【Japanese Horror】Altitude 666 | A Haunted Kaidan Tale
The Forbidden Altitude
“They say you should never go past 666 meters on this mountain.”
Shota said it with a grin, camera rolling, as we stood at the trailhead. His face was all smiles, but the words left a chill.
“Because of the number? Come on, really?”
Haruto laughed it off, but I felt it too—that weird tightness in my chest.
We were just a group of amateur YouTubers chasing horror content. This was our tenth video. If it got views, great.
Still, something about that number rubbed me the wrong way.
“No one around here wants to talk about it. The locals either ignore the question or flat-out refuse to answer.”
“Which just makes it more interesting, right?”
Saki grinned as she stepped onto the trail, her voice echoing faintly into the forest.
We each held our own gear—phones, GoPros, mics. Today’s title?
“Exploring the Altitude Locals Fear: The 666 Meter Line”
It had viral written all over it.
The hike started out easy. The path was well-kept, the weather perfect.
Birdsong and a cool breeze followed us as we climbed.
Honestly, it felt more like a picnic than a ghost hunt.
But somewhere deep down, we all felt it.
That whisper in the back of our minds: You’re not supposed to be here.
“We’re getting close. GPS says we’re almost at 666 meters.”
Right as Haruto said that, a pebble under my foot made a sharp clicking sound.
The wind—just a second ago rustling the leaves—suddenly died.
Everything around us… paused.
“Hey, does it feel warm to y’all?”
Saki rubbed her arm.
Yeah.
Too warm for this elevation. The air was thick, like something had just exhaled over us.
Shota looked down at his GoPro.
“…Wait. Did something just glitch?”
I glanced at the screen.
Maybe it was a trick of the light, maybe not.
For a second, it looked like something had flickered into frame.
Something that wasn’t one of us.
“We got what we need, right? Let’s head back before it gets weird.”
At the time, that still felt like an option.
We thought we could go back.
The Inverted Mountain
“Hey, check this out."
Shota pointed to his GoPro as we made our way down the trail.
The footage showed the same path we’d just walked—but something was off.
The shadows from the trees… were stretching upward.
“The hell? That’s not a filter?”
“Nope. It’s recording like this, right now.”
Saki leaned in to look.
Haruto lifted his phone, scanning the woods.
“Hold on… Didn’t we come from this way?”
But nothing looked familiar. The signpost we passed, the fallen tree we joked about—gone.
It felt like the mountain had shifted behind us.
“We should go back to the 666-meter spot,” Shota said. “That’s when everything started acting weird.”
Made sense. But no matter which way we turned, every trail was wrong.
They all led into unfamiliar forest.
“Yo, this is messed up. What if someone’s messing with the paths?”
Haruto tried to laugh, but his voice was tight.
The GPS kept flashing “666m.” No matter where we walked, the altitude wouldn’t change.
“Wait… guys.”
Saki was watching her front camera footage, and her face had gone pale.
“Who’s… who’s that?”
In the corner of her screen, trailing behind us, was a fifth figure.
Wearing a black hoodie. Silent.
Just walking along like they belonged.
“There was no one else, right?!”
We huddled around her phone. Fast-forwarded.
The black figure kept following—never too close, never too far.
Always there. Always behind us.
“…Did someone… get swapped out?”
Shota’s voice was barely a whisper.
Another warm gust of wind swept through the trees, but—
“…That came from the wrong direction.”
We froze.
That was when I knew.
Something wasn’t just following us.
It was rewriting the mountain.
“…Wait. Where’s Haruto?”
We looked around.
He’d just been here—laughing, holding his camera, right beside us.
Now? Gone. No footsteps. No sound.
“This is seriously messed up.”
Saki’s voice was shaky. She kept trying to refresh her phone, but there was no signal.
Shota and I scanned the woods, but all we saw were trees.
The same trees. Over and over.
We kept looping past the same fallen log.
“Didn’t we film ourselves hiking up this path?”
Shota showed me his phone.
The video clearly showed us walking… but not climbing.
We were descending, yet the footage only showed us going up.
Endlessly.
“Is this in reverse…?”
I stared at the screen—just in time to see Shota’s face blur for a moment.
His outline flickered, and then—gone.
“What the hell—did you see that!?”
“I—I think you glitched too,” he muttered. “You weren’t in my shot either.”
“What’s going on…”
I raised my own phone and turned the camera around.
My face was barely recognizable—smudged, out of focus.
Distorted.
When I turned the camera outward again, there it was.
That same black figure.
Standing in the shadows between the trees. Watching.
“Maybe this is because we’re recording,” Shota said, voice low.
“What?”
“This place… maybe it doesn’t like being captured.
The recordings don’t match the real world anymore.”
“So what are we supposed to do…?”
“We go higher.”
“What!?”
“If 666 meters is the boundary… then maybe going above it resets everything.
Maybe we can get out.”
“You want to climb more?!”
Saki’s voice trembled and vanished into the thick air.
When I turned around, that black figure was gone.
But the feeling—it never left.
“…We’re already too deep,” Shota said. “There’s no way down anymore. Not one we’ll recognize.”
He was right.
We didn’t know where we were anymore.
But climbing was the only option left.
The Curse of Altitude
We finally reached an opening near the peak.
There, half-buried in the dirt, stood a rotting wooden sign.
“Altitude: 678m — Beyond this point, no record remains.”
“…‘No record remains’?”
Saki whispered, barely audible.
But my eyes were fixed on something beneath the sign.
Photos.
Old, weather-stained snapshots pinned to the trees.
Dozens of them.
They showed us—wearing the exact clothes we had on right now.
But in every photo, there were only three people.
“…Shota?”
I turned.
He was gone.
No sound. No warning.
Just… vanished.
In his place, the black-hooded figure stood.
Closer than ever.
Watching us.
“You—were you…?”
Before I could finish, it disappeared.
Quiet as a breath.
But on the ground where it stood—Shota’s phone.
I picked it up, hands trembling.
The screen turned on by itself.
Camera mode.
Recording.
In the frame: my face.
And behind me—
Saki had vanished from my side.
But through the lens, I saw her.
Standing alone, perfectly still—only visible on screen.
“Are we… getting pulled into the recordings…?”
This mountain didn’t erase people.
It archived them.
Once captured on film—photos, videos—they became part of it.
It wasn’t the real that was being distorted.
It was the record that was deciding what was real.
And my reflection on the screen—
was already starting to melt.
I was next.
The Unseen Climber
Somehow, I made it back down the mountain.
The morning sun was rising behind me.
Birds chirped. Cars passed.
The world looked exactly the same.
But I knew—
something had changed.
I told the police.
Showed them the trail, the exact spot.
But the photos were blank.
The videos? Corrupted.
Even their names—Shota, Saki, Haruto—
no one remembered them.
To everyone else, I’d hiked alone.
Maybe it was just a dream.
Maybe I imagined it all.
I almost convinced myself.
Until I checked my phone again.
There was one photo still saved.
A shot of the forest. No people.
But in the shadow beneath the trees—
three faint silhouettes.
I tried to forget.
Forced myself to move on.
But a few nights later, my phone buzzed.
A message.
“I’ll come get you soon.
I was just ahead of you, that’s all.”
The sender’s name was… Haruto.
I dropped my phone.
But the screen didn’t crack.
The message didn’t disappear.
I looked out the window.
Far off, near the edge of the woods,
a figure stood.
Still. Watching.
Waiting.
This story is a work of fiction. Please enjoy it as entertainment.
When you hear “666,” what scary story or image comes to mind?
Share it in the comments—we’d love to hear what creeps you out.
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