My main hobby is fishing. My style is to enjoy it anywhere—sea, mountains, or rivers—but my absolute favorite is taking a boat out to sea, where you can really experience the true thrill of the sport. This is a story about something that happened to me quite a long time ago.

With a long holiday right around the corner, I was practically bursting with excitement. I had put together a trip with a couple of buddies to combine a vacation with some serious fishing, and I had been looking forward to it for months.

Fishing almost every waking hour, then sipping drinks while eating the fresh ocean bounty we caught ourselves. Just thinking about such mouthwatering luxury made my heart race.

Finally, work wrapped up and day one of the long weekend arrived! Blessed with great weather, the three of us—me and two friends—piled into the car and headed to our inn. We took a dip in the hot springs, ate dinner, and got everything ready for early the next morning. I went to bed with a strong feeling that tomorrow’s catch was going to be amazing.

When I woke up, it was still pitch black outside. But checking the clock, it was already time to get up. Anglers keep early hours. We briskly gathered our gear and left the inn well before sunrise.

The captain taking us out this time was an old friend of mine. A seasoned local veteran, his thorough knowledge and experience of the sea gave us complete confidence in him. After exchanging brief greetings, we set off into the open water right away.

The night sea carries a surreal, mystical atmosphere. Pitch darkness. Without the boat’s lights, you can’t even clearly see your own body. If the moon is out, you can see a bit, but seeing actually makes it creepier—it forces you to realize just how tiny and isolated you are in the vast expanse of nature, inspiring a sense of dread.

As we started fishing, the sky began to pale with dawn, and we started pulling in fish one after another. The captain's recommended secret spots never failed. Just as everyone had racked up a decent haul, I noticed a strange sound.

*Creak… creak…*

Between the sound of the crashing waves, a creaking noise was distinctly audible. I wondered if it was the boat, but if so, we would have heard it all along. As the sudden sound echoed, my friends tilted their heads in confusion, asking, "What’s that?" Then the captain abruptly spoke up. "Sorry, folks, but looks like the tide's turned. We're done for today. My apologies." With that, he turned the boat back toward shore. It felt off, but the captain's word was law. Oh well, there was always tomorrow, so we decided to spend the rest of the day sightseeing.

Even after returning to land, I couldn't stop thinking about that sound. The fish were biting like crazy, so why had the captain chosen to head back? Usually, he was the one insisting we stay out longer to catch more. I came to the conclusion that there had to be some secret behind that sound.

The next day, we boarded the boat long before sunrise again and headed out to sea. On the way, I casually asked the captain, "What was that creaking sound yesterday?" He looked a bit troubled and answered, "Well, let's just say it was a signal to go home." I wanted to ask for more details, but we arrived at the fishing spot, so we began casting our lines.

The waves were dead calm. But just like the quiet sea, our fishing rods remained silent, with a long stretch of time passing without a single bite.

*Creak… creak…*

In the heavy silence, that sound started up again. As I listened closely, wondering where it was coming from, I noticed something off in the distance.

It looked like a small wooden boat, with someone standing on board working a sculling oar. Bit by bit, it seemed to be heading right toward us. "Captain, there's a rowboat..." I said. "Are you serious?!" the captain shouted. "How many people do you see rowing?!" I saw one, one friend saw two, and the other friend said he couldn't see anything at all. As soon as he heard our answers, the captain gunned the engine, making us stumble and nearly fall. "Sorry for the rough ride, but we're heading back right now!" The captain's tense demeanor sent a wave of panic through us. Just as I was wondering what on earth was going on, the creaking sound echoed again over the roar of our boat's engine.

Thinking it couldn't be, I looked behind the boat—and saw the wooden vessel steadily gaining on us. There was no way a hand-rowed boat could catch up to a motorized boat. Staring intently, wondering what kind of boat it could possibly be... I saw it.

The thing rowing the boat was a mummy. Reduced to skin and bones, a figure that couldn't possibly be alive was nevertheless moving, rowing the boat straight for us. "Captain, it's getting closer!" I screamed in terror, but the captain didn't even react, completely focused on steering. "What the hell is that...?" The friend who could also see it and I stood there in stunned disbelief until land finally came into view, and the pursuing boat gradually receded and vanished.

Once we stepped ashore, the captain said, "Tonight, you're not staying at the inn. You have to stay at the shrine." He led us there, and upon arrival, he told a man who appeared to be the chief priest, "My guests saw a Kajiko." The priest agreed to take us in, and without giving us any room for argument, it was decided we would spend the night there.

