A gentle mountain breeze rolled down the slope, carrying with it the crisp scent of river water and damp leaves. A modest wooden house stood nestled just above the village, bathed in long, golden rays as the sun dipped low on the horizon.
Separated from the cluster of homes below, it rested peacefully among the thinning trees, as if part of the mountain itself.
A figure emerged from the forest path, moving steadily towards that house. He appeared young—seventeen or eighteen—but his tall frame moved with quiet confidence. A fishing pole bounced lightly on his shoulder, and in his other hand, he carried a woven basket with several freshly caught fish glistening in the fading light.
His jet-black hair was tousled by the wind, and his intense red eyes gleamed with a quiet satisfaction, the kind that only came after a good day's work. The blue tunic he wore was faded and practical, stretched across broad, well-toned shoulders built through years of physical labor. The forest seemed to part for him, trees swaying gently as if familiar with his presence.
As he neared the house, he spotted a man kneeling in front of a woman sitting on the porch. Behind the man stood a half-loaded cart of goods.
"What happened, Dad?" he called out.
The man looked up with a smile, though concern lingered in his eyes. "Come take a look at what your mother's done. She went to pick some fruit, slipped, scratched her knee, and decided to rub on some herbs she found lying around."
The woman chuckled, brushing her long hair behind her ear and waving it off. "It's nothing, really. Just a scrape. I'll be fine."
The man sighed and ran a hand through his graying hair. "Darling, I told you not to use just any plant you come across. You could've at least washed it first."
"I picked it right near the house," she said stubbornly. "If it were dangerous, we'd have known by now. These mountains are clean."
He stood up, brushing off his pants. "Alright, alright. You win. But take it easy, okay? I'll handle the rest."
Then he turned to his son. "Tatsuo, go chop some wood for the fire, will you? The villagers say it'll be cold tonight."
"Sure, Dad," Tatsuo replied, setting down his things. He moved behind the house, where a pile of dark oak logs waited. Pulling the axe from where it was lodged in a stump, he stripped off his tunic, revealing the lean muscles of someone used to hard work, and began splitting the logs with practiced swings.
'My name is Takigawa Tatsuo. I'm seventeen years old, and my parents and I reside in a small mountain village close to Mount Kuroki. The dense groves of dark oak trees that cover the mountain's slopes are said to be the source of its name. Due primarily to my father's preference for seclusion, we live a short distance from the rest of the village. Sometimes I stay at home to help Mother with chores, and other times I assist him when he brings goods down with his cart for work.'
Sweat beaded on Tatsuo's brow and trailed down his back as the rhythmic thud of the axe echoed through the clearing. The scent of fresh-cut wood mingled with the cool mountain air, and for a moment, everything felt quiet.
After finishing the last swing, Tatsuo wiped the sweat from his brow and took a deep breath. The scent of freshly split oak lingered in the air. He gathered the chopped wood and carried it inside, stacking it neatly near the fireplace. The warmth of the house contrasted with the cool mountain air outside, filling him with a quiet sense of comfort.
Once done, he joined his mother in the kitchen, helping with the evening chores—washing vegetables, lighting the stove, and sweeping the floor. As the sky turned a deep amber, his father finally returned, cart wheels creaking as he parked it beside the house.
They were just beginning to settle into the calm of the evening when his mother suddenly paused, her hand resting on the table.
"Darling... I don't feel well," she said softly. "I think I have a fever. I'm going to lie down for a while."
His father looked up sharply, worry etched into his face. "Are you alright? Should I run down to the village and get some medicine?"
She shook her head gently, brushing off his concern. "No, no—it's fine. I just need a little rest."
"Alright... but let me handle the dinner then."
"Thanks, darling," she murmured before retreating to the bedroom.
As night settled over the mountain and the stars began to appear, his father cooked a simple meal—vegetable stew for them and soft porridge for her. The scent of boiling broth filled the home, comforting and warm. After dinner was ready, he carefully helped her sit up and spoon-fed her slowly. Her skin was pale, and her usual bright expression had faded to something weak and distant.
Once she'd eaten, Tatsuo helped her lie back down, adjusting her blanket. His father put the dishes away, and the two of them finished their meal in silence before turning in for the night.
The next morning, Tatsuo awoke to gray light filtering through the paper windows. His mother was still unwell. She lay motionless, eyes half-lidded, her voice faint as she whispered, "I... can't feel my body…"
His father's face tightened with concern. "Stay with your mother. I'll go to the village and get proper medicine."
Tatsuo nodded. He sat beside her, wiping her forehead with a damp cloth. From time to time, she muttered or groaned under her breath, her words slurred and incomprehensible. He assumed it was the fever speaking, and did his best to stay calm.
About ten or fifteen minutes later, his father returned, breathing heavily, a satchel of medicines in hand. He quickly prepared the remedy and gently fed it to her, tending to her with quiet focus while Tatsuo stepped outside.
Whenever something weighed on his mind, Tatsuo would go to the river. Fishing, for him, wasn't just a chore—it was a way to think.
He sat by the riverbank, the water rushing softly over smooth stones, casting his line into the current. The wind whispered through the trees, and the world around him felt distant and still.
After about half an hour, he had caught four decent-sized fish. He packed them in his basket and made his way back, the scent of pine and river moss lingering in the air. After placing the fish near the kitchen, he went out again to chop more wood. His father didn't go to the village that day. Instead, he remained by his wife's side, tending to her, speaking to her in soft, worried tones.
She barely spoke.
As the sun dipped behind the peaks once more, casting golden light over the treetops, his father cooked dinner for the two of them. They ate quietly, the crackle of fire filling the silence, and soon after, all of them turned in for the night.
