Misunderstanding in Kyoto: a creepypasta
Kohaku, a seventeen-year-old high school student in Kyoto, had just finished her part-time job. She took the subway first, then a bus, before walking the last short distance home. Normally, these routines were uneventful, but today her thoughts drifted into darker territory. The streets seemed quieter than usual, shadows longer, and every distant sound—the rustle of leaves, a distant car horn—set her on edge. Her mind wandered to one of the most horrifying crimes she had ever read about: Junko Furuta. She shuddered as she imagined a life snatched away by strangers, being subjected to unimaginable suffering, and dying alone. Her heartbeat quickened. That fear—the fear of being powerless in the hands of unknown people—felt immediate, tangible, pressing her chest.
Hurrying her pace, she tried to push the thoughts away, but anxiety clung stubbornly. Then, she noticed a boy approaching her. He had a striking appearance: natural red hair with a subtle pink tint to his skin, his eyes sharp and assessing. He smiled slightly, but there was a calm confidence about him.
“You’re really pretty,” he said softly. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
Kohaku shook her head, feeling her shyness rise. “N-no. I… I’m not really good at talking to people, girls or boys.”
He tilted his head thoughtfully. “I can help you get past that, if you want.”
Before she could answer, another boy appeared behind her. His black, spiky hair made him look serious, even slightly intimidating. “It’s dangerous to walk alone,” he said. “You don’t know what kind of people are out here.”
“I’m fine,” Kohaku said, trying to sound confident, but her voice wavered.
The first boy, Akai, whose name meant “red” in Japanese, smiled reassuringly. “We noticed you were being followed. My friends and I can make sure you get home safely.”
The second boy, Konchu—whose name meant “grasshopper”—nodded silently, watching her carefully.
Kohaku froze. She had never expected anyone to step in like this. She was terrified, but the fear wasn’t just about them. It was about being vulnerable, about what could have happened if she had walked alone. She realized she had no choice but to comply.
“I… okay,” she whispered.
Just then, a red van appeared, pulling smoothly alongside her. Inside were two more friends the boys had contacted. The red-haired Akai asked, “When do you have to be home?”
“Before the street lights come on,” Kohaku replied.
“Plenty of time,” Akai said, but his expression hardened slightly. “Get in the van.”
Kohaku hesitated, her mind racing with fear, but the boys’ imposing presence made her realize resistance could be dangerous. She climbed into the van, her heart pounding.
Once inside, Akai leaned toward her and explained why they had intervened. “You were being followed by a man. Red baseball cap, dark blue sweatshirt and sweatpants, white sneakers.”
To prove it, he showed her a video on his phone. Kohaku’s eyes widened in horror. The man had been only about two yards behind her, moving cautiously at first, hiding behind cars, streetlights, and mailboxes, then gradually closing the distance. She felt the fear she had experienced on the street all over again, but now magnified.
“We had to be intimidating,” Akai admitted softly, “to make sure you complied. Otherwise, we couldn’t have kept you safe.”
Kohaku swallowed, still trembling, but nodded silently.
By the time they arrived at the boys’ house, the tension had shifted slightly. They posted the video online to warn other girls and to alert authorities, hoping to prevent harm to anyone else. Kohaku was horrified again to see just how close the stalker had come to her.
Her mother arrived shortly after, having been contacted by the boys. She hugged Kohaku tightly, relief flooding her voice. “I’m so glad you’re safe,” she said. Kohaku’s father wasn’t home—he was stationed on Iwo Jima for about a month—but she knew he would have been proud of her protectors.
Even as she expressed her gratitude, Kohaku realized something important. She didn’t want to rely entirely on others for her safety. Inspired by her father’s military experience, she began reading books, newspapers, and magazines about military tactics, self-defense, and unarmed combat.
The boys, all experienced in ninja jitsu, guided her further. They had learned to overcome prejudices ingrained by media and society, understanding that respect and protection of women were paramount. They taught her the philosophy behind their training: Never start a fight. Always defend yourself and others. Stay together, and if all else fails, kick butt—but only when necessary.
As Kohaku practiced, the lessons extended beyond physical skills. They instilled awareness, discipline, and ethical judgment. Her training became as much about understanding herself and her surroundings as it was about physical preparedness.
By the time she graduated high school and entered college, Kohaku felt empowered. She had gained knowledge, confidence, and a disciplined mind, and the four boys continued to watch over her discreetly. She didn’t need them to survive, but knowing they were nearby reminded her of the responsibility that came with strength: to protect herself and others, and to act with courage and honor.
