By: Seng Yang

Growing up in a small town in Japan, I always found comfort in the familiar routine of my life. My name is Emi, and I’ve lived in this quiet village for as long as I can remember. My parents owned a quaint little bookstore, and I spent most of my childhood lost in the pages of countless novels. The stories I read were my escape, my way of exploring the world beyond our serene surroundings.

As I grew older, I took a part-time job at a local convenience store to help with college expenses. The job was mostly uneventful, stocking shelves, ringing up customers, and occasionally dealing with the odd late-night shopper. But it was on one of these late shifts that my life took a turn into the surreal.

It was a chilly autumn evening, and the air had a bite to it that made me pull my jacket tighter around me. The streets were eerily quiet, the only sound being the rustle of leaves in the wind. I had just finished my shift and was walking home, lost in thoughts about an upcoming exam, when I saw her, a woman standing under a flickering streetlight, her face partially obscured by a surgical mask.

“Am I beautiful?” she asked, her voice soft yet chilling.

I hesitated, recalling the stories I’d heard from my grandmother about Kuchisake-onna, the slit-mouthed woman. “Yes,” I replied cautiously.

She removed her mask, revealing a grotesque, gaping wound that stretched from ear to ear. “How about now?”

My heart pounded in my chest. I knew the wrong answer could be deadly. Frozen in place, my grandmother had told me, “If she ever approaches you asking that, describe her appearances as average. It will then confuse her and she’ll leave you alone.”

“You’re average looking,” I managed to say, trying to keep my voice steady.

She stared at me for what felt like an eternity before slowly putting the mask back on. Without another word, she turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving me standing there, trembling and breathless.

Since that night, I have never walked alone after dark. The legend of Kuchisake-onna is no longer just a story to me, it’s a terrifying reality I will never forget. Now, every time I pass that flickering streetlight, I can’t help but quicken my pace, my mind replaying that chilling encounter. The boundaries between legend and reality have blurred, and I live with the constant reminder that some stories are more than just tales. They are warnings.