Tokyo Literary Masters: Starting from the Late 1980s

Two weeks later, at 23:55 PM.

A high-rise apartment in the port area.

This is the home of Hisao Murakami, a senior producer in the production department of Fuji Television.

At this moment, Hisao Murakami was wearing comfortable designer loungewear, lounging on a leather sofa, holding a can of beer that he hadn't finished.

He glanced casually at the television in front of him, a smile playing on his lips as he waited for a good show.

On the screen, the first episode of Fuji TV's new late-night drama "Strange Events," titled "Grandma," is airing.

"Hmph, letting a newly debuted writer write the script, and then casting a mentally unstable, washed-up idol in a horror movie?"

Hisao Murakami shook his head, his tone full of superiority: "That idiot Ochiai, does he really think he's making an art film?"

On the coffee table, a bottle of champagne that had been prepared in advance stood quietly in an ice bucket.

Hisao Murakami was certain that tomorrow's ratings report would be a disastrous death sentence.

Now that everything is ready, Hisao Murakami is just waiting for the show to finish so he can savor the yakiniku at Sosoen in a few days, accompanied by that delightful sound of a bottle being opened.

The first half of the series was unremarkable and nothing special.

Murakami even yawned out of boredom.

However, when the clock struck 23:58 p.m., the plot was in its final five minutes.

Hisao Murakami, who was still somewhat tired, suddenly froze in mid-air with the hand holding the bottle.

There were no gory special effects or cheap scare sound effects on the TV screen.

The scene was dimly lit, with only the white candles in the mourning hall flickering.

Akina Nakamori, dressed in black mourning clothes, is facing the camera, tossing a sandbag repeatedly.

"One...two...three..."

The sound of humming nursery rhymes came through a top-of-the-line home theater system.

Although she was singing a nursery rhyme, her voice revealed an indescribable joy.

This cheerfulness, against the backdrop of the deathly silence of the funeral hall, seemed extremely out of place, even more chilling than the wails of vengeful ghosts.

"This...this is Nakamori Akina, who only knows how to cry?"

Upon seeing this, Hisao Murakami instinctively sat up straight, a strange chill creeping up his spine.

Immediately afterwards, the woman on the screen caught the sandbag and paused for a moment.

Then, the close-up shot zoomed in directly on her face.

The lighting was very dim, and his eyes were so deep they seemed bottomless.

She stared directly at the camera, a slow, deliberate smile curving her lips as she softly hummed an eerie nursery rhyme: "A seventeen or eighteen-year-old sister, holding flowers and incense in her hands..."

In that instant, Hisao Murakami's pupils contracted sharply.

As a seasoned producer, he keenly noticed the incongruity in that gaze.

The malice and greed emanating from it did not belong to a middle-aged man in his forties, but to a soul that had been decaying for over a hundred years.

"She's that old woman...!"

A thunderbolt struck Murakami Hisao's mind as he finally grasped the true meaning of the ending: "That grandmother who should have died... took over her granddaughter Miho's body!"

This is not a normal, heartwarming interaction; it's a chilling case of a cuckoo taking over someone else's nest!

At that moment, Hisao Murakami felt as if he were being stared at through the screen by a cold, venomous snake.

A sticky, malice washed over me.

pat.

At that moment, the remote control slipped from my hand and fell to the floor, the battery cover flying off.

But Hisao Murakami didn't even bother to pick them up.

He felt a chill run from the soles of his feet straight to the top of his head, and the hairs on his body stood on end.

Then the screen gradually went black, with only that eerie laughter still echoing.

Subtitles appear: The End of "Grandma".

When the series finally ended, Hisao Murakami slumped onto the sofa, his face deathly pale.

As a seasoned veteran in the television industry for decades, he knew better than anyone the value of this shot.

"We lost..."

Hisao Murakami's voice was hoarse, as if he had swallowed a whole glass of bitter bile, as he muttered to himself, "We've lost completely..."

The next morning, Fuji Television's customer service department almost crashed.

All the telephone lines flashed red lights simultaneously, and the piercing ringing combined into a torrent of noise that was enough to drive anyone crazy.

"Hey! Fuji TV? Are you guys crazy?! What was that show about last night? It scared me to tears! I'm forty years old!"

"That's outrageous! Absolutely outrageous! That woman's laughter was terrifying! My wife unplugged the TV after watching it last night, and she's been too scared to go to the bathroom alone ever since!"

"That look in her eyes... Is that really Nakamori Akina? Huh? Did you do something to her? Is she possessed by an evil spirit? I suggest you take her to a shrine for an exorcism right away! It's terrifying!"

Complaint calls came in like snowflakes, and the operators didn't even have time to drink water. Two old switches even emitted black smoke due to overload.

However, the morning meeting of Fuji TV's production department was completely different from the hustle and bustle of the customer service center; the air was so quiet it was almost suffocating.

All the executives and producers held their breath, staring intently at the still-unrevealed data panel.

Hisao Murakami sat in the corner, his face grim, but he was still praying in his heart... So many complaints meant that the audience was disgusted, and the ratings were sure to flop.

At this moment, the staff member in charge of statistics walked forward shakily, his hands shaking so badly he could barely speak: "This...this data...should we double-check it? Is the statistics machine broken?"

"Stop talking nonsense! Stick it on!"

The bureau chief roared impatiently.

The staff member swallowed hard and tore open the seal on the data sheet.

The next second, the entire conference room erupted in thunderous gasps.

Average viewership rating for late-night programming: 25.4%.

Peak instantaneous viewership rating: 29.8%.

After a deathly silence came a frenzied commotion.

"This is impossible! It's a late-night show!"

"This is already prime-time... no, this is the data for a nationally popular program!"

"Quick! Go check if the viewership ratings company sent the wrong data!"

This is a miracle, no, it should be called an monstrous figure, especially for a late-night show.

It broke all of Fuji Television's late-night records since its founding, and even left the second place far behind.

The terrifying nursery rhyme of "one, two, three" spread like a highly pathogenic virus throughout Japan overnight.

From private junior high schools in Tokyo to street parks in Osaka, teenagers all over Japan are imitating this eerie tune.

In just one night, it became a terrifying song that all high school students imitated yet feared in the early Heisei era.

All the noise from the outside world did not disturb Kitahara Iwa, who was in seclusion.

In the study.

Inspired by Akina Nakamori's stunning performance that captivated all of Japan last night, Kitahara Iwao finally wrote the last period on the manuscript paper.