Dive into the chilling Japanese horror story, The Girl in the Red Skirt, where a young student at Kamome Academy encounters the terrifying Japanese urban legend of Hanako-san, a ghostly girl haunting the third-floor bathroom. This ghost story unravels a web of dark secrets, blending psychological dread with Japanese folklore to deliver a spine-chilling horror story that grips readers with suspense and supernatural terror. Perfect for fans of Japanese horror stories seeking a haunting tale of mystery and fear.
Chapter 1
Kamome Academy loomed at the town’s edge like a forgotten tomb, its concrete walls pitted with age, streaked with decades of rain and neglect.
On October 15, 2025, the sky hung low, bruised with clouds, the air thick with the scent of damp leaves and the faint chemical bite of nearby factories. Aiko Yashiro, twelve, stood at the rusted gates, her backpack heavy with textbooks and the weight of another fresh start.
She was small, her dark hair tucked behind her ears, her navy sailor uniform a hand-me-down that sagged on her frame, making her look like a child lost in someone else’s shadow. Her eyes, sharp and wary, scanned the courtyard where students laughed and jostled, their voices a barrier she didn’t know how to cross.
Aiko was no stranger to being new. Her father’s job as a regional manager dragged the family across Japan—Tokyo’s neon chaos, Osaka’s crowded streets, now this nowhere town where the air clung like damp cloth.
Each move promised reinvention, but it always ended the same: in Tokyo, she was invisible; in Osaka, the target of taunts, her lunch stolen, her desk scrawled with “loser.”
Kamome Academy was her latest chance, but whispers of its reputation preceded it—lights flickering in empty halls, footsteps where no one walked, a girl who vanished years ago. The school felt alive, watching, its windows glinting like eyes.
She took a deep breath, the October chill biting her lungs, and stepped through the gates. The courtyard buzzed, students in crisp uniforms, their laughter sharp against the gray sky.
Aiko smoothed her skirt, feeling the worn fabric, and navigated the crowd to the main building. The halls were a labyrinth of linoleum and faded posters, the air heavy with chalk dust and old wood. Room 2-B was on the second floor, and her heart thudded as she slid open the door.
The chatter stopped, a dozen pairs of eyes pinning her like a specimen. The teacher, Mrs. Nakamura, a plump woman with glasses perched on her nose, looked up.
“You must be Yashiro Aiko,” she said, her voice too loud. “Welcome. Introduce yourself.”
Aiko’s throat was dry as sandpaper. She walked to the front, her sneakers squeaking.
“Hi, I’m Yashiro Aiko. I moved here from Tokyo. I hope we can get along.”
Her voice was small, swallowed by the silence.
A murmur of greetings followed, but no one smiled. Aiko forced a smile and took her seat near the window, the desk scratched with names and crude drawings—a heart, a curse word, a star. She traced the star, wondering who’d carved it, what they’d feared or hoped. The day crawled by—math, English, history—but Aiko’s mind was elsewhere. Loneliness here felt sharper, a blade pressed against her skin.
At lunch, she sat alone in the cafeteria, picking at her bento, the rice cold and tasteless. The chatter was a blur until a snippet from the next table caught her ear. “Have you heard about Hanako-san?” a girl asked, her voice low, excited.
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“Of course,” another replied, rolling her eyes. “Everyone knows her.”
“But do you think it’s true? My cousin said a girl at her school summoned Hanako-san last year and vanished.”
Aiko’s ears pricked. Urban legends were nothing new, but this one felt heavier, like a stone in her gut. She leaned closer, her chopsticks forgotten.
“How do you summon her?” the first girl asked.
“Third-floor girls’ bathroom, third stall from the left. Knock three times and say, ‘Are you there, Hanako-san?’ If she answers, you’re done for.”
“What happens then?”
The second girl’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“She pulls you into the toilet, into her world. Or she appears—a girl with bobbed hair and a red skirt. Look in her eyes, and you’re dead.”
Aiko shivered, a cold finger tracing her spine. It was just a story, wasn’t it? But the girls’ faces were serious, their eyes wide with fear and fascination. She couldn’t help herself.
