In Japan, there are more shrines than deities, and they draw people in with their uniqueness. Some are more popular among visitors, while others stand nearly abandoned. Each has its own long history stretching across centuries. Thousands of feet have worn down their floors, thousands of prayers and amulets have been hung and taken down, thousands of incense sticks have been burned. Some deities grant protection, others bless fertility, and still others bestow good fortune.

But among these shrines, there is one that stands apart, isolated for centuries. No rituals are held there, no one visits it on holidays, and no prayers are offered. No songs are ever sung within its walls, no dances performed. The shrine is shrouded in silence and mist, lit by the ghostly glow of stone lanterns that do not beckon or guide the way, but instead seem to silently warn all to stay away. Anyone who steps onto its grounds feels an unexplainable unease, a rising anxiety, an urge to flee — and an oppressive aura of something unknown, something not of this world.

The truth about this place has long been lost among urban legends and tales passed from parents to children, yet one thing remains unchanged: whatever is buried within this shrine is more dangerous and more powerful than any vengeful spirit, any yōkai.

This shrine is not a place to worship a god.

It is the place of its rest.

And may the kami forbid anyone from disturbing it.