Hanako-san

      On Halloween night, 2025, Tokyo glowed like a smack of jellyfish drifting in a deep ocean. The rain was tapping lightly on thousands of open umbrellas that walked down Shibuya Crossing. Teenagers in Halloween costumes strolled in small groups, taking selfies and laughing. The street smelled of wet asphalt and sweet candy. Three girls in short black dresses with cat ears were treading on puddles and gazing at passers-by. The girls looked almost like sisters with their dark hair and brown eyes. Aki Nishimura adjusted her thin headband and followed her friends through the dense crowd. “Tokyo looks possessed tonight,” she smiled. It was nice to see easily recognizable characters in complete strangers. People were having a lot of fun. When the rain grew heavier, the girls hurried into a small coffee shop. Inside, it was warm and cozy — paper bats hanging from the ceiling, jack-o’-lanterns glowing on the counter, and baristas wearing scary makeup for the occasion. It was the perfect escape from the cold October night. They ordered coffee and settled by the window, chatting about costumes and school gossip. Rin Sato, the girl with red lipstick, scrolled through TikTok, half listening to what her friends were saying. The blue light from her screen flickered across her face. Her eyes suddenly widened. “Look at this,” she whispered. On the video, a group of teenagers stood in a school bathroom, filming as someone knocked on a closed stall three times. “Hanako-san, are you there?” they giggled. Then the camera trembled. The clip cut to black nothingness with a scream in the background. “Are they alright?” the third girl, Miyu, asked, pressing her lips together. She looked genuinely concerned. “Of course they’re alright, Miyu,” Aki replied, nodding to the waiter that brought coffee to their table. “They probably edited that video, so it’s another fake.” Rin shrugged, sipping her almond milk latte. “Maybe they did. But this trend went viral, the hashtag, HanakoSummon — it’s blowing up. You know the story of Hanako-san, right?” Aki sighed. They definitely knew. Hanako-san was a well-known urban legend about a girl’s ghost who haunted school bathrooms. The legend was similar to Bloody Mary. The ritual of summoning Hanako-san was very popular back in the nineties. But now, because of TikTok, it was trending again. “Let’s try it,” Rin said sharply. Her eyes were bright with the kind of mischief that made Aki nervous. “Tomorrow. At school.” Miyu frowned. “Are you serious?” But Rin said she was, indeed, very serious.       By the next morning, the air felt nice and fresh, although the Halloween’s glow faded into a dull gray sky. The building of the Tokyo Metropolitan Asuka Senior High School stood in a narrow street not far from the Oji station. Aki Nishimura walked beside Rin Sato and Miyu Takahashi. The memories of last night still shimmered vividly in her mind: the rain, the lights, the laughter. Then she remembered that TikTok trend. I’ll have to talk Rin out of this stupid idea before she actually tries it, Aki thought. During lunch break, the girls sat away from the noisy groups and set their trays on an empty table in the cafeteria corner. Rin was already scrolling through her phone before anyone sat down; her preoccupation caught Aki’s attention. “Rin, we’re eating. Put your phone away or I’ll throw it out the window. Are you still watching those scary videos?” Aki asked. Rin didn’t answer at first. Her expression shifted. It was fascination mixed with unease. “I’m reading comments,” she said at last. “You should take a look.” Rin scrolled past a stream of emojis and dares, then stopped at one comment that made Aki’s heart skip a beat: “Try it at Asuka High. Third stall, third floor. 3:33 p.m. — if you dare.” Miyu tensed up. She began nervously fiddling with her fork. “Someone wrote about our school.” A smirk showed on Rin’s face. “Then let’s be the first to prove it’s fake,” she said with sheer confidence. After classes ended, the school went eerily silent. Most students had already gone home. Fluorescent lights buzzed weakly above as Aki, Rin, and Miyu made their way to the third floor. The hallway was empty. Aki’s heart pounded louder with every step forward. This is stupid. This is so, so stupid, she thought. If Rin weren’t addicted to TikTok, we’d all be sitting at home right now. The girls reached the bathroom at the end of the hall. Inside, the air was cold like in a freezer, it smelled of bleach and damp paper. Miyu hovered near the door, ready to escape at any moment. Rin raised her phone to record. “Third stall, third floor, 3:33 p.m.,” she whispered to the camera. “Let’s see if Hanako-san answers.” Aki swallowed hard, anxiously waiting. She didn’t want Rin to even try. Sato hesitated, standing before the third stall. Her reflection in the mirror moved when she knocked three times. Knock. Knock. Knock. “Hanako-san…are you there?” Rin said, starting to smile as nothing appeared. The girls heard just the drip of a faucet somewhere close. Miyu let out a shaky breath. “See? Nothing.” Rin laughed. Then came another sound — a slow, wet shuffle from behind the stall door. It repeated three times, and all three girls froze, looking at each other. Aki was about to say something when the stall door creaked, moving a few centimeters. Something weirdly pale showed in the gap, like a hand, but small and with very long nails stained with red droplets. Rin’s phone trembled in her grip. Aki asked her to stop filming, but Rin’s mind went blank. “It’s just a prank,” she pleaded, though her voice broke. From behind the door came a keen whisper, toneless and childlike: “Do you…still want to play…?” The lights started to flicker until they suddenly went out. Miyu screamed. Aki reached for her phone to call for help, but it wouldn’t turn on.The sound of bare feet slapping against wet tiles made her blood run cold.The stall doors banged open one after another. A flash from Rin’s phone lit the bathroom for a split second. It was enough for Aki to see the third stall wide open, and a girl in a red skirt crouched inside, her black hair spilling like water over her face. Her mouth was the only thing she could see, and it was smiling far too wide. Aki squinted her eyes so hard that they hurt. And when she opened them, Rin’s phone was on the floor, screen cracked, still recording nothing but the empty stalls.The third door was closed again. Rin was nowhere to be found. And that is why you shouldn’t repeat these stupid TikTok trends, kids.