Extinct worlds

Everything that lives leaves behind warmth. But here, in the heart of this abandoned onsen, only cold stones remain—cold cigarette vending machines and lonely toys scattered on the floor. No longer does steam rise from the sulfurous baths. The mirrors in the dressing room are fogged not by moisture, but by time—dull and matte, as if they now only recall the shapes of ghosts. Between the corridors one can still hear laughter—but now it's only the wind, not the joy of children. The air smells of mildew, rusty iron, and something else—something that cannot be named, yet evokes both melancholy and soap suds. On the reception desk, an open guest book still lies, the last entry dated on a day no one remembers—the ink faded, but the word ありがとう (arigatō) is still legible. In a corner lies a single yellowed bathing slipper—lone, absurd—why is it even there, and why just one?

And yet there were once lights here, movement, money, and luxury. The onsen was opened in the 1980s, at the peak of Japan’s speculative bubble—a time of boundless consumption, booming provincial resorts, and surreal investments meant to attract crowds. Hundreds of rooms, restaurants, game arcades, karaoke halls—everything designed for eternal growth. But growth is never eternal. When the bubble burst, many such places were abandoned almost overnight. No one closed the windows, no one turned off the lights—not even that slipper was cleaned up. The 1990s were not only the “lost decade” economically, but also the beginning of a long decay—both architectural and psychological. According to the 2023 government census, there are over 9 million vacant houses in Japan, known as akiya—roughly 13.8% of all residential properties. Some estimates go as high as 11 million, which would mean that one in every three or four residential buildings is uninhabited. Of over 27,000 registered hot springs, only about 3,000 are still active bathing facilities. The rest are unused, shut down. Abandoned onsens, schools, and amusement parks are not merely ruins—they are, in a way, portals to another reality—one that will never return. And though today’s Japan exists in a completely different, surprising world, the forecasts for many years were grim.

Haikyō is the Japanese form of exploring abandoned places, fundamentally different from Western urbex. It’s not about thrills, illegal access, or collecting photos, but something subtler—presence. Haikyō is like a quiet conversation with a ruin—one that does not speak, but still teaches something. It is the practice of attentively entering the landscape of abandonment, where every rusting pipe and every crumbling wall becomes part of a greater poem about transience. For many Japanese, it is a form of nonverbal homage—not to people, but to the places themselves, their ambiguous soul, accumulated silence, and slow death, which seems more dignified than mere collapse. Haikyō is not the curiosity of a thrill-seeking tourist, but the presence of a pilgrim—attentive, quiet, humble before impermanence. I invite you today on just such a journey—to get to know several of these places more closely, their current state and history, and to ask ourselves—what really happened?

What does Haikyō Onsen mean?

In the Japanese word 廃墟 (haikyō), written using two kanji—廃 (hai) and 墟 (kyō)—there is more than just the designation of ruins. It is a concept that combines abandonment, stillness, and traces of former life. It denotes not merely physical decay but also a symbolic act of forsaking—by people, by time, by memory. Japanese sensitivity to such places is expressed not only in the aesthetic of wabi-sabi, but already in the very characters of the writing system.

The first character, 廃, means to abandon, to shut down, to ruin. It is a character full of resignation. Its left side is the radical 广 (madare), indicating a building or a space beneath a roof, and the right—発 (in its older form)—suggests an act of release, rejection, or conclusion. Together, they convey the meaning of a "building no longer needed." Today, 廃 appears in words such as 廃業 (haigyō, the closure of a business) or 廃止 (haishi, the abolishment of a law or institution).

The second character, 墟, is much rarer and more poetic. It means ruin, the site of a former building, a wasteland—something that once existed and now no longer does. It consists of the radical 土 (tsuchi, earth), referring to ground or soil, and the component 虛 (kyo, emptiness). This character alone already speaks volumes—it is earth that has become empty. In ancient literary texts and classical calligraphy, this character appears in contexts of melancholy, impermanence, and the ruins of civilizations. It can also be found in classical poetry, where "墟" referred to former battlefields or forgotten cities now overgrown with grass.

When we compare haikyō to the English term urbex (urban exploration), we see not just a linguistic but a cultural divide. In the Western world, urbex focuses on the emotions of exploration, adrenaline, photography, and sometimes even crossing legal boundaries. Haikyō, by contrast, often takes on a contemplative tone—it is not just a physical exploration but also an act of contact with what is fading. In Japan, ruin is not merely ugliness—it can be a space full of charm, one that allows beauty to be found in imperfection and decay.

Where Western urbex can be a form of rebellion or conquest, haikyō becomes a silent dialogue with the past. Instead of adrenaline—silence; instead of trophies—a fleeting connection with a vanished world.

