tyler-b Tyler B

Nagasawa Orochi, a music producer, wakes up in the afterlife.


Horror Ghost stories Not for children under 13.

#death #scary #gore #afterlife # #liminal #liminalspace
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arrival

Nagasawa Orochi woke up on a cold surface. Upon opening his eyes he saw a gargantuan corridor lined with neon lights. He sat up, his body involuntarily shivered as he looked both ways. The corridor didn’t seem to end. The feeling that everyone gets after they’ve been in a deep slumber encompassed him. Though, the feeling that he didn’t know where he was wasn’t just a feeling after deep slumber. He looked down at himself, wondering if he would remember what he was wearing before he had this strange slumber. He wore blue jeans and a white T-shirt. It was nothing unusual to his casual wardrobe. Though, of course, he didn’t remember that he was wearing it. Heaving himself up, steam flew from his mouth which he waved his hand through. Stupid habit, he thought. There were no smells or distinct sounds that he could pick out among the flavorless landscape. If you could call it a landscape. In his life he always remembered something he could pick out in every place that he had ever been even though he didn’t realize it. Now, nothing distinct could be noticed. The place overcame him with its foreignness. To his terror, he realized that anything he ever experienced, even simple senses, were dashed away from his body.

When he thought of this, he thought he might have been kidnapped and put in some sick and twisted game. Perhaps he was in some corrupt government experiment where he was forced to roam a seemingly infinite maze for food like a rat to cheese. There was nothing else to do other than walk, so that’s what he did. His echoed footsteps filled the single corridor. He focused on the rhythm of his footsteps on the concrete-like ground. That’s what he always did when he didn’t want to think about something else. The best way to run away from a thought is to create a pattern and listen. While listening to the pattern of rhythmic footsteps, he tried to think of a song to calm his mind, but that ended up with him looking back up and seeing the terrifying labyrinth of a hallway before him, and so, he kept staring at the ground and listening to the bland footsteps.

Though the journey through the hallway was too long to run away from his thoughts. Would he ever see daylight again? His heart began to race. His palms became clammy. All of the things he did in his life were simply too terrible to leave without making them right. He might as well be dead now because he’d never escape a building this big. He remembered the blood stains on his carpeted floor. It was like the man's dead body was on the floor again right in front of him, drowning in his own blood and choking. Broken glass glistened on the floor along with the blood. He killed a man. How would the afterlife treat him when finding this out? But really the man wasn’t there at all. Another thought occurred to him that terrified him to his core: what if this is the afterlife?

It felt like hours that he was walking between the four slabs of black material before seeing something lit brightly in the distance. A white, glowing, open door that filled the entire length and width of the corridor. Finally, something that could distract him from his own thoughts. Though it couldn’t take his anxiety away. His heart still thumped with a strange rhythm that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Once Nagasawa reached the door, he stopped to peer in before the possible imminent danger. Again, the same thing occurred here, nothing distinct. A white plain presented itself beyond the door. But there was something else, a low drone. It almost sounded like voices. He slowly put his head in the door frame, looking to the left inside the white void. Hundreds of people dressed in white robes and silver masks encircled a singular flame, humming something he didn’t understand. They were kneeling to the flame. All at once, they got up and began to chant at a higher frequency, shuffling about the fire until they stopped. One of them looked at Nagasawa, then another, then all of them. His heart dropped and he turned in an instant to run. He heard one set of footsteps behind him. They were only walking? Sneaking a glance back, one of them followed him, only walking after him. When he looked forward again, a thick wall of chains blocked off the rest of the corridor and tightened in the moment making a screeching sound. He turned around, his heart still pounding.

“What do you want?!” He screamed.

The person tilted their head, the chrome mask reflecting the neon lights overhead.

“So curious,” the man said in sloppy Japanese,”How’d we end up on your doorstep?”

“I don’t understand what’s going on! Where am I?”

“You’re dead,” the man said.

His heart dropped once more. He felt faint. “I would like you to join us for a sermon.”

“Let me go,” Nagasawa’s voice shook.

“Either come along with me, or die. Besides, who else will guide you through the afterlife?”

“I don’t need your help. And how can I die if I’m already dead?” Nagasawa asked.

He didn’t know where the question came from. In fact, it was a particularly stupid time to ask such a question.

“This is your afterlife. Life after death. When you die here, that’s it.”

“Get away from me. I don’t want your help.”

The man in robes lifted one black, gloved hand and aimed it at Nagasawa. His chest burned, he could barely move. He saw what looked like white and black smoke flying out of his chest and whirling into the man’s hand. He felt more faint. His fear slowly faded.

A doorway appeared to his left. He heard music? He gathered all of the willpower he had and threw himself at the door, falling beyond it. The man watched as the doorway sealed and closed.

Nagasawa got up, out of breath. He stood on a catwalk overlooking thousands, if not millions below dancing to music. Lights flashed below. It reminded him of Japanese clubs he used to go to. His heart rate slowed. Finally, he could see others in the afterlife. The room smelled like booze, perfume, and cologne. Balloons and confetti rose to the ceiling which he thought was odd for a party like this. After taking it all in, he caught wind of a staircase from the flashing light making it glisten. It led down from the catwalk to the area below. He took the staircase. The party was populated with all races and most probably all dialects. Once again, the music wasn’t anything specific he could point out. Immense bass and an electrified beat with crazed synthesizers filled the air. The only touch of humanity in the song were slight grunts or screams glitching into the carefully calculated patterns of the song. It reminded him of the music he used to make in Japan as a producer.

Within that moment, Nagasawa Orochi remembered the body in front of him once again. He remembered that he did it. He knew that for sure because he remembered the knife in his hand along with the gashes on his palm from the wine glass he shattered over the man’s head in the recording studio. As a matter of fact, the song that accompanied the gut wrenching scene played in the room. That was the song he produced for the artist. Why?

When he thought of this, he thought of the foreignness of the place. Would he meet anyone here? This would be it for his social life. There was no way anyone spoke his language here or at least not enough for him to continue with life normally. A feeling of indescribable terror rushed over him. The afterlife gave him the feeling that all people get when they get to college or when they’re young and get separated from their parents at a park. Perhaps that was the feeling of the afterlife and he’d be feeling it often. Maybe it was so foreign that he’d never get used to it.


April 28, 2024, 3:51 a.m. 1 Report Embed Follow story
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April 28, 2024, 08:43
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