“Excuse me,” she said, leaning over. “What’s this about Hanako-san?”
The girls turned, surprised. “You’re the new kid, right?” one said, her name tag reading Emi. “Hanako-san’s a ghost. Haunts this school. Been here forever.”
“Forever?” Aiko asked.
“Yeah,” the other girl, Saki, said. “My friend’s friend saw her. Late at night, in the bathroom. Heard a voice from the third stall, looked in, and there she was—just staring. She ran, but she said the air felt wrong, like something followed her.”
Aiko’s stomach twisted. “Is it true?”
“Who knows?” Emi said. “But don’t go up there alone, especially after dark. People say the bathroom’s a gate to somewhere else.”
Aiko nodded, thanking them. The story clung to her like damp clothes. That night, in her bedroom with peeling wallpaper, she lay awake, the words echoing: Hanako-san, are you there? What if something was waiting?
The next day, the feeling of being watched grew stronger. In class, Aiko caught glimpses of movement—shadows that vanished when she turned. In the hallway, whispers followed, soft and indistinct, like voices underwater. She told herself it was her imagination, but her skin prickled.
During a break, she found a note on her desk, written in neat, unfamiliar handwriting: Stay away from the third floor. She’s waiting. Her heart skipped. Who had left it? The classroom was empty, the other students gone. She crumpled the note, stuffing it into her pocket, but its words burned in her mind.
Walking home, the streets felt too quiet, the shadows too long. Aiko quickened her pace, the note a weight in her pocket. That night, she dreamed of the bathroom—tiles slick with water, lights buzzing like angry bees. A figure stood in the third stall, her red skirt swaying, her face hidden by hair.
“Help me,” she whispered, her voice echoing in Aiko’s skull. “Find out what happened.”
Aiko woke, her sheets damp with sweat, the air heavy with the scent of ash. She knew she couldn’t ignore it. Hanako-san was a mystery, and Aiko was going to solve it. But as she drifted back to sleep, a faint knock sounded from her closet—three slow, deliberate taps. Her breath caught, her eyes locked on the door. Silence followed, but the air felt heavier, as if something waited just beyond.
Chapter 2
Aiko couldn’t shake Hanako-san. The ghost’s name was a splinter in her mind, her sad eyes a weight on Aiko’s chest. All through class, she felt watched, a presence lurking just out of sight. Shadows flickered in her peripheral vision, gone when she turned. The hallway whispers grew louder, more insistent, as if the school was warning her—or daring her.
At lunch, she overheard more Hanako-san stories: a boy who saw a pale hand under the stall door, a girl who heard laughter from the pipes. Each tale tightened the knot in her stomach, but her curiosity burned brighter than her fear. She’d always loved mysteries, the kind where the hero unraveled secrets no one else could see.
Maybe this was her chance.
After school, Kamome Academy emptied, the bustle replaced by a silence that pressed against her eardrums. Aiko’s heart pounded as she climbed to the third floor, each step heavier than the last.
The hallway was dim, fluorescent lights flickering, casting shadows that writhed like living things. The girls’ bathroom loomed at the end, its door ajar, a sliver of darkness within. The air smelled of bleach and something sour, like decay beneath the clean.
She hesitated, her hand trembling on the handle. It’s just a story, she told herself. But her pulse said otherwise, a frantic drumbeat in her ears. She pushed the door open, hinges creaking like a scream, and stepped into the cold, tiled space.
The bathroom was small, three stalls against the wall, their doors scratched with graffiti—names, curses, a faded heart. The third stall was different, its shadows thicker, as if light couldn’t reach it. A faint drip echoed, each drop a heartbeat in the silence.
Aiko approached, her sneakers squeaking, her breath shallow. She raised her hand and knocked three times, the sound sharp and final. “Are you there, Hanako-san?” she whispered.
Nothing. Just the drip, the hum of lights. Then, a voice—soft, high, like a child’s: “Yes, I am.”
