"Black Clouds" | A mystery horror short story

“I never wanted this place, Dad. Somedays I feel like it chose me. Like somebody died here and their spirit chose a new tenant. That was me. The fuckin’ unlucky one.”

“Why don’t you move?”

“Can’t. Fuckin’ housing company won’t let me til’ I’ve been here for a year. Damn this place sucks. Can’t wait to get back to San Diego and see you.”

“I’ll keep it warm for you.”

“Very funny, Dad.”

“Son… don’t make a monster out of that place. Give it a chance.”

“I won’t. I’ll try.”

“Do you need money?”

“No Dad, I told you, military money is good enough.”

“Okay, okay.”

“…I gotta go. 0400 start tomorrow…”

“Okay… have a good sleep.”

“Bye.”

Yun set his phone down on the worn-out couch in his apartment. Only the glow of his phone screen flickered against the cracked walls.

He scanned the dark apartment. Dripping sink, rattling air conditioner, ants marching in the entryway, whir of endless traffic on nearby highway 58 – this place was a certified dump. The only one available when he arrived during the busy summer move season.

Lucky me.

Yun went to the refrigerator, then returned to the dented couch with a bottle of Sapporo. Absentmindedly, he sipped and scrolled. Post after post blended into one endless smear of other people’s lives. Reality moved in rips at night, especially when he zoomscrolled. Upon snapping out of the phone glaze, he estimated two or three rips burned by, but that was just a guess.

Somewhere outside, the first rumble of thunder rolled across the sky. A black storm smothered the coastline, blotting out the stars. It had been like this for hours—clouds gathering, dark as wasted jet fuel, swirling in strange, unnatural patterns.

Yun looked out the window – if you could call it that. The square that used to have a view followed the eighty-twenty rule – twenty percent black sky, eight percent gray Japanese construction sleeve over the neighboring structure. A view obstructing irritation.

This place is trash. Yun took another pair of swigs from the bottle as he flicked his thumb to open the Duolingo Japanese app. His Dad convinced him to learn the language, thinking that would make him hate Japan less. But he found the app useless for actual conversations.

We have two enemies. What good was that sentence? What a waste.

The smell of cigarette smoke wandered in from the street, again. Yun turned up his nose. The stench joined the smell of disinfectant and the perpetual trace of ash in the apartment. There was always something with this place; he was never alone, never at peace. That was Okinawa for you.

Through the loose door (that was a pain to lock and close all the way) Yun heard faint footsteps slapping across the concrete outside. Someone returning to their unit late, probably drunk, or staggering back after curfew. Can’t they walk quieter. Yun kept scrolling, but the page didn't load.

He swiped it closed, to inspect his service: NO SIGNAL.

“What now?” he muttered. He threw the phone down. Thanks to all the buildings around, the Wi-Fi here was terrible, and tonight, it was worse than usual.

He rubbed an exhausted eye while draining his beer. Shift work sapped him like nothing else—twelve hours on the flightline fixing jets, followed by nights like these, trapped in the silence of his rundown apartment with nothing but old ghosts and noisy neighbors. I’d rather drink gas than extend here.

Thunder cracked again, closer this time. The wind shook the window in his bedroom. Something moved outside—too fast, too large to be the wind. Yun walked to the room then stared at the glass. His skin prickled as if someone were watching him from the other side. 

A shadow shifted in the storm clouds. Then he saw it. A shape coiled within the dark—twisting, writhing, monstrous. 

For one awful second, yellow eyes gleamed from the storm, then vanished as the power flickered, plunging the apartment into darkness. 

The room filled with silence, heavy and dense. Yun grabbed his phone, then activated the flashlight to illuminate the area. Storm must've knocked out the power. Great. The shadows stretched deep into the corners, where no light reached. Somewhere—just at the edge of his hearing—a sound drifted in: the high-pitched call of a bird, shrill and piercing. It was followed by the scrape of claws dragging slowly across wood. He returned to the living room. 

“The fuck?”

His mouth went dry. His eyes locked onto the hallway leading to the kitchen. A figure slinked into the moonlight leaking through the space in the window—a grotesque hybrid of fur, scales, and muscle.

Yun stared, heart beating hard enough to blow up in his chest. The creature stood there: face of an angry monkey, tiger limbs crouched—ready to pounce, serpent’s tail waving behind curling and uncurling with slow menace. A low, rasping sound reverberated from its lips, like a clucking sigh, steady then not - sound of a wild animal signaling an unknown message to another. The air ripened to a choking burnt smell, as if Yun were in a gas chamber, except there was no mask to don. He had trouble breathing.

Then out of trained instinct, his heartbeat slowed—not from fear, but from the flood of adrenaline rushing through his veins. Fight or flight kicked in. There’d be no running tonight. 

Yun backed away, eyes never leaving the beast as he knelt with care and wrapped his fingers around the empty Sapporo. In less than a second, he bashed and broke it on the tile floor, then thrust the broken bottle toward his target.

The creature slithered sideways, dodging him with a disturbing, fluid grace. To Yun’s surprise, no counterattack came. It just watched him, yellow eyes glowing with something like amusement.

He charged again, but hit air.

Another blink. It vanished. Dissolved into the darkness like smoke. 

