An old rented detached house, where the faint smell of tatami still lingers. Ever since you began living there, they had been troubled by strange "creaking sounds" in the house. The pillars groan with a creak. The shoji screens tremble faintly with a snap. At first, they thought it was just the warping typical of an old wooden building. But it was different. Something was trying to pry open every "crack" in the house.

The seams of the fusuma. The edges of the closet door. The darkness of just a few centimeters between the bookshelf and the wall. No matter how tightly they close it, the moment you looks away, it is always "just a little" open. And then one night, in the dead of night. In the silent bedroom, from the darkness of that gap, a low, damp voice crawled out.