(Trigger Warning: Contains depictions of child abuse.)

I have almost no memories of my early childhood. But there is one strange experience that remains vividly scorched into my mind. I'd like to tell that story.

My parents subjected me to daily physical and emotional abuse. Getting beaten and kicked was routine, and every time, I was showered with verbal abuse that no toddler should ever hear. If my parents were displeased, they'd tell me to get out, strip off my clothes—claiming they were bought with their money—and lock me outside. This happened countlessly. Above all, my parent was a ticking time bomb, and you never knew what would happen once they blew up. Never knowing what might set them off, I lived on edge, constantly walking on eggshells just to avoid making them angry.

This happened when I was about three years old. That day, as usual, my parent picked a fight over some trivial thing and beat me. As I lay limp and exhausted, my parent pulled a trash bag from a drawer. "You're trash. I'm throwing you away." I think those were the words. Lacking any strength to resist, my arms were tied behind my back, and I was stuffed into a bag for burnable trash. Looking back, if they had tied the bag shut, I would have died. But they didn't—not because they actually intended to throw me away, but because they wanted to threaten me, to show me: "This is what happens when you defy me."

Even so, when I was lifted up inside that bag and carried out of the house, I was too terrified to utter a sound. It was pitch-black outside. I don't remember the exact time, but I know it was late at night. Shivering in terror from the darkness and the fear of what was coming next, I realized I was being carried to my parent's car. I was tossed roughly into the backseat. The sound of the door slamming, followed by my parent getting into the driver's seat and the low rumble of the engine starting, pushed my terror to its peak. I tried to struggle and escape, but my bound arms and the bag restricted my movements. No matter how loudly I cried and screamed, my parent's back, visible through the gap in the driver's seat, didn't flinch. That went on for dozens of minutes. As I cried, I kept watching out the window, single-mindedly focused on keeping track of where we were so I could run away on foot if it came down to it. The car carrying me left the residential area where we lived and drove through farmland. That was when I realized, "Ah, they're going to abandon me in the mountains."

Past the farmland stood a modest mountain, about thirteen hundred feet high. At the summit was a shrine, surrounded by small souvenir shops and eateries. It was a mountain I had hiked a few times before. You could drive up to the middle of the mountain. A long flight of stone steps led from the base up to the shrine, and halfway up stood a massive gate housing twin guardian statues. The road ran right up to that gate. The road through the farmland that the car was currently on led straight to this mountain gate.

Sure enough, in the faint scenery illuminated by the headlights through the window, the trees gradually grew denser. Before long, I could feel the steep incline and sharp turns. By then, realizing my guess had been completely right, I stopped crying and struggling. I gave up.

Abruptly, the car stopped, and I was dragged outside. What caught my eye were stone steps stretching downward into the gloom, lit by the headlights. They vanished into darkness, their end nowhere in sight. That sight deepened my despair. I simply let whatever was happening happen. Dragged along, I was brought to the opposite side of the road. There, just as I expected, stood the mountain gate. I had always found the huge wooden carved statues on either side of the gate eerie, even when viewing them with others during the day. But seeing their terrifying faces floating in the darkness under these circumstances left me completely speechless. Taking advantage of my docility, my parent dragged me out of the trash bag, grabbed my arm, pulled me through the gate, and led me up a few steps of the stone staircase beyond. Leaving me standing there, dazed with terror, my parent hurried back down the steps. A moment later, I heard the car door slam shut, and the sound of the engine faded into the distance. It was the moment I was truly abandoned.

I slumped down on the edge of the stone steps at my feet. Chasing after the car now was useless; I could never catch up. There was nothing left to do. I had no choice but to bury my face in my knees and let my tears fall.

I don't know how long I stayed like that. Just as I was growing tired of crying, I suddenly heard the sound of a flute. Pulled back from the brink of drowsiness by the sound, the beat of drums soon reached my ears. Listening closely, I heard music like a festival song coming from the direction of the shrine farther up the steps. Fear gripped me again, and my body went rigid. I wanted to cover my ears, but I couldn't because my arms were tied. All I could do was tremble as the sounds, which had been distant at first, steadily drew closer. Finally, the noise was right behind me. Pressing my head into my knees and clinging to the edge of the steps, I tried only to stay out of the way of whoever was coming down. At that moment, along with fear, a wave of curiosity welled up inside me. What was making this sound? I desperately wanted to know, wanted to see. It was that irresistible urge born of morbid curiosity. Yielding to temptation, I turned my head—which had been facing away from the stairs—toward the steps and looked over my shoulder.

The first thing I saw was red. A towering, muscular humanoid figure bathed in red passed right beside me and headed down the stone steps. At that exact moment, the words "Red Oni" flashed through my mind. I don't remember the details after that as clearly as that singular moment. Similar beings, along with figures draped in white and green robes, followed in a long line, moving slowly and smoothly past me. Here and there, figures were playing instruments like flutes and drums—there was no doubt that was the source of the music. And even though it should have been the dead of night, the area surrounding the procession was as bright as day. Not a single figure cast a glance in my direction. Perhaps that was for the best. Though my body had been frozen in fear, watching the procession of figures in various patterned robes while listening to the lively rhythm of the festival music gradually eased my tension. By the end, I even felt a deep sense of joy emanating from the parade.

Before I knew it, the procession was gone. It sounds cliché, but it felt just like waking from a dream. As I stared blankly at the path where the parade had passed, I suddenly heard a car engine near the mountain gate, snapping my attention back. A moment later, I saw my parent walking up the stone steps. Reaching me without a word, my parent cut the cord binding my arms, grabbed me by the wrist again, and dragged me back to the car. I was put in the backseat, and we drove off.

I turned back toward the gate again and again until the trees blocked my view, but there was only pitch darkness—not a single trace of what had just happened.

As an epilogue, I've only ever told this story to one other person. Eighteen years have passed since then, and I am now twenty-one. Likely due to my history of abuse, I find it hard to trust people deeply and struggle to open up about myself. But even setting that aside, I felt this experience was something I should keep to myself. Recently, however, I made my first truly close friend. Somehow, the feeling arose that maybe I could share it with this person, so I prefaced it with, "You might not believe this, but..." After finishing, I was terrified they'd think I was crazy. But my friend started their reply with the exact same words: "You might not believe this, but..." As it turned out, that friend possessed spiritual sensitivity. According to them, the beings living on that mountain might have been comforting a crying child—and then went down to put pressure on the parent who could do such a terrible thing.

To this day, that striking "red" from that night remains burned into my memory. Every now and then, out of nowhere, that moment comes rushing back.