Aiko’s breath caught, her body frozen. The stall door creaked, inching open, revealing darkness. A pale hand curled around the edge, small and delicate, its nails chipped and black, glistening as if wet.
Aiko’s scream lodged in her throat, her legs rooted to the tiles. The door opened wider, and there was Hanako-san, a girl no older than Aiko, her bobbed hair black as ink, her red skirt faded and tattered. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, her eyes deep wells of sorrow that seemed to pull Aiko in. Her smile was wrong, too wide, showing too many teeth.
“Do you want to play?” Hanako-san asked, her voice soft but edged with something hungry.
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Aiko’s mind raced. Play? The stories flashed through her head—girls vanishing, pulled into toilets, their screams echoing in empty stalls. But Hanako-san didn’t move, didn’t lunge. She stood, her head tilted, her eyes pleading.
“I… don’t know,” Aiko stammered. “What do you want?”
Hanako-san’s smile faded, her eyes clouding with pain. “Help me,” she whispered. “Find out what happened.”
Before Aiko could respond, the lights flickered, plunging the bathroom into twilight. The tiles shuddered, a low moan rising from the drains. The air thickened, smelling of ash and blood.
Aiko’s vision blurred, and the bathroom dissolved. She was in a forest, trees towering, their branches clawing at a starless sky. The ground was soft, damp, the air heavy with decay. Hanako-san stood beside her, her skirt swaying in a breeze Aiko couldn’t feel.
“Where are we?” Aiko asked, her voice trembling.
“This is where I am,” Hanako-san said. “Trapped between worlds. You can free me.”
“How?” Aiko’s heart pounded, the forest closing in.
“Find the truth about my death,” Hanako-san said. “Uncover what they did.”
The forest vanished, and Aiko was back in the bathroom, alone, the stall door closed. Her breath came in gasps, her hands shaking. It was real—Hanako-san was real, and she needed help. But the air felt wrong, heavy with a presence that lingered.
As Aiko turned to leave, she saw it—a shadow in the mirror, a girl’s silhouette, her head tilted, her eyes black voids. Aiko blinked, and it was gone, but her reflection looked wrong, her own eyes too dark, too deep.
She stumbled out, her sneakers slipping on the tiles. On the floor, near the door, was a crumpled note, written in faded ink: The fire wasn’t an accident. Look for the truth. Aiko’s blood ran cold. She pocketed the note, her mind racing. Who had left it? Hanako-san? Someone else?
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. Every creak of the house, every shadow, made her jump. She saw Hanako-san’s face, her pleading eyes, her too-wide smile. Find out what happened.
But the knocks came again—three slow taps from her closet. She clutched her blanket, her eyes fixed on the door. A faint whisper followed, so soft she might have imagined it: “Aiko…” Her name hung in the air, cold and final, as the closet door creaked open an inch, revealing only darkness.
Chapter 3
Aiko’s days blurred into a haze of fear and determination. Hanako-san’s voice echoed in her mind, her sad eyes a constant presence. She felt watched, not just in school but at home, where shadows lingered in corners, where the air sometimes carried the faint scent of smoke.
The knocks came every night now—three taps, always from the closet, always followed by her name whispered in that soft, chilling voice. She stopped opening the closet, but the presence grew heavier, the air colder.
She needed help, and she wasn’t alone.
Takeshi, a tall boy with unruly hair and a skeptical grin, had overheard her talking about Hanako-san and offered to help.
“You’re nuts,” he’d said, “but I’m curious. Let’s see what’s up.” His bravado was a comfort, but Aiko saw the unease in his eyes when she showed him the note.
They started in the school library, a dusty room with sagging shelves and the smell of old paper. Mrs. Sato, the librarian, was kind but wary when Aiko asked about the school’s history. “Why the interest in tragedies?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.
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“Just a project,” Aiko lied, her voice steady. “We want to know about significant events.”
Mrs. Sato led them to a back room filled with boxes and bound newspapers.
“Be careful,” she said. “These are fragile.”
They dug through yearbooks and articles, finding a 1985 yearbook with Hanako Tanaka’s photo—a smiling girl with bobbed hair and a red skirt, her eyes bright but shadowed. “She looks so normal,” Aiko said, tracing the photo.