The next morning, Tatsuo awoke suddenly to the sound of his father's raised voice.
"Darling, come on! Don't be stubborn. You need to see a doctor or your condition will only get worse."
His mother's weak voice pleaded, "Please, darling... I'll be fine. Just let me rest…"
His father sighed, frustration and worry lacing his voice. "Alright—but only for today. If you're not better by tomorrow, we're going, and I won't listen to another word about it."
"Okay… thank you," she whispered.
Then his father turned to Tatsuo and said firmly, "Go chop some more wood. We'll need a lot."
Tatsuo nodded and grabbed the axe once more. The morning mist still clung to the treetops as he stepped outside, the weight of worry settling deeper in his chest.
As Tatsuo stepped out of the house, his father called after him.
"Wait—before you go, bring me an apple and a knife. I'll slice some for her."
"Okay," Tatsuo replied. He walked to the kitchen, picked two apples from the basket, grabbed a small paring knife, and handed them to his father. "Here."
With that, he headed behind the house, axe in hand, and returned to the stack of wood. Lodging the blade into a thick log, he resumed chopping—steady, rhythmic swings echoing through the clearing.
I hope Mom gets better soon… he thought. I've heard rumors—whispers of people turning into grotesque creatures… and they all had the same symptoms. Fever, numbness, slurred speech... He shook his head. No. I'm just being paranoid. It's only a normal fever.
He kept chopping for what felt like tens of minutes, the weight of his thoughts falling with every strike. But then—
A scream.
"Aaaaaaah! Nooo!" his father's voice shrieked in terror from inside the house.
The axe slipped from Tatsuo's grip. His heart slammed against his ribs as he sprinted around to the front and threw open the door.
A heavy, metallic stench assaulted his nostrils—thick, suffocating, unmistakable.
Blood.
Somehow, he still had the axe in his hand. His knuckles whitened around the handle as he slowly stepped inside, drawn toward the room where his mother had been resting.
Each step brought him deeper into the suffocating stench. The door to her room was ajar.
He inched closer, breath caught in his throat, and peeked through the gap.
His blood ran cold.
Inside, a nightmare unfolded. His mother's body had grotesquely mutated, limbs twisted unnaturally, skin mottled and pulsing. One of her arms had fused with the knife, now warped into a jagged, organic blade. She was hunched over her husband's headless corpse. Blood pooled around the body, soaking the floorboards, painting the walls.
Her face, once warm and gentle, was now soaked in gore. Her jaw widened unnaturally as she tore into flesh and organs with frenzied hunger.
Tatsuo stood frozen, paralyzed by horror. His legs trembled beneath him, his hands shaking violently around the axe. He couldn't move, couldn't think—he could only watch as his mother consumed the man who had raised him.
Then—creak.
The wooden floor betrayed him.
Her head snapped toward the sound, blood-dripping eyes locking onto him with a twisted expression of hunger and rage.
A guttural snarl escaped her throat, and in an instant, she lunged.
Tatsuo stumbled backward, falling hard onto the floor. Her leap sailed over him, crashing into the wall behind. The impact shook the room, but she recovered quickly.
Now, on the ground, Tatsuo could only stare in horror as the creature that had once been his mother turned toward him again, her fury even more intense.
She launched herself at him.
He raised the axe just in time.
Steel met flesh with a sickening crunch. He held her back with all his might, arms straining, sweat pouring down his face. But even with his strength—greater than most his age—he couldn't match her monstrous power.
Her mutated form pushed the axe down, inch by inch, reaching for his neck with her bloodstained teeths, her breath hot and rancid with blood and rot.
He screamed—not just in fear, but in desperation.
As the deformed, knife-like limb and bloodstained teeth lunged for Tatsuo's neck, he summoned every ounce of strength in his body to hold her back. His arms trembled, muscles burning, but he couldn't overpower her monstrous strength. Panic flared in his mind—I can't win like this!—and instinct took over.
With a desperate roar, Tatsuo twisted his torso and swung the axe sideways.
The blunt side of the weapon smashed into her head with a sickening thud. The impact knocked her off him and sent her crashing to the wooden floor with a guttural growl.
Wasting no time, Tatsuo scrambled to his feet, gripping the axe so tightly his knuckles went white. He looked up just in time to see her staggering to her feet, blood dripping from her jaw, eyes burning with even more rage.
She let out a warped, inhuman screech and lunged at him again.
Tatsuo's eyes filled with tears as he raised the axe high. "FORGIVE ME, MOTHER!" he shouted.
In one powerful motion, refined by years of chopping wood, he brought the blade down with a heavy crack—straight into her skull. But even with the axe buried in her head, she kept moving, snarling and clawing.
Tatsuo yanked the weapon free and struck again.
And again.
"YAAAAAAAH!" he screamed, each blow driven by fear, sorrow, and desperation.
He hacked at her again and again until her head was reduced to a pulped mess of flesh and bone. Her twisted body twitched once—then fell still.
A numb silence fell over the room, broken only by the sound of his ragged breathing.
Tatsuo stood frozen, staring at what he had done. His arms went limp. The axe clattered to the blood-soaked floor.
Then the shock hit, "No! No!...What have I done?"
His stomach churned, and he dropped to his knees, vomiting beside the corpse.
The smell of iron, bile, and rot filled the air.
After a while, once the sickness subsided, he sat beside the body, huddled into himself, arms wrapped around his knees. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he gazed blankly at the stained floorboards.
He was alive, but at what price?
In that blood-stained room, he sobbed by himself, drowning in regret, grief, and the unchangeable reality: He had murdered his own mother.