The Whispering Forest

In the quiet outskirts of Aokigahara, the infamous forest near Mount Fuji in Japan, there lies a path not found on any map. The locals speak of it in hushed tones, calling it Kuchiyose no Michi—the Summoning Path. Few believe it exists. Fewer return to prove it.

Kenji Nakamura, a Tokyo university student studying folklore, had always been fascinated by urban legends. He heard about Aokigahara’s tragic history, but what intrigued him more were the whispers about the Summoning Path—stories of people walking in and vanishing, or worse, coming back… wrong.

One autumn weekend, driven by curiosity and a desire to write his thesis on real-life supernatural locations, Kenji packed a small bag, grabbed his camera, and headed to the forest. The leaves were beginning to turn red and gold, and the air carried a crisp chill that foretold the coming winter.

He reached the edge of the forest late in the afternoon. A sign warned visitors not to enter. It wasn’t unusual—Aokigahara was notorious for attracting lost souls. Ignoring the warnings, Kenji stepped beyond the sign and into the woods.

The forest was unnaturally silent. No birds. No insects. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Kenji followed his compass and marked his trail with orange tape, a precaution he read about online. Hours passed, and the deeper he went, the more disoriented he felt. The compass needle began to spin. His phone lost signal. And then, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Kenji found it—a narrow trail veering off the main path, bordered by ancient-looking torii gates covered in moss.

He hesitated only a moment before stepping through.

Immediately, the air changed. The temperature dropped. His breath fogged in front of him. Trees on this path twisted unnaturally, like they were reaching for him. Shadows moved just out of the corner of his eyes.

Kenji clicked on his flashlight.

Then, he heard it.

A whisper.

It was soft, like wind through dry leaves, but it had words. Japanese, but archaic.

“Kaeruna…” it breathed. Do not return.

He spun around. No one.

“Who’s there?” he called out, trying to sound brave.

The forest answered with silence.

Pressing on, Kenji soon found a small clearing. In the center stood a stone shrine, old and broken, with a headless statue of a woman holding a child. At the base, offerings of coins, bones, and old dolls lay rotting.

He raised his camera to take a picture—then heard footsteps behind him.

Turning quickly, he found no one.

But then the whispers returned, louder now, closer.

“Kaeruna...”

“Leave…”

Kenji backed away, heart pounding. He fumbled with his bag, trying to find his compass again. The forest seemed darker, closing in on him. His flashlight flickered. And then he saw them.

Figures.

Dozens of them, emerging from the trees. Pale faces. Black, empty eyes. Mouths stitched shut. They wore old kimonos, stained with soil and blood. Some held ropes around their necks. Others had slit wrists or missing limbs.

They pointed at him. Whispered through sewn lips.

He ran.

Branches tore at his face. The forest floor seemed to rise against him. He tripped, fell, got up again. His orange markers were gone. The torii gates were nowhere in sight. He ran until his legs gave out and he collapsed near a tree with a carved heart and two initials: Y.T. and M.K.

Behind him, the whispers stopped.

He didn’t sleep. Too afraid to close his eyes. In the morning, he found his way back—somehow. The forest had changed again. The normal path appeared as if it had always been there.

Kenji stumbled out of Aokigahara just after noon. Locals who saw him said he looked pale, sick, and much older than his 22 years.

When he returned to Tokyo, Kenji refused to speak of what happened. His thesis was never finished. He gave up studying folklore and dropped out of university.

Two weeks later, he went missing.

His apartment was found abandoned. No signs of struggle. Just a note on his desk: “I hear them. Calling me back.”

A few hikers claimed to have seen someone resembling him wandering near Aokigahara weeks later, barefoot, muttering to himself. But no one could confirm it.

And then, a year to the day after Kenji disappeared, another student went looking for the Summoning Path. She never returned.

Locals say that once you walk the Summoning Path, something of you stays behind, even if you escape. The forest marks you. It waits. Whispers. And eventually, it calls you home.

Now, the path remains unmarked. Hidden. Waiting for the next curious soul who dares to seek what should never be found.

And in the heart of Aokigahara, the forest whispers still.