Yun stood in the silence, chest heaving, every muscle tensed. The only sound was the distant hum of rain pattering against the windows. Was it real? Is this a dream?

His phone buzzed on the couch. He hurried to swipe it up—5G (full bars).

---

Still holding the bottle with a shaking hand, Yun pulled up his phone. One-handed, he typed: “monkey face, animal body, tiger limbs, snake tail, Japan monster.” In one shot, he found it: 

Nue—an ancient yokai.

In Japanese mythology, the Nue is a supernatural monster with the face of a monkey, the torso of a tanuki (Japanese raccoon dog), the limbs of a tiger and the tail of a snake. 

“No fucking way.”

He clicked a few links. After thirty minutes of reading and another Sapporo, he understood what it was, but still couldn’t bring himself to do much about it.

According to legend, Nue brought nightmares and sickness, slithering into the minds of emperors and driving them to ruin.

There was a story—a samurai named Minamoto no Yorimasa shot the monster from the sky centuries ago after it haunted the Emperor of Kyoto. The Nue’s body was torched, buried, and banished to prevent it from ever returning. 

Yun’s blood ran cold. 

How the fuck in it here? In Okinawa? Alive?

He finished the second beer. A third one followed to further dull the edge.

Yun rubbed his face. Yeah, I’m dead tired, maybe a little buzzed. Fuck it, I’ll just take leave tomorrow. Say I ate a bad waribiki sushi from Max Value. Flint won’t care.

He sat on his deflated couch sipping his drink.

Maybe it wasn’t the same Nue. Maybe I imagined the whole thing—just another nightmare, conjured by weeks of overwork and no sleep.

The apartment still smelled faintly of rot, like something had slithered through and left its presence behind. But it always smelled like straight up old—that wasn’t new--

Something scraped against the door.

Yun jumped to his feet. He crept to the trash can and pulled out the broken bottle from before. 

He yanked the door open—and stumbled backward. 

A body collapsed into his apartment with a hard smack.

For a moment, Yun could only stare. With deliberate movement, he knelt to examine the corpse. The man’s throat had been torn open, skin flapping like ripped paper, yet his face was almost peaceful. Yun knew that face—he’d seen it half a dozen times since moving in, always nodding in polite disinterest. But now those same eyes were glassy and fixed, lips parted, no breath. Blood seeped across the tile, pooling at Yun’s feet in the entryway like a spilled drink. Yun stared in disbelief. Did I…?

His gaze dropped to his hands. The bottle was smeared with blood.

Oh fuck, oh fuck, fuck, FUCK!

His breath came in short bursts, panic gripped him tight.

It wasn’t me. I couldn’t. Did I?

The memory was a blur, flashes of rage and confusion, the image of the Nue still burning in his mind. Everything was too jumbled for him to concentrate.

I heard the steps outside, thunder, into the bedroom, the Nue, then it was… he glanced at the dead Japanese man lying face down in blood. FUUCK   

He looked outside, then back inside. Better act fast. He dragged the body inside. Through the living room, into the bedroom, to the window.  Heart hammering in his chest, hoping to stage it as a robbery or accident, he peered below. Third floor drop, guy came in, we got into it, he cuts me, I cut him, he jumps, dies on impact, yeah yeah—FUCK! Every sound—every drip of blood, every shuffle of shoes—banged in his ears as he heaved the surprisingly heavy dead man up then shoved it out the window. Two seconds and he heard the most unnatural crumpling thud. It sounded like a rain soaked bag of MOPP gear being thrown from a moving truck—hard, soggy, and clattering. Yun smashed his eyes shut and closed the window. He wiped his hands on his jeans, smearing red across the fabric. 

On the floor by the entryway his phone buzzed again. 

Google Photo update notification.

What the?

Yun opened the album—and nearly dropped the phone. 

Photos of him standing over the neighbor’s body, bloody bottle in hand, his face contorted with hate. The timestamps were from moments ago. There was no one else in the apartment. No one else could have taken the pictures.   

This can’t be happening.

He stepped in the still warm blood to look outside--only black clouds floating above.

A soft hiss behind made him spin. 

---

Yun turned slowly. 

The Nue crouched on the ceiling, watching him. Its yellow eyes gleamed with triumph, its grin wide and knowing. The air seemed to compress Yun’s lungs with dread. He wanted to vomit.

His phone buzzed again—a message from Dad: 

“Saw you were active online. Hope you’re not killing time on your phone, again. That thing is a real monster sometimes.”

The Nue’s grin widened, as if savoring Yun’s indecision. The black storm spiraled outside, pressing against the windows like a living thing. Yun’s phone flickered. He dared to glance at the screen: 5G (one bar).

Alone in the dark, terrified, Yun dropped the bottle and dialed his Dad.

On the roof, the tiger claws of the Nue scraped closer. Yun’s breaths came in shallow puffs while he listened to the dial tone. He squeezed his eyes shut. A high-pitched bird cry cawed around him.

“Hello?”

“Dad! Dad! I really need your help now!”

A pause.

Static.

“I’ll keep it warm for you.”

“Dad!?”

---

Outside black clouds consume the building.

A swirling portal to nowhere spins overhead.

Thanks for reading!

Learn more about the Japanese yokai in this story Nue, here.

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