prayer,
he set the stone down and left.
From that night on,
the sound was never heard again.
“Maybe I was the one being called,”
he said with a faint smile.
It did not feel frightening.
More than fear,
it felt like hearing a voice
he had once known long ago.
When Seikichi’s voice faded,
no one spoke for a while.
Only the soft crackling of firewood remained in the air.
“…That was a gentle story,”
Aoi said quietly.
“It’s scary… but also kind of sad.”
Seikichi nodded.
“To be forgotten is the loneliest fate of all.
Perhaps the sound of stacking stones
was a voice asking someone to remember.”
Sōma murmured, almost to himself,
“…When you think of it that way, it feels different.”
Aunt Miwa held her breath, staring into the flame.
Uncle Shūji slowly reached out his fingers.
—Fuh.
One candle went out without a sound.
The two remaining flames flickered,
their shadows overlapping against the wall.
For just a moment,
the shapes looked as though
small stones were being carefully stacked in the dark.
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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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