Mentori-Sama

Returning to his family's countryside home for summer break during his third year of college, the protagonist is met not by the nostalgic peace of childhood, but by an oppressive, stifling heat that seems to warp reality itself. The aging house, creaking under the weight of humidity, holds one unbreakable rule: a dark, sealed storehouse that must never be entered. Its blackened door stands as a silent sentinel, a physical embodiment of a secret the family has long chosen to ignore. The air around it feels heavier, and even the cicadas' cries seem to falter near its threshold. His grandmother, wandering the halls in a daze, mutters the same eerie mantra over and over: "Mentori-sama is watching." The phrase clings to the protagonist like the humidity, transforming everyday silences into something watchful and malevolent. In this suffocating atmosphere, his elder sister becomes his sole lifeline—her steady voice and familiar presence the only shield against the growing unease that permeates the walls. But as the summer drags on, the grandmother's ramblings grow more coherent, and the protagonist realizes that the old woman's warnings are not senile delusions, but fragments of a horrifying truth. A chilling folk-horror tale of inherited guilt and buried customs begins to surface, exposing how the bonds of blood can just as easily bind one to ancient, unforgiving rites.