The Ochiba Forest
Mineshaft
- written by Yōko Otori
The winds in the Ochiba Forest draw a timeless sense through the dewy grass riddling beneath you. The moon shines its forbidding ray of light onto skeletal tree-tops, carrying a silence heavy as stone.
A cathedral of shadows, breathing with a life that exhaled clammy, festering fog; as a shroud wrapping you into a wet blanket of dread.
Each trunk, a gravestone, chiseled by not names but scars of a morbid past, immortal hands that cling to you, far after visitation hours.The narrow path that leads you deeper towards dangerous ground.
Every step was a trespass, every breath, a theft.
The trees conceal your observer and lean their sharp twigs towards you, as if they could smell your fear.
The feeling of eyes, but lacking thereof; the little voice in your brain spoke warnings of caution, and your hair stands at attention.
Black-pillared trees claimed the sky as your view, their brittle branches stretching and turning like veins. But you couldn't help but notice how each twig was pointing to a pit, a damnation whispering your name.
The shaft.
A narrow space, stolen from a claustrophobe’s nightmare. The air is thick, a starving suffocation, sultry coppery tang; as if even the air itself was trying to keep you out.
Moss-laced walls gathered moisture, running trickles of water along their fungus-ridden exterior, a desolate cave, warnings from the past chiseled into text urged you to stay far, far away.
But despite its unholy energy, its known hauntings attract teenagers and young adults alike, all with one thing in common. A disturbing obsession with a world they weren’t meant to know of. It plays with your mind, misleading you as something it’s not. Defending its hunting grounds with a determination that even the seal couldn’t keep at bay.
Its original usage wasn’t different from any other mineshaft. In the past, there were thirteen different sectors controlling parts of Karakura, but none was in charge of the mining district. Yet it was the source from where the ores originated and were harvested, but this didn’t last.
Nor did a happy ending wait at the end.
The miners began passing the story of an aggressive spirit, hallucinations, eyes watching from the corner of your gaze; monsters that chased innocent workers through the earth.
These tales were spread over an extended period, providing insight into the consistency of the spirit's actions. This evidently caused the closure of the mine, and it was never reopened due to the circumstances and events.
Like a domino effect, it only went downhill, tragedy after tragedy, as more people were drawn to the area's paranormal reputation. But the activity didn't die down just because the shaft closed. Every year during Halloween, it sprawls with energy that wishes you harm, yet people are drawn to it, a moth to a flame. Searching to see the spirit might just be the last thing you see. Many lives have been taken by the shaft, but their memories live on; they will not be forgotten. They live as a reminder that some things are best left alone
The rest of the information about the shaft is confidential and not disclosed to the public.
[!]
A page had been ripped out, and the information was scribbled out . .
Stories, passed down memories. There are many fateful tales spoken of the mine. But one managed to be built into history, a story, hard to dismiss and even harder to forget.
The weeping maiden.
A gravestone faded by time, overgrown and forgotten.
Each letter is chiseled deep into stone, remembered by the maker of this final resting place. The place she had visited every day since the loss of her love, now buried next to the tree where his blood stained the bark.
The trees whistle as a cold wind sweeps through. Familiarity and strangeness, all combined, coated the mystery of who she was. A maiden whose statue is a forever celebration of the life she lived, weeping, just like she once did. Each tear, treasured for the ones she cherished the most.
My personal theory is that she, beyond the grave, ensures that the place where her family rests remains undisturbed, keeping trespassers at bay by any means necessary.
A mother’s instinct to protect is greater than any spiritual seal. So she does what she needs to do to keep people away, even if it means to trick, to scare. The disrespect as people dare disturb the ground she guards.
As a maiden, she values respect; as a mother, she will protect.
Tragedies stay in the place where they happened, and by doing so attract malevolent energy.
The weeping maiden.
A gravestone faded by time, overgrown and forgotten.
Each letter is chiseled deep into stone, remembered by the maker of this final resting place. The place she had visited every day since the loss of her love, now buried next to the tree where his blood stained the bark.
The trees whistle as a cold wind sweeps through. Familiarity and strangeness, all combined, coated the mystery of who she was. A maiden whose statue is a forever celebration of the life she lived, weeping, just like she once did. Each tear, treasured for the ones she cherished the most.
My personal theory is that she, beyond the grave, ensures that the place where her family rests remains undisturbed, keeping trespassers at bay by any means necessary.
A mother’s instinct to protect is greater than any spiritual seal. So she does what she needs to do to keep people away, even if it means to trick, to scare. The disrespect as people dare disturb the ground she guards.
As a maiden, she values respect; as a mother, she will protect.
Tragedies stay in the place where they happened, and by doing so attract malevolent energy.
The shaft is merciless, tailored to know, fitted to trick.
Perhaps there is a reason so little information is known about it. Whatever is hiding in the dark will go to extreme lengths to stay there, to protect what’s hers.
Thank you to - Mei Miura & Ezio Deluca for the information gathered here.