The word onsen (温泉) literally means “hot spring”—温 (on) meaning “warmth,” and 泉 (sen) meaning “spring” or “spring water.” In practice, it refers to natural hot springs formed by Japan’s volcanic activity, situated at the meeting point of four tectonic plates. Rich in minerals, this water has for centuries been used not only for bathing but also for therapeutic, ritual, and spiritual purposes. Onsen have become an essential part of Japanese culture—not only as a means of relaxation and rejuvenation but also as social and aesthetic spaces. Traditional onsen baths were often connected to ryokan, inns offering lodging, meals, and bathing, some of which have been operated by the same families for generations. Onsen water, classified by its mineral content and temperature, has been attributed with various health benefits—from alleviating rheumatism to improving circulation. Onsen were built in the mountains and forests, by the sea, and some became sacred places for communion with nature and with oneself.

Thus, haikyō onsen (廃墟温泉) refers to abandoned Japanese hot spring resorts—former ryokan, hotels, and bathhouses that once teemed with life, now left in ruins, quietly consumed by nature. The term evokes spaces where the aesthetics of transience meet the echoes of past baths, conversations, and fogged windows. These are not merely physical locations but symbols of Japanese melancholy, sensitivity to time, and the beauty hidden in decay.

The scale of the phenomenon and statistics

The haikyō onsen phenomenon is not a marginal feature of Japanese reality—it is a quiet but vast expanse on the map of contemporary Japan. The number of abandoned buildings in the country grows year by year, and the statistics are more dramatic than they might seem. According to the government census from October 2023, Japan has over 9 million vacant homes, known as akiya—about 13.8% of all residential properties. Some estimates even put the number at 11 million, suggesting that every third or fourth residential building is uninhabited. Though not all of them are physically ruined, thousands—especially in rural areas—are falling into deep neglect, becoming silent monuments to disappearance.

Many of these are former guesthouses, ryokan, and onsen—buildings that flourished during the economic boom of the 1980s and early 1990s, but were abandoned after the bubble burst. Onsen were built en masse in tourist regions: in the mountains, river valleys, on islands, and also near cities, attracting guests with promises of relaxation, healing waters, and traditional atmosphere. But market oversaturation, shifting leisure trends, and declining numbers of guests—especially domestic ones—led to waves of closures. In many towns, the shutdown of a single railway line, the bankruptcy of a local bank, or the arrival of a new shopping mall was enough to collapse an entire micro-tourism ecosystem within a few years.

This phenomenon also has a demographic dimension. By 2040, about 900 Japanese cities, towns, and villages are projected to be at risk of total depopulation. An aging population, falling birth rates, and the steady migration of youth to major metropolitan areas are causing entire regions—especially in prefectures like Wakayama, Tokushima, Akita, or Niigata—to empty out. In some of these areas, vacancy rates exceed 20%. Not only homes, but also shops, schools, clinics, and hotels become haikyō—and onsen, as large-scale facilities with high maintenance costs, are particularly visible among them. Many were built on credit—credit that could not be repaid by their owners, nor taken over by anyone else. Moreover, in Japan’s tax system, a vacant house is taxed more heavily than an inhabited one, which leads some owners to deliberately allow the building to fall into ruin, hoping to avoid additional expenses.

According to geological data, Japan has over 27,000 registered hot springs, of which only about 3,000 operate as active bathing facilities. The rest are unused, shut down, or too inaccessible—often linked to former onsen hotels. It is thus reasonable to assume that thousands of haikyō onsen are scattered across the country—invisible in official records, yet present in the landscape, in memory, and in the quiet enthusiasm of explorers.

Haikyō onsen are especially numerous in mountainous prefectures, on islands such as Sado, in Hokkaidō, or in former holiday destinations like Kinugawa. Amid bamboo forests, behind rusted gates and cracked walls, they wait for those who can see beauty in decay. And although their time as places of hospitality has passed, their number and presence continue to grow—as if abandonment had become a new form of existence.

Why they were abandoned?

In the early 1990s, Japan awoke from an economic dream that had lasted too long. Through decades of postwar growth, and especially during the frenzied 1980s, the nation invested without restraint. Real estate prices rose at an improbable pace, credit was easy to obtain, and the future—at least on paper—seemed bright. This period, known as baburu keizai—“the bubble economy”—transformed the landscape of Japan not only in major metropolises but also in provincial towns. A local legend about the healing power of a spring, a picturesque view of a mountain or a lake, was enough to justify the construction of a luxury ryokan, a multi-storey onsen hotel, a cable car, and an artificial waterfall. People were investing in a future no one tried to imagine realistically. At least from our perspective—over 40 years later, that’s how it appears. It’s easy to look back and criticize.