Even years later, Kohaku would think back to that day in Kyoto—the terror of being followed, the horror of imagining what might have happened—and realize that the encounter had changed her. She had not only survived but grown stronger, disciplined, and mindful. She carried the lessons of that day, the training of the boys, and the philosophy they shared with her into her life, knowing that preparedness, vigilance, and integrity were the greatest safeguards one could have.
Hurrying her pace, she tried to push the thoughts away, but anxiety clung stubbornly. Then, she noticed a boy approaching her. He had a striking appearance: natural red hair with a subtle pink tint to his skin, his eyes sharp and assessing. He smiled slightly, but there was a calm confidence about him.
“You’re really pretty,” he said softly. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
Kohaku shook her head, feeling her shyness rise. “N-no. I… I’m not really good at talking to people, girls or boys.”
He tilted his head thoughtfully. “I can help you get past that, if you want.”
Before she could answer, another boy appeared behind her. His black, spiky hair made him look serious, even slightly intimidating. “It’s dangerous to walk alone,” he said. “You don’t know what kind of people are out here.”
“I’m fine,” Kohaku said, trying to sound confident, but her voice wavered.
The first boy, Akai, whose name meant “red” in Japanese, smiled reassuringly. “We noticed you were being followed. My friends and I can make sure you get home safely.”
The second boy, Konchu—whose name meant “grasshopper”—nodded silently, watching her carefully.
Kohaku froze. She had never expected anyone to step in like this. She was terrified, but the fear wasn’t just about them. It was about being vulnerable, about what could have happened if she had walked alone. She realized she had no choice but to comply.
“I… okay,” she whispered.
Just then, a red van appeared, pulling smoothly alongside her. Inside were two more friends the boys had contacted. The red-haired Akai asked, “When do you have to be home?”
“Before the street lights come on,” Kohaku replied.
“Plenty of time,” Akai said, but his expression hardened slightly. “Get in the van.”
Kohaku hesitated, her mind racing with fear, but the boys’ imposing presence made her realize resistance could be dangerous. She climbed into the van, her heart pounding.
Once inside, Akai leaned toward her and explained why they had intervened. “You were being followed by a man. Red baseball cap, dark blue sweatshirt and sweatpants, white sneakers.”
To prove it, he showed her a video on his phone. Kohaku’s eyes widened in horror. The man had been only about two yards behind her, moving cautiously at first, hiding behind cars, streetlights, and mailboxes, then gradually closing the distance. She felt the fear she had experienced on the street all over again, but now magnified.
“We had to be intimidating,” Akai admitted softly, “to make sure you complied. Otherwise, we couldn’t have kept you safe.”
Kohaku swallowed, still trembling, but nodded silently.
By the time they arrived at the boys’ house, the tension had shifted slightly. They posted the video online to warn other girls and to alert authorities, hoping to prevent harm to anyone else. Kohaku was horrified again to see just how close the stalker had come to her.
Her mother arrived shortly after, having been contacted by the boys. She hugged Kohaku tightly, relief flooding her voice. “I’m so glad you’re safe,” she said. Kohaku’s father wasn’t home—he was stationed on Iwo Jima for about a month—but she knew he would have been proud of her protectors.
Even as she expressed her gratitude, Kohaku realized something important. She didn’t want to rely entirely on others for her safety. Inspired by her father’s military experience, she began reading books, newspapers, and magazines about military tactics, self-defense, and unarmed combat.
The boys, all experienced in ninja jitsu, guided her further. They had learned to overcome prejudices ingrained by media and society, understanding that respect and protection of women were paramount. They taught her the philosophy behind their training: Never start a fight. Always defend yourself and others. Stay together, and if all else fails, kick butt—but only when necessary.
As Kohaku practiced, the lessons extended beyond physical skills. They instilled awareness, discipline, and ethical judgment. Her training became as much about understanding herself and her surroundings as it was about physical preparedness.
By the time she graduated high school and entered college, Kohaku felt empowered. She had gained knowledge, confidence, and a disciplined mind, and the four boys continued to watch over her discreetly. She didn’t need them to survive, but knowing they were nearby reminded her of the responsibility that came with strength: to protect herself and others, and to act with courage and honor.
Even years later, Kohaku would think back to that day in Kyoto—the terror of being followed, the horror of imagining what might have happened—and realize that the encounter had changed her. She had not only survived but grown stronger, disciplined, and mindful. She carried the lessons of that day, the training of the boys, and the philosophy they shared with her into her life, knowing that preparedness, vigilance, and integrity were the greatest safeguards one could have.
31-35, M