Banquet at Midnight

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Kitaonsen Ryokan in Tochigi (Be Travel)

Ryokan staff

The other day, I stayed at a small ryokan (Note: a traditional Japanese inn).

It was a bit inconvenient to reach, so not many visitors came, but it was quiet and cozy, which was why I liked it.

The staff were attentive, the garden was beautiful, and the rooms were spotless.

A perfect little inn with nothing to complain about.

Since it was deep in the mountains, there wasn’t anywhere to go out at night, and by the time midnight came, the whole place had gone completely silent.

I went to bed early, but sometime after two in the morning, I woke up for no reason.

Unable to fall back asleep, I thought, “Why not explore the place a little?” 

When I opened my room door, the hallway lights were off and it was pitch black.

Only the green glow of the emergency exit sign illuminated the corridor in an eerie, cold light.

It seemed strange for a ryokan, but I thought something silly like, “Maybe they’re saving electricity — must be a lot of work to run a ryokan,” and continued my little midnight exploration, feeling as if I was doing a kimodameshi (Note: a test of courage). 

Then, suddenly, I thought I saw someone move ahead of me.

I could just make out the silhouette of a middle-aged staff member in the pale moonlight filtering through a window. He was doing something in front of a guest room door.

I heard a faint metallic click-click sound, so I thought, “Is he breaking in?” - and  hid behind a pillar to watch what he would do.

But he wasn’t trying to open the door.

He was putting a padlock on it.

I knew I saw something I shouldn’t have seen, and stayed still in the shadows.

After finishing, the man turned and started walking toward me.

The room further down the hall was mine.

He was going to lock me in…! 

I froze.

I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew I was in danger. I had to stay hidden. I must not be seen.

I crouched low and held my breath but as the man walked past me, he spotted me instantly.

The man looked startled, checked his wristwatch in panic, and blurted out,

“I guess we have no other choice —please, come with me!!”

Before I could resist, he grabbed my arm and started dragging me along.

I thought of running, but soon several other staff members appeared and surrounded me.

One of them pointed something like an oversized lighter at me — and said in a stern voice:

“If you want to stay safe, do not make a sound!”

So I shut up and let them lead me away.

They took me to the banquet hall.

In the middle of the darkened ryokan, that room alone was brightly lit.

There were many people inside — the ryokan staff, and others who appeared to be local villagers.

On the tables were rows of traditional dishes, beautifully prepared, as if ready for a grand party.

A Banquet Hall at a ryokan

Just as they sat me down at a random seat, a middle-aged woman came over and said,

“You’re unlucky, eh? But it’ll all be fine if you stay calm, so hang in there, okay?”

She kept comforting me.

Then a tough-looking man sat beside me and spoke in a firm voice:

“When the banquet starts, you’ll eat and drink like you’re having a good time. Got it?

Be cheerful — really cheerful.

Soon, a new guest will arrive, but don’t pay any attention to them.

If you think you might, then don’t look at them at all.

But if you avert your eyes, do it naturally.

Whatever happens, don’t break the festive mood.

This is someone we must welcome once a year. Don’t you dare offend them.”

Soon the banquet began.

The ladies bustled around, serving food and pouring beer, but all I managed to do was just poke at food with chopsticks.

On the surface, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, but beneath it, I could feel their fear.

I was silently cursing myself for ever waking up, when suddenly I felt a drop in the room temperature. 

From the dark corridor beyond, I heard pita… pita… — the  sound of slow, wet footsteps approaching.

The others seemed to be pretending they hadn’t noticed it, and continued to eat and drink as though nothing was happening.

If anything, everyone got even louder and more cheerful.

Sensing that saying anything would stir up a trouble, I kept my eyes down and pretended to be absorbed in my meal.

Soon, the footsteps changed.

It sounded like the feet left the wooden hallway and entered the tatami floor of the banquet room.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a pair of legs pass by.

They looked very odd — blackish but not exactly black —  “dim” might be a better word to describe them.

And they were thin, like those of a child or woman, yet somehow gave impression of being incredibly heavy.

The legs moved around the long table and came to a stop diagonally across from me, settling onto a zabuton (Note: a cushion).

I clenched my chopsticks and focused on the food, doing everything I could to stop myself from screaming.

Then — after a while — just as suddenly, the heavy, cold air vanished.

I looked up.

Everyone around me had dropped their forced smiles and now wore faces of deep relief.

“It’s over,”

the woman beside me whispered.

My body went limp with exhaustion.

After that, a real banquet began — a celebration shared by those who had just survived something dreadful together.

The food that had tasted like dust before now tasted wonderful.

We drank, we laughed, and I felt an odd sense of comradeship with everyone there.

Later I heard that the padlocks on all the guestroom doors had been removed.

Probably no one who’d been locked in ever realised anything had happened that night.

Before I knew, dawn was breaking.

I returned to my room and finally slept.

When I woke again, the sun was already high, and everything looked perfectly normal. 

It had returned to an ordinary, peaceful ryokan.

I checked out a little later than planned.

As I left, all the staff came out to see me off, smiling warmly.

“You’re one of us now,” they said. “Come back anytime.”

They looked genuinely reluctant to let me go and I felt sad leaving them too.

I felt as though an unbreakable bond was born between us. 

But even so, I know this for sure — I’ll never, ever go back to that ryokan again.