But the future came, and it was not kind. The bursting of the bubble in 1991 led to the so-called Lost Decade—a time of stagnation, deflation, and financial collapse. Thousands of hotels, onsen, and ryokan built on a wave of optimism suddenly turned out to be unnecessary, unprofitable, too costly to maintain. Many owners were left with loans they couldn’t repay, and banks—often small and local—began to fail one after another. Such was the fate of financial institutions connected to the Kinugawa resort complex, which once welcomed over three million guests a year. Suddenly the hotels stopped glowing, and the trains stopped coming.

But it wasn’t only the crisis that caused this silence. As Japan gradually became an aging society, rural regions began to empty out. Young people moved to Tokyo, Osaka, and Nagoya in search of work and independence, leaving behind family homes, grandparents’ guesthouses, and springs whose hot steam no longer enticed anyone. The population shrank, and with it—the demand for local tourism. Even the traditional newlywed trips to onsen, once a national ritual, ceased to be obvious in an era of cheap overseas flights and hotel promotions in Bangkok or Seoul.

Then came the problem of market oversaturation. In many towns, such as Beppu, Noboribetsu, or Atami, there were more hotels than guests. Everyone tried to stand out through luxury, size, or additional attractions—karaoke, bars, game rooms, performances by geisha and masseuses. Entire resorts were built that resembled miniature cities. But even if one hotel made a profit, ten others incurred losses. When the system collapsed, there was no one left to buy or run the business.

And so the companies vanished. But buildings do not disappear from the landscape so easily. Japan—despite its obsessive cleanliness and modernity in its metropolises—has an astonishing number of abandoned, slowly decaying places. Onsen hotels, often multi-storey structures made up of dozens or hundreds of rooms, restaurants, baths, and corridors, are simply too expensive to demolish. And since they generate no income, no one wants to invest in their renovation. To accountants, they are merely a dead entry—an item that exists only in a registry. To the outside world—they are quiet shadows of the past, rusted relics of an era that believed in endless growth.

What is happening to them today?

Today, haikyō onsen remain silent. Some have already partially collapsed; others look as though they were abandoned only yesterday—still containing futons neatly folded in closets, bottles of beer and sake, old calendars on the walls, and guest books with entries ending in 1993. Nature advances slowly but inexorably—moss creeps across bathroom tiles, vines slither through broken windows, water seeps through cracks in the concrete, forming miniature lakes in rooms once boasting mountain views. The walls become covered with mold and dust, and the air smells of dampness, dust, old tea, and the memory of former grandeur.

It is precisely this slow disintegration, not hastened by human hands, that creates the aesthetic of wabi-sabi—the beauty of what is transient, fragile, imperfect. Haikyō onsen are not vandalized—they are rather suspended in a state of abandonment. They were not destroyed, but forgotten. And in that forgetting lies a certain form of presence.

For some, they are now places of pilgrimage. Photographers, explorers, haikyōists (I know, it’s a bit of a linguistic monstrosity, but the distinction from “urbexers” is important—in Japanese, one says haikyōka 廃墟家), those who document ruins, find in them not only a subject but a space of spiritual experience. Blogs, books, and essays arise whose axis is defined by such places—empty pools, abandoned hotel receptions, silent rooms. Sometimes ruins are given a second life: they become artistic backdrops, photo shoot settings, illegal shelters, or venues for “underground” events.

But in most cases—they simply exist. They stand in mountain valleys, by paths no one walks anymore. Sometimes, only the echo of footsteps, the click of a smartphone taking a photo, the creak of a sliding shōji door reminds us that someone still seeks them from time to time.

Examples of real places

Beneath every layer of dust lies a story. Every shattered shōji screen, every damp guest card, every bottle of sake abandoned in the shadows—all of it forms a silent archive of a bygone era. The ruins of onsen are not only traces of economic collapse, but fragile time capsules in which the dreams, fatigue, and joy of guests who will never return have been sealed.

Takinoyu Onsen – 滝の湯温泉 (Waterfall Onsen)

Established: ca. 1955 | Closed: 1999

Takinoyu Onsen was founded during the postwar reconstruction era, in a valley near Yamagata, where geothermal springs had drawn pilgrims for centuries. The ryokan was built in a mixed style—a wooden wing from the 1950s connected to a later concrete annex from the 1970s. Guests were drawn to its setting among sugi forests and the view of a nearby waterfall.

In the late 1990s, local financial institutions collapsed, and an earthquake