When I was in elementary school, I had a strange experience. My aunt lived in Sumida Ward, Tokyo, and I used to stay over at her place quite often. At the time, my favorite hobby was taking morning bike rides. The area where my aunt lived had an old-school downtown atmosphere, packed tightly with small houses and a maze of narrow alleys where even cars couldn't pass. Having grown up in the countryside, I found it fascinating, just like a maze. The morning after staying over, I would wake up early, borrow a bicycle, and ride all through those alleys. Sometimes I really did get lost, but the block where my aunt lived was bordered by wide streets on three sides and an embankment on the other, so if I just kept going straight, I would eventually come out somewhere.
One summer day, I went out for my usual morning ride. As I rode around, I came out right underneath a train viaduct that cut straight across the middle of the district. If I kept riding along the viaduct, I should head straight toward the embankment. Deciding to ride all the way there, I started pedaling along the viaduct. There were paths on both sides of the viaduct, and as I crossed under it, riding sometimes on the right and sometimes on the left, a dog suddenly started barking at me. I couldn't see it, but the barking was so ferocious that I got scared. Desperate to get away, I darted under the viaduct to the path on the left. The moment I did, the barking stopped. It wasn't that the dog stopped barking—it was more like the sound was abruptly cut off. And then, a sense of wrongness. Something was different. Feeling that, I stopped my bicycle.
The sight of small houses lined up without a gap along the street was something I was used to. But the brightness was different. Until a moment ago, it had been the whitish sunlight typical of morning, but the light illuminating the houses and the road right in front of me now was a yellowish, evening-like glow. Feeling suspicious, I casually looked up at the viaduct and got a shock. At the far end of the straight-stretching viaduct, I saw a mountain. A mountain glowing gold, just like autumn rice ears. There should have been an embankment ahead, and there was no way a mountain could be there. I briefly thought I might have mistaken the embankment for a mountain, but the mountain was quite large and formed a perfect triangle. *This is bad.* For some reason, I felt that way at that moment. I mustn't go any further. If I went on... I wouldn't be able to come back. I turned my bicycle around and pedaled at full speed. I consciously took the exact opposite turns of the way I had come—turning left where I had turned right, and right where I had left. After making a few turns, I noticed that the air had changed. I stopped my bicycle and, with trembling hesitation, looked back. The mountain was no longer there. The light had also returned to the whitish morning glow.
After that, I stayed at my aunt's house several times, but I could never bring myself to go out for morning walks again. It wasn't until about two years later that I was finally able to go out and check it out. I rode my bicycle straight along the viaduct, but no matter how far I went, the mountain never appeared. I kept going, and eventually, I just hit the embankment. I tried several times, but I never saw that mountain again. Even now, I sometimes find myself wondering what on earth that was. I can't help thinking that maybe, just maybe, I wandered into another dimension.
Comments (-)