There are curses that move through bloodlines, curses that stalk objects, and curses that can speak. Gozu—the so-called “Cow-Head Poem”—is all three. A poem that kills anyone who reads it aloud, and continues to haunt anyone who even glimpses its verses. Naturally, Morizumi was the only one I knew who could survive encountering it.

We were called to a library in Shizuoka. An anonymous tip claimed a book had appeared on a shelf, one that wasn’t catalogued. Whoever opened it reportedly read aloud, then vanished. The air in the library was unusually cold, the kind of cold that crawls beneath your skin.

Morizumi lifted the book from the shelf—it was heavy, bound in black leather, edges fraying. On the cover, faint embossing shimmered as though alive. “Do not open,” I whispered.

He ignored me. “It doesn’t harm the unread,” he said. “Only those who acknowledge it.”

The pages were filled with strange calligraphy. I could feel the words pressing against my mind, bending my thoughts in ways I couldn’t name. Even glancing at them made my skin crawl.

“I can feel it,” I said, voice tight. “It’s… watching.”

Morizumi nodded slowly. “Yes. That is why it is dangerous. It is not the words alone, but the awareness it creates in you. It seeks acknowledgment.”

Before I could stop him, he opened the book. His eyes scanned the verses, and I swear I saw the air warp around his head. The words shifted on the page, elongating, twisting into shapes that felt like faces, like whispers of breath against my neck.

And then he laughed softly.

“Do you see it?” I asked, trembling. “The poem—it’s alive!”

“It is alive,” he said. “But it fears being understood. Fear feeds it; clarity weakens it.”

I watched, frozen, as the verses began to writhe. A shadow emerged from the pages—a shape vaguely human but grotesque, horned and elongated, its face half-cow, half-mist. It lunged at Morizumi. I screamed, thinking it would end him.

But he didn’t flinch. Calmly, he extended a hand, fingers brushing the shadow. The runes on his satchel glowed softly, and the creature froze mid-lunge, its form flickering like a candle in the wind.

He muttered an incantation I couldn’t hear fully, and the shadow shrieked—a sound that bent the room, twisting reality. Slowly, it began to dissipate, curling back into the pages of the book until it was nothing more than ink on leather again.

Morizumi closed the book, his expression serene. “It will not claim another. Not tonight. Not while I am aware of it.”

I exhaled shakily. “You… survived it.”

“Not survived,” he said, “observed. The poem is dangerous to those who fear it. Awareness, calm, and intent are shields stronger than any steel.”

Even after we left the library, I could feel the words trying to claw at my mind, whispering shapes of horror. But Morizumi’s presence kept them at bay. He walked calmly, as always, untouched by something that could drive anyone else to madness.