“But something happened,” Takeshi replied. “Keep looking.”
A 1986 newspaper article detailed the fire: Hanako Tanaka, found in the third-floor bathroom, the only casualty. The cause was undetermined, but arson was suspected.
“Why would someone set a fire?” Aiko wondered.
“To cover something up,” Takeshi said. “Or to hurt someone.”
The note—The fire wasn’t an accident—burned in Aiko’s pocket. Hanako-san had said “they.” Who were they?
They talked to Mr. Yamamoto, a history teacher who’d been at Kamome since the 1980s. “The 1986 fire?” he said, his face clouding. “A tragic day. Hanako was a bright girl, always helping others. The fire started in the art room, spread fast. She was trapped in the bathroom.”
“Was it arson?” Aiko asked.
“Rumors,” Mr. Yamamoto said, hesitating. “Some said she was hiding from bullies, others that she was mixed up in something bad. Nothing was proven.”
Aiko and Takeshi left, their minds buzzing. In the hallway, Aiko noticed a group of students whispering near the stairs. One, a girl with long black hair named Yumi, caught her eye and looked away.
“Excuse me,” Aiko said, approaching.
“I heard you talking about Hanako-san. Do you know anything?”
Yumi shook her head. “Just stories.”
But Aiko saw fear in her eyes. “Please,” she said. “I think she’s trying to tell me something.”
Yumi glanced at her friends, then whispered, “They say Hanako was protecting a younger kid from a bully. The bully started the fire to get rid of them both, but only Hanako died.”
“Who was the bully?” Aiko asked.
“I don’t know,” Yumi said. “But some say he’s still here—a teacher.”
Aiko’s heart raced. A teacher? That night, the knocks were louder, the whisper clearer: “Aiko, find them.” She didn’t sleep, her eyes fixed on the closet, where shadows seemed to pulse. The next morning, she found another note on her desk: Check the art room records. They lied. The handwriting was shaky, as if written in haste—or fear.
She and Takeshi snuck into the school office after hours, the building eerily quiet, the air heavy with dust and secrets.
They found the 1986 records, a file marked “Incident Report.” It listed the fire’s origin as the art room, with paint cans and rags as fuel. A name was redacted, but a margin note in faded ink read: “K.M. was questioned. No charges.” Aiko’s hands shook. K.M.—could it be a teacher?
As they left the office, the lights flickered, and a cold breeze swept through, carrying the scent of smoke. Footsteps echoed behind them, slow and deliberate, but no one was there. Takeshi grabbed her arm. “We need to get out.”
They ran, but the footsteps followed, growing louder, closer. Aiko glanced back and saw a shadow—a girl’s silhouette, her skirt swaying, her eyes black voids. She blinked, and it was gone, but the air grew colder, the smell of ash stronger. They burst into the courtyard, gasping, the footsteps fading but the presence lingering.
Chapter 4
Aiko and Takeshi were unraveling a nightmare. The records pointed to K.M., and Yumi’s story suggested a teacher. Aiko’s dreams were haunted by Hanako-san, her voice pleading, her eyes accusing.
The knocks at night were relentless, sometimes joined by scratching, like nails on wood. Once, Aiko swore she saw a pale hand slip from the closet, its fingers curling before vanishing. She stopped sleeping, her eyes ringed with shadows, her hands trembling.
They researched the faculty. Kenji Mori, the art teacher, had been at Kamome since 1985. K.M. Aiko’s stomach churned. Mori was strict, his eyes cold, his voice sharp when students misbehaved. Could he be the bully who started the fire?
They needed proof. Aiko returned to the third-floor bathroom, Takeshi at her side, their flashlights cutting through the dark. The air was freezing, the tiles slick with condensation. Aiko knocked on the stall door, her voice steady. “Hanako-san, show me what happened.”
