There are urban legends that are best left in whispers. There are others that, if ignored, will find you no matter how far you run. Kuchisake-onna—the Slit-Mouthed Woman—is one of the latter. In life, she was said to have been mutilated, her mouth torn from ear to ear, and in death she roams the streets asking, “Am I beautiful?” The wrong answer gets you mutilated, the right answer only prolongs the terror.

We were called to a small town outside Sendai. Several disappearances had occurred near deserted streets at night. Locals reported hearing a high-pitched voice echoing, almost sing-song, and seeing a woman in a surgical mask wandering aimlessly—or stalking.

Morizumi didn’t bother to wait for nightfall. “She moves with intent,” he said. “If we’re too early, she hides. If we’re too late, she doesn’t wait.”

We arrived just as a thick fog rolled in from the nearby hills. Streetlights flickered weakly, struggling against the damp haze. The moment we stepped onto the narrow road, I felt it—like the air itself had sharpened, every molecule bristling.

Then we heard it. A soft, deliberate tap-tap on the asphalt. High heels. Slow. Measured. And then a voice:

“Am I beautiful?”

I froze. I didn’t even need to look. I knew.

Morizumi stepped forward, calm, unflinching. “Answer carefully,” he murmured. “Do not fear her. Fear is what she feeds on.”

The figure emerged from the fog: a woman in a pale coat, surgical mask over her face, hair falling in sharp angles. Her movements were unnervingly precise, almost gliding. And beneath the mask, I could see the faint outline of that grotesque slit across her cheeks.

I stammered, terrified, but Morizumi didn’t hesitate. He pulled a small vial from his coat, chanting under his breath. The words vibrated in the air, heavy and dense, and the fog around her seemed to thin, quivering.

She tilted her head. “Why… aren’t you afraid?”

Morizumi’s gaze didn’t waver. “I see you for what you are. You are a story trying to become a nightmare. I am older than the stories.”

The Slit-Mouthed Woman shrieked, a sound that split the fog like a blade. She lunged at him, impossibly fast, and I swear I saw the asphalt beneath her feet tear itself apart. But Morizumi didn’t dodge. He extended his hand, and the runes on his palm glowed faintly. The air itself solidified, pinning her mid-lunge, every sinew frozen.

He repeated the incantation, calm and steady, like reading poetry. Slowly, her form began to unravel: the mask melted away, the slit on her mouth sealed, and her body dissolved into mist that drifted harmlessly into the night.

When it was over, Morizumi turned to me. “She is no longer free to hunt. But her story… will always linger, waiting for someone else to give it life.”

I shivered, the chill of the fog biting into my bones. “You’re saying she’ll… come back?”

“In a way,” he said, walking toward the car. “Legends never die. They only sleep.”

And I realized, as the fog swallowed the streets behind us, that some nightmares are patient. They just wait for the living to notice the cracks in the story—and Morizumi Shimada will always be there to close them.