The shrine staff treated us very kindly, and the captain even served us fish as a complimentary gesture. Someone from the inn we had originally booked came over to help out too, leaving me with the carefree thought that we were getting a truly unexpected experience.

"What exactly is a Kajiko?" Once dinner was over and things settled down, we asked for the truth behind it all.

A long time ago, way before World War II. In this region facing the ocean, fishing was the main trade, and it was normal for whole families to go out to sea to earn a living. Back then, schooling wasn't widespread, so even young children were considered valuable labor. However, as catches grew larger and labor shortages mounted, locals couldn't keep up without sourcing extra labor from somewhere.

The ones targeted for this were children sold off due to extreme poverty, or orphans who had nowhere else to go. Though hard to believe today, there was a time in Japan when children were trafficked, enslaved, and subjected to forced labor as vital workhands. This wasn't limited to fishing—it applied to agriculture and other industries as well, and while absent from official history books, it was practiced across the country.

Originally, the term "Kajiko" referred to the family's own children whose job was to row the oar, so the children brought in as labor were forced to work as Kajiko as well. Over time, however, their treatment turned inhumane. Viewed as mere tools, these children worked from dawn till dusk. If any tried to run away or rebel, they were brutally punished, often resulting in death. There are no official records of how many children became Kajiko and fell victim to this practice, leaving the truth buried in darkness.

After that era dragged on, stories began to surface at some point from people who, like us, claimed to have seen the ghost of a Kajiko out at sea. The number of Kajiko visible on the boat varies by observer, and the more you see, the higher the likelihood that you will die soon. Generally, if you see four or more, you will die within a week for one reason or another. It was said that the number of visible Kajiko was closely tied to a person's social standing. For example, company presidents with many subordinates, celebrities, village leaders, or wealthy individuals would surely die if they saw a Kajiko. Supposedly, a company president who once saw countless Kajiko fell off a cliff and died just a few days later.

In recent years, such inhumane labor has mostly disappeared, and perhaps because the spirits have moved on over time, people who claim to have seen a Kajiko have become extremely rare. Fortunately or unfortunately, since we were just low-level corporate drones, seeing the Kajiko wouldn't affect us... still, staying at the shrine was done as a precaution to be safe.

That night, I woke up needing to use the restroom. As I walked down the hallway, the floorboards creaked underfoot, instantly reminding me of the Kajiko's creaking oar and sending a chill down my spine. I just wanted to hurry up and crawl back under my futon. While hastily relieving myself, I heard it.

*Creak… creak…*

At a distance that felt both close and far, that sound unmistakably reached my ears. Could it be that the Kajiko had come?! I froze, holding my breath, straining every nerve to sense what was happening outside.

The sound never stopped, beating out an eerie, steady rhythm endlessly while I desperately weighed my options. Should I stay frozen in the restroom all night? No, maybe I should make a break for it and seek help from the chief priest. Surely the Kajiko wouldn't take a nobody like me to the afterlife by mistake, right? Dripping with cold sweat, I came to a decision: leave the restroom and call for help.

Holding my breath, I moved carefully to make as little noise as possible, then gingerly opened the door to check outside. I looked down the hallway to the right, and when I turned to the left—there it was.

A pale, bluish mummy about the size of a child was standing right there in the corridor. Unproportionately massive black holes gaped where its eyes and mouth should be; even though it was unmistakably right in front of me, the reality was so unbelievable that it almost looked like a prop.

I tried to scream in terror, but I couldn't make a sound, let alone move a muscle. I was paralyzed where I stood. Neither the Kajiko nor I twitched, but as I stared into its black eye sockets, they seemed to grow bigger and bigger, giving me the terrifying sensation of being sucked inside.

The next thing I knew, I was lying on my futon. The chief priest was performing a prayer beside me, and when he noticed I was awake, he sighed with relief and said, "Thank goodness you've woken up."

After that, nothing strange happened to any of us, and we returned home safely from our trip. We had to give up on fishing for the rest of the vacation, but given what had happened, there was no helping it.

Recently, the concept of sweatshop "black companies" has gained widespread recognition, but the underlying issues between employers and workers haven't really changed since ancient times. Though nowhere near as horrific as what the Kajiko endured, knowing that similar suffering still exists in today's world breaks my heart.

I still go sea fishing even after that experience, but the captain from back then has since passed away, and the memory of the Kajiko itself has nearly faded into obscurity. Yet, I can only pray that the suffering endured by those children will at least be remembered as a lesson, helping us build a society that learns from the past.