The lights flickered, and a vision hit her like a wave: Hanako in the bathroom, pleading with a boy—Kenji, younger, his face twisted with rage—as he lit a match. A younger boy, Taro, cowered in the corner, sobbing. Paint cans exploded into flames, the fire roaring, swallowing Hanako as she screamed, “Run, Taro!” The vision faded, leaving Aiko gasping, tears streaming down her face.
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“It was Kenji,” she said. “He set the fire to scare Taro, but it killed Hanako.”
Hanako-san’s voice echoed: “Stop him. Free me.”
The bathroom shook, the stalls rattling, a low growl rising from the drains. The mirror fogged, handprints appearing, small and pale. Takeshi’s flashlight died, plunging them into darkness. Aiko’s beam caught Hanako-san’s face in the mirror, her eyes black, her mouth a gaping wound. “Find him,” she hissed, her voice a chorus of pain.
They fled, the bathroom door slamming behind them. In the hallway, they found another note, smeared with ash: He’s in the art room tonight. End it. Aiko’s heart pounded. This was it.
They crept to the art room, the school a maze of shadows. The door was ajar, light spilling out. Kenji was inside, sorting papers, oblivious. Aiko’s voice trembled as she stepped forward.
“Mr. Mori, I know what you did. You killed Hanako-san.”
Kenji’s face went white. “You’re crazy. Get out.”
“She told me,” Aiko said, Takeshi at her side. “You set the fire in 1986. You meant to hurt Taro, but Hanako died.”
The room grew cold, the lights buzzing wildly. Kenji’s eyes darted to the door, but Hanako-san appeared behind him, her red skirt swaying, her face a mask of sorrow and rage. “You left me,” she whispered, her voice everywhere, in the walls, the floor, the air.
Kenji screamed, collapsing to his knees. “I didn’t mean to! It was an accident! I just wanted to scare the kid!” His confession spilled out, raw and desperate. “Taro was weak, always crying. I lit the match to teach him a lesson. Hanako tried to stop me, and the fire got out of control. I ran—she didn’t.”
Hanako-san’s eyes darkened, her form flickering. The air smelled of burning wood, the walls creaking as if the school itself was angry. “You lied,” she said, her voice a blade. “You hid.”
Kenji sobbed, his hands clawing at the floor. Aiko and Takeshi backed away, their flashlights trembling. The lights died, and Hanako-san’s form grew, her shadow swallowing the room. Kenji’s screams cut off as the darkness took him, the air silent except for a faint drip.
When the lights flickered back on, Kenji was gone, his papers scattered, a single red ribbon on the floor. Aiko’s legs gave out, Takeshi catching her. They ran, the school a blur, the air heavy with ash and loss.
Chapter 5
The next day, the school was chaos. Kenji’s disappearance was reported, his office sealed, whispers of Hanako-san spreading like wildfire. Aiko and Takeshi told no one what they’d seen, their secret a weight they’d carry forever. The school board investigated, uncovering old records that confirmed Kenji’s role in the 1986 fire.
He’d been questioned but never charged, protected by a system that valued reputation over truth.
Aiko returned to the third-floor bathroom one last time, alone, the air warm now, the shadows gone. She knocked on the stall door. “Hanako-san, are you there?”
A soft voice answered: “Thank you.”
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The door opened, and Hanako stood there, her face no longer pale, her eyes no longer hollow. She smiled, a real smile, her red skirt bright as if new.
“You freed me,” she said. “I can go now.”
Aiko’s throat tightened. “I’m sorry for what happened to you.”
Hanako’s smile softened. “Live well,” she said, her form fading into light, the air filling with the scent of spring flowers.
Aiko left the bathroom, her heart heavy but full. She’d solved the mystery, faced the dark, and come out stronger. She wasn’t just the new girl anymore—she was someone who could stand against fear. But as she walked down the hall, a faint whisper followed, like a promise or a warning: Some secrets never stay buried.
That night, the knocks didn’t come. The closet was silent, the air light. But Aiko kept the red ribbon from the art room, a reminder of Hanako-san, of the truth she’d uncovered. Kamome Academy felt different now, its shadows lighter, but Aiko knew it held other secrets, other ghosts, waiting for someone brave—or foolish—enough to call their names.
