The Curse of the Matsukawa Spike - Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The First Dialogue: Monstrous Grievance and Human Shadows

【Synopsis】 A tale of choice and terror, spoken from a grandmother’s lips. Kyoto, 1959. A rusted rail spike is brought into their shop. From that night on, the quiet lives of young Haru and Genzo are slowly consumed by the phantom roar of a train and the bloody palms of the deceased pressing against their glass doors. By day, the cold eyes of undercover detectives, seeking to bury the truth, watch their every move. Trapped between the spectral wrath of the "other world" and the ruthless authority of "this world," the young couple makes their first desperate, fateful decision...

"A phantom train...? Did it really appear, Grandma?"

Chihiro blurted out, reflexively tossing her smartphone onto the bed as she leaned closer to Haru.

Haru nodded slowly, tapping her chin with a thin, pale finger.

"To say it 'appeared' is far too mild a way to put it. From the very day that iron spike entered our shop, night after night, the entire house would rattle and shake as if a massive earthquake were about to rip us apart. ...Tell me, Chihiro, do you think ghosts are the scariest thing in this world?"

"Eh? Aren't they? Ghosts are terrifying!"

"Listen to me. No matter how frightening the dead may seem, they do nothing more than stand there, looking resentfully at you. What is truly terrifying is the crushing weight of their unrequited grievances... and the cold, lifeless eyes of the living who try to erase that truth by sheer force."

Haru’s voice sharpened for a brief moment.
In the depths of her grandmother's eyes, Chihiro caught a glimpse of a dark chasm of memory—one that Haru had kept hidden from the world for nearly a lifetime.

"When we took custody of that spike, I was twenty-three, and your grandfather was twenty-five.
We were so young, with no idea of what kind of adults we would become, let alone how to navigate such a world.
Your grandfather was more of a coward than anyone, yet he was unbelievably stubborn about his pride. He put on a brave face, desperately trying to look like a strong man in front of me.
And onto the shoulders of youths like us, a terrifying spark capable of shaking the entire nation had fallen.
We could do nothing but tremble..."

1959, Showa 34.
Since that torrential, rainy night when the mud-drenched fugitive left behind the "rail spike and bolt," Haru and Genzo’s secondhand shop became ruled by a bizarre, unearthly presence.

Once the clock struck midnight, the eerie disturbances inevitably began.

Clack-clack, clack-clack, clack-clack...

From far in the distance came the sound of iron wheels grinding harshly against metal rails.

But near Kyoto’s "Rokudo-no-Tsuji"—the boundary between this world and the next—there was only a local streetcar line. There were absolutely no tracks for large national railway trains.

And yet, every single night, the sound drew closer.

Rattle-clatter-clatter-shatter!

The antique teacups and miscellaneous goods lined up on the shop shelves vibrated violently, clinking against one another.

The air grew thick with a pungent, nauseating odor of burning flesh, mingled with the heavy stench of coal smoke.

"Dear... it's that sound again...!"

Haru clutched the sleeve of Genzo’s yukata tightly, burying her face under the futon.

Genzo, his teeth chattering uncontrollably in the darkness, held Haru tightly against his chest.

"Don't look! Haru, keep your eyes closed!"

Genzo shouted, but the arms he wrapped around Haru’s back were trembling violently.

Haru could hear his heart pounding like a frantic drum against her ear, painfully conveying his desperate bravado and deep love.

Soon, beyond the glass sliding doors facing the street, several pale, mist-like figures began to flicker.

With a wet, sticky slap, a blood-stained palm pressed flat against the old glass door.

Pale, bloodless faces appeared. They were men clad in the uniforms and caps of the National Railways.

Their foreheads were split wide open, thick, dark-red blood dripping down their cheeks.

With hollow eye sockets, they stared intently at Haru and Genzo through the glass, their mouths moving in a silent, synchronized chant.

R-e-t-u-r-n... i-t...

Their lips parted slowly.

R-e-t-u-r-n... t-h-e... t-r-u-t-h...

They were the vengeful spirits of the engineers and crew members who had lost their lives in the tragic Matsukawa derailment.

The rusted rail spike was the very vessel of their death and the suppressed truth—a "cursed object" that now rested in the hands of the young couple.

Moreover, the terror was not confined to the night.

The next morning, exhausted and sleep-deprived, Haru opened the shop to find men of a very different nature standing across the street—men who clearly had no interest in secondhand goods.

They wore black trench coats and wide-brimmed hats pulled down low.

They took turns casting sharp, scanning glances toward the shop. Whenever

Haru’s eyes met theirs, they would smoothly avert their gaze and slip around the corner of the alley.

"Dear, those men... they've been watching our shop since yesterday," Haru whispered, her face completely drained of color.

In the back office, Genzo clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"I won't let them lay a single finger on you! It's fine, you must have just misseen things!"

Genzo laughed boisterously, trying to ease Haru's fears. But immediately after, his hand slipped, and he dropped a precious clay brazier onto the floor, shattering it with a loud crash.

Seeing Genzo turn pale and shake, Haru realized that he, too, was pushed to his absolute limit.

"Those aren't ordinary police... They are 'undercover detectives' trying to suppress the truth of the accident along with the existence of that spike. If they find out we have it, we are as good as dead."

The relentless pursuit from the "other world" through hauntings.
And the cold, ruthless pressure from "this world" through state authority.

The conscience and sanity of the young couple were caught between these two monumental terrors, threatened to be crushed into dust at any moment.

"I can't take this anymore, Haru. At this rate, we'll either be killed by the ghosts or buried in the dark by those detectives...!"

"But, Dear... what are we going to do with that spike? Throw it away?"

"Throw it away?! Absolutely not! If we toss it out, who knows where or who will pick it up next? The curse will follow us forever. ...I know. Let's mail it to a temple."

Genzo looked at Haru, his eyes bloodshot but filled with a sudden spark.

"There is an ancient, famous temple known for exorcising cursed items and offering solace to restless spirits. We will mail it there anonymously, with a letter begging them to peacefully cremate and comfort the souls of the deceased railway crew."

He continued, his voice trembling but earnest.

"We will rely on the mercy of the gods and Buddha to let their souls rest in peace. Once the spike is housed in a sacred place, away from our hands, the wrath of the spirits should subside. And even those detectives won't dare lay a hand on something dedicated to a temple."

It was Genzo’s desperate "choice of love" to protect the life and home they cherished.

Instead of selfishly pushing the curse onto some unrelated stranger, it was a sincere act of conscience—an attempt to save the souls of the dead through exorcism and proper memorial rites.

"Yes... Let's do that, Dear. Quickly, let's ask the Buddha at the temple, and rid our home of that terrifying iron chunk...!"

Haru nodded, tears streaming down her face, deeply moved by Genzo's painful yet tender bravado.

That afternoon, Genzo spread out a sheet of newspaper, but his hands shook so violently he could not even wrap the spike properly.

"It's no use... my hands, they won't do what I tell them..."

Genzo grimaced, looking utterly miserable. Haru gently placed her own hand over his trembling ones.

Feeling the warmth of each other's touch, they wrapped the spike and bolt together in several layers of newspaper.

They placed it in a thick manila envelope and wrote the temple's address.

Slipping past the cold, watchful eyes of the undercover detectives, Genzo ran out through the back door and dashed toward the post office.

By evening, when Genzo returned, his shoulders looked as light as if a massive boulder had been lifted from them.

The moment he saw Haru's face, he sank to the wooden floor, a tearful, childlike smile breaking across his face.

"I sent it. I handed it over safely, Haru... Now, the Buddha at the temple will let those souls rest in peace. Finally, we can go back to our ordinary life. I protected you..."

The two held each other tightly, shedding tears of relief.

Even the heavy smell of coal smoke that had lingered in the back of the shop seemed to fade, if only slightly.

But they did not yet know.

They did not know the sheer, bottomless greed of those detectives, who would stop at nothing—even violently plundering mail meant for sacred temple rites—to bury the dark secrets of the state.

Nor did they know that to the spirits driven mad by resentment, those who interfered with their holy rest and stole their vessel of truth would become the next "possessors" to be utterly and mercilessly destroyed.

(To be continued in Chapter 3)

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