Into the Nightmare

Yuna had never tried to force herself into a dream before — like who does that

The shrine books she had been reading warned against it — “To walk willingly into the realm of yōkai is to open the door both ways.” But the words in her head wouldn’t stop replaying. The taunts. The cruel promises. The imagery of Kaede’s lifeless eyes.

So, that night, she prepared. She sat in her room with Mochimaru placed directly in front of her, the faint moonlight glinting on the doll’s face. She pricked her finger and let a drop of blood fall on the its chest — a crude binding, meant to keep her anchored. It wasn’t elegant, but it was all she knew.

She closed her eyes. Breathed in. Out.

And whispered the chant she had read from a forbidden scroll in the shrine’s storage. The air thickened around her. The room seemed to tilt, the shadows pulling in strange directions. Her breath grew heavier — until the futon was gone. The floor was gone. The world had been replaced by an endless black field beneath a sky the color of bruises.

She was standing. Barefoot. Alone.

“You finally came” the voice purred.

Yuna turned slowly. There she was — the girl from her dreams. Her hair was long and black, gleaming like wet ink. Her skin so pale it almost glowed in the dark. But her smile… her smile was a slow tear through Yuna’s courage. Behind her, shapes shifted in the shadows — demons with too many limbs, heads that turned the wrong way, eyes that pulsed with light. “You killed them,” Yuna said, her voice steadier than she felt. The girl tilted her head. “Killed? No, no… I changed them.” She stepped forward, her bare feet making no sound. “Do you want to see?” Before Yuna could move, the shadows behind the girl parted — and there stood Kaede, Takeshi, Seiji, and Shouta. Except… not them. Their skin hung loosely, as if it didn’t fit anymore. Their mouths opened far too wide, and when they smiled, their teeth were jagged, rows upon rows. Their eyes were nothing but black pits that seemed to drink the light. “Yuna…” Kaede’s voice was a wet rasp. “Why… did you leave us?” Yuna stumbled back, clutching Mochimaru. “You’re not real—” “Oh, they’re real enough,” the girl said sweetly, now only a step away. “They’re mine now.” The ground began to split, dark hands clawing up from beneath. The air was thick with the smell of rot. Every instinct screamed at Yuna to run — but the moment she turned, something wrapped around her ankle. Cold. Wet. Strong. She fell to the ground, clawing at the dirt, but it was like pulling against the tide. The girl knelt beside her, brushing Yuna’s hair back as though she were a child. “You’ll be next” she whispered. “But not tonight. No… tonight, I just wanted you to see.” Yuna woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat. The futon beneath her was real again, the moonlight real. But on her ankle… there was a bruise. In the shape of a hand. And Mochimaru, who had been in front of her, was now sitting beside her pillow — turned toward the window. The next day, Yuna could barely focus on anything. The girl’s words still rang in her ears, an echo that clung to her thoughts like cobwebs. Every shadow felt thicker than it should. Every faint creak in the house made her spine tighten. She needed answers — and there was only one person in the household who might give them to her. Haru. She found him sitting cross-legged in his room, surrounded by folded paper cranes and tiny animal shapes. The air smelled faintly of ink and old parchment. On the shelf above him sat his prized shikigami — a fox mask with painted red streaks along the cheeks, resting in stillness until summoned. Yuna stepped inside quietly. “Haru… I need to know about Onmyōdō. Everything you can tell me.” He looked up from his folding, studying her face for a moment. “That’s not something you ask out of curiosity. Why?” Yuna hesitated. “…Because I think I’ll need it soon.” His eyes narrowed — but he didn’t press further. “Alright. Listen carefully.” “Onmyōdō,” Haru began, “isn’t just spells and charms. It’s the art of balancing yin and yang — light and shadow. Every Onmyōji learns how to control shikigami, but the bond you forge defines their limits.” He picked up a delicate paper bird and tapped it with his finger. It trembled… then fluttered into the air, circling the room with slow, graceful movements. “Some shikigami are like this one,” he continued. “Origami brought to life with a simple spell. They’re close-ranged, fragile, and work best for scouting or carrying small tasks. But they can’t survive far from their master’s presence.” He then gestured toward the fox mask on the shelf. “Then there are blood-linked shikigami — forged through your life essence. They can serve you over great distances, even hunt or fight without you nearby. They are ferocious… and dangerous, even to their masters if control is weak.” Yuna listened intently, her mind piecing each fact together. “The lower-ranked demons you bind with blood,” Haru went on, “will slowly die — feeding constantly on your life essence until their strength runs out. But high-ranked demons… they thrive on that essence. They hunger for it. They’ll never wither unless you sever the bond… or they consume you entirely.” He leaned forward slightly. “And remember this — when an Onmyōji dies while their shikigami is active, the shikigami dies too. No exceptions. Your power directly feeds theirs — the stronger you are, the more monstrous they become.” His voice was low now, almost warning. “That’s why the art is dangerous. It’s not about control — it’s about survival.” That night, Yuna stayed awake long after the others slept. The bruised handprint on her ankle had not faded. If anything, it had grown darker, like a brand. She sat before Sayomi and Mochimaru, the two dolls resting silently. Her preparations began in secret. She gathered charms from the shrine — talismans meant to bind wandering spirits, and old scrolls with faint ink diagrams of sealing circles. She practiced cutting her finger and letting the blood fall into drawn sigils, reciting the chants under her breath until the words felt natural. At first, she worked with harmless spirits — whispers that flickered at the edge of her sight near the shrine’s outer forest. She sealed them into scraps of paper, then released them, testing how long her bindings would hold. But soon, she sought out stronger targets. Small demons — hunched, chittering things that hid in the hollows of trees — were lured with offerings of food. When they came close, she struck, pressing her blood against their skin while chanting the incantations her mother had taught her. Some struggled violently, forcing her to pour more of herself into the seal until her vision blurred. She sealed them into objects — stones, old masks, straw dolls. Each one became a test, a step toward the day she would face the girl in her dreams in the waking world. Sometimes, when she worked too late into the night, she swore she could feel that presence again — lingering just beyond sight. The girl. Watching. Waiting. And Yuna knew… that door she had opened once in her dreams had never fully closed.
Ahhh… you’ve stayed this long, have you? Watching her fumble with her little charms, pricking her fingers like a careless child. She thinks she’s getting stronger. She thinks her spells and her blood and her circles will matter when I decide to step through. You know what’s funny? She hasn’t yet realised… it’s not her hunting me. It’s me… fattening her up. Every drop of her blood she throws into those seals — oh, I taste it. I drink it down, slow and sweet, like warm sake in winter. She feeds me without knowing, and when she’s ripe enough, when her little dolls and her pretty papers can’t save her… I’ll come knocking. And when I do, I won’t come alone. You’ll watch, won’t you? You’ll watch her break… Oh, it’s going to be delightful.