It was midnight, and the moon was a pale disc in the clear night sky. From the edge of the forest a funeral procession appeared, led by an ashen-faced cleric of some long-forgotten order of faith.

Iwata crouched behind a stump on the top of a nearby hill and watched in silence. He had heard stories of the ghostly march of the Tsushiku spirits; nothing more than fairy tales meant to frighten and entertain children. He had never imagined he might have the opportunity to see them in person.

The footsteps of the pallbearers were a quiet, rhythmic shuffling as the procession made its way through the ancient graveyard. Between them, a low-slung coffin was carried with thick strands of fabric that swept underneath the sarcophagus. Shadows danced playfully around the funeral marchers as the moonlight filtered between the granite tombstones of Japanese citizens. The entire scene was eerie and chilling, and entirely mesmerizing to Iwata.

That is, until one of the spirits turned and noticed him watching.