Whispers In The Dark 2

The Mists Over Luzanga (by Glenn Riley)

October 15th, 1945, Luzanga Valley, Philippines

The jungle was silent as death when General Tanaka and his men arrived at the clearing. It was the silence before a storm, heavy with foreboding, yet they had little choice but to make camp there for the night. Their mission was of grave importance to Japan's honor.

Tanaka supervised as the soldiers hastily set up tents and prepared rations. Most were young men, mere boys sent to fight a losing war for the emperor. Fear lurked beneath their stoic discipline, for they all knew Japan teetered on ruin and these were their last days in uniform.

Sergeant Kenta approached Tanaka, snapping a crisp salute. "General, perimeter is secured. Shall I post sentries?"

"No need, Sergeant," Tanaka replied. He gazed grimly at the surrounding jungle. "We are alone here."

The gold had to remain secret, and villagers might stray into their path. No, better to avoid sentries despite the risk. Tanaka was not superstitious like many of his countrymen, yet even he felt ill at ease beneath the brooding jungle canopy that blotted out the twilight sky.

Night fell swiftly. The soldiers ate cold rations around the fires, speaking little. Private Eiji, the youngest, sang a plaintive folksong to lift their spirits until Tanaka silenced him with a glare. The boy kept forgetting they were on a secret mission. After that, the only sounds were insects droning in the underbrush and the nearby river rushing over stones—too loud, Tanaka thought. It set his teeth on edge.

At last, the gold was buried in a clearing beneath cypress-knee roots, the earth tamped down and covered with leaves. Tanaka assigned two sentries for the first watch, though he doubted anyone would stumble upon their camp. He retired to his tent exhausted yet tense, every sense still straining into the night. Sleep was a long time coming.

Some hours later, he awoke to commotion outside. Shouts rang through the camp, then a gunshot cracked the darkness. Tanaka burst from his tent half-dressed, his sword in hand. "What is happening here?" he bellowed.

Men milled about in confusion as Sergeant Kenta hurried over. They spoke atop the buried gold. "Sentries claimed a ghost was stealing our supplies, General. They shot at it, against orders. But no one was found."

Tanaka's eyes blazed. "Ghosts and fairy tales! I'll have the hides of those imbeciles when—"

A blood-curdling shriek rent the air. Soldiers cried out, and Tanaka whirled to see young Eiji stumbling back into camp, uniform torn and dripping red. He collapsed to reveal a jagged wound gaping in his back.

Chaos erupted. Men shouted wildly, grasping for rifles with shaking hands. Tanaka roared at them to be silent. As medics tended the whimpering youth, Tanaka circled the perimeter, scouring the jungle's edge. But he found no intruder, no tracks, nothing.

At daybreak, Tanaka ordered the camp struck. Three sentries had now vanished, along with more equipment. Morale was low. He decided to push on to Luzanga village and await further instructions there. If ghosts plagued this accursed place, the villagers would know.

The platoon marched in edgy silence. Random gunshots echoing through the jungle set Tanaka's heart hammering, though he did not show it. Each night, they lost more good men. The survivors grew gaunt and haunted. They spoke of ghosts with burning eyes, decaying jungle demons thirsting for revenge. Tanaka scoffed outwardly, but doubt had taken root inside him.

On the third day, Luzanga's thatched roofs came into view across rice paddies. Tanaka breathed relief—until a gunshot split the air, and his lead scout stumbled into the field, clutching his throat as blood spilled through his fingers.

Rifles rang out wildly. "Enemies to the front!" Kenta cried.

But Tanaka saw only harmless farmers fleeing the volley. "Cease fire, you fools!"

The platoon stared wildly about as their dying comrade writhed at their feet. There was nowhere for a sniper to hide in that open terrain. Dread clawed up Tanaka's spine.

That night, after digging yet another grave, Tanaka sat with Kenta before a low fire, sharing the last of the sake. No ghost would rob them of this small tradition. But the heat could not thaw their chilling dread.

At last in a low voice, Tanaka said, "I buried Japan's treasure upon sacred ground." Though he was still loathe to admit superstition, death had dogged their every step since.

Kenta nodded grimly. "We must appease the spirits, General. Restore their resting place and pray they forgive our trespass."

Tomorrow, Tanaka knew, he would relent. But just then, a shrill cry split the night—and Private Eiji stumbled into camp once more.

This time the youth collapsed face-down in the dirt. As they turned him over, the men staggered back in horror. Eiji's face was a mass of torn flesh and shattered bone. His remaining eye stared wildly as he gasped through bloodied teeth.

"His soul..." Eiji rasped. "I saw...they took...my soul..." Then his body went limp.

Terror broke over the camp. Soldiers wailed, sobbed, fled into the night. Tanaka stood over young Eiji's corpse as chaos erupted around him. His mind reeled.

"This cannot be!" he roared. "There are no such things as—"

The air snapped with gunfire. Night lit up orange as tents burst into flames. The gold—they were near the gold! Men's screams mixed with inhuman shrieks as dark shapes swarmed from the jungle. Then came a strange, sickly sweet stench wafting through camp.

Tanaka stumbled back from the macabre scene. Bile burned his throat. "Run!" he bellowed. "Fall back from this evil place!"

He fled into moon-silvered rice fields, not looking back. Terror pounded through his veins. Duty forgotten, only animal instinct drove him now: Survive.

He ran all night, stumbling blindly through channels and paddies, past villages dark and alien. At times, he thought he glimpsed soldiers' shades pursuing alongside, leering horribly. Dawn found Tanaka collapsed in a fetid ditch miles from Luzanga, clothes soaked with swamp muck. As warmth returned to his blood, shame flooded his soul.

In time, Tanaka found his way back to his unit in disgrace. The loss of his platoon—and Japan's treasure—earned official censure. But among his countrymen, worse punishment had already been meted out. Word of the doomed mission spread in whispers. Men averted their eyes and edged away as Tanaka passed. His family name was forever tainted.

In death, Tanaka made one final journey to that accursed Philippine jungle—his ashes scattered by relatives on Japanese soil. Not once did he speak of what transpired that terrible night. The truth followed him to his grave, as did the ghosts who seized his men's souls.

But the village elders of Luzanga still tell of gold buried beneath twisting cypress roots in a jungle clearing...where to this day, on certain humid nights when mists twist among the undergrowth, a stench of decay still haunts the air—and cries of dying soldiers echo among the trees.