Hanaikada Onsen (花筏温泉)
The ancient bathhouse clings to the mountainside like a spider to its web, its wooden beams warped by decades of mineral-rich steam. By day, the springs appear tranquil - milky blue waters bubbling gently beneath floating cherry blossoms, the air thick with the scent of sulfur and medicinal herbs. But as dusk falls, the lanterns flicker unnaturally, their light reflecting off the water in shapes that twist like drowning hands.
Guests whisper of the baths' strange properties. The western pool grows inexplicably hot, its stone walls etched with hairline cracks that weep rust-colored water. Those who soak too long sometimes emerge with faint red marks circling their wrists, though no one remembers being touched. The staff move silently through the mist, their eyes lingering just a moment too long on certain visitors - particularly those assigned to rooms near the permanently locked Room 4.
Behind the main building, a crumbling torii gate marks the path to the so-called Graveyard of Peace, where headstones tilt at impossible angles despite the hard-packed earth. The local priestess claims the plots are empty, yet every morning finds fresh offerings of sake and camellias before the central monument - its inscription long worn away by time and something more deliberate.
The guest ledger tells its own troubling story. Some names appear in faded ink, their check-out dates suspiciously absent. Others materialize in fresh red characters days after their supposed departure. The current keeper refuses to explain these anomalies, though observant guests note how her fingers tremble when turning certain pages.
Most disturbing are the nights when the moon hangs full and heavy over the valley. Then, the waters grow still as glass, reflecting not the bathers' faces, but something lurking just beneath the surface - something with too many teeth and eyes that track your movements even after you look away.