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Hope everyone enjoyed the first part! Here is the first Chapter and things are only more...creepy to say the least. Enjoy!

Chapter 1

Igakso Mental Institution, Nagoya, Japan Present Day

The hall ways seemed unnaturally quite and abandon, it would have fit naturally in some horror movie. The only downfall is this was not a movie; it was real just as any other building. Every inch of space vibrated with a feeling of tension which was probably not uncommon in a mental institution, or so as the conceived thought among people was and surely this one was not doing its reputation any favors. This was some of the feelings that reporter Michael James was experiencing as he was escorted to his destination. The only reprieve that Michael could discover was from the windows although it wasn't much. Each window had bars across them which created the strangest of shadows in the already barely illuminated hall. This place had the eerie feeling of a prison, complete with some holding cell type rooms. For a moment Michael wondered if he was taking his steps into hell wondering if this lead was a mistake. But upon that thought, his reporter instincts screamed at him that this could be the story of the decade. No, not screamed but it tore away at his mind only to remind him he needs this. This was his one opportunity of redemption. His last report was a critical flop; it was burned and criticized in the eyes of the public. He was left with the sizzling reviews as a "has been" and "someone who could only capture success for minuscule of minute." It was a hard pill to swallow but so was the life of a reporter…or for some at least. You make it big; have your five minutes of fame and then wallow in the abyss of obscurity. Unless you can keep recapturing that flame…a flame that this reporter had begun to wonder was extinguished.

However, Michael James was able to stumble across something that seemed…worthy. Under a hail of smoke and taste of alcohol, Michael discovered, via Google, of an old legend from Japan. If he was sober, he probably would have just shrugged it off as utter nonsense. But if drinking was good for anything it was dragging out the curiosity in him and he was fully intrigued. The legend itself was not the hook, line, sinker but more of the incident that had happened in the late 1950's. A typhoon had devastated a small fishing village on Odo Island, which was part of the Bonin Island Chain. It seemed legit, but as the drunken stupor began to recede Michael found a small article that brought more confusion than questions. Oddly enough, it wasn't from a newspaper article but it was a few brief sentences from a military report. The mention of the word military alone sounded suspicious, especially for a typhoon but it was what the sentences said that lured him in. It reported "strange fissures in the ground" and "sinkholes". The last sentence read 'the sinkholes were in shape of a foot...' and that's was the end. Just like that it was cut off without finishing the statement. There was something defiantly amiss here with the military being involved of a cleanup of a storm. It seemed out of place, strange but it also seemed curious that Japan's government would allow this piece of information to roam in the public…unless they didn't care. Whatever it was it stirred something in Michael.

Few months later, here was Michael now with more information than he had that night. He was fortunately able to come across something of relevance-or so it felt to his investigative nature. A survivor of that storm had made remarks of seeing "a creature among the rain" and "terrible sound" where some of the lines used. Upon further digging he discovered the man was here, locked up for apparently being 'mentally ill'. However, as Michael was walking down the hall, it did dawn on him that he could be just chasing nonsense and fabricated illusions brought up by old sea lore. He silently prayed that maybe this witness was credible and just maybe was worthy enough of some semblance of a story. Michael took a long inhale of air and held it knowing that this could be the one thing that rockets him up into stardom or burry him six feet under. It was a chance he decided to take; hell what else did he have to lose. On that thought, Michael realized he had arrived at destination and bit his lip. Here goes nothing thought the reporter.

The air in the room felt stale as Michael crept in and glanced around. It wasn't a very big room, nor was there much of anything at all in it. At least it's little brighter in here dimly thought Michael as his eyes quickly adjusted to the change of light. But that was not what held his attention; it was the old decrypted looking figure sitting in the chair. For a moment, Michael forgot his train of thought and just stared. If the old man noticed he had entered, he didn't show it. All he did was slowly rock back and fourth in his rocking chair with his hands griped to the sides. It all felt sort of surreal to him and he began to wonder if he really was in a horror movie. The small room, vague lighting complete with old, creepy rocking chair was a perfect setting for one. Michael had to constantly say to himself that this was for the story, only the story. Finally Michael regained a hold of reality and felt silly. He chuckled quietly to himself and decided he better get this over with. After all he was the sane one…wasn't he?

"Excuse me, ah Mr. Lou" timidly began Michael, "I would like to ask you some questions…"

He let that statement hang in the air hoping that maybe it would stir something from the old man, but nothing happened. Michael sighed and stepped closer to Mr. Lou.

"I'm sorry to bother sir, but I'm a reporter from the states" and he immediately stopped as Mr. Lou slowly moved his head toward him. He just stared with blank eyes, never saying anything or maybe he could not speak.

"I…I want to ask you about what happened during the, uhhh, 1954 hurricane on your island"

Mr. Lou then looked back towards the window not even bothering to respond…or so it seemed. Michael was cursing himself at deciding to follow up on such a stupid source when he heard a sound, or more of a word. It was being repeated by Mr. Lou, his frail lips never missing a beat. Michael strained to hear it and walked closer.

The old man picked up his pace of rocking in his chair as it began to squeak. The whole time he kept saying the same word over and over again that all Odo Island residents no all to well.

"Gojira…Gojira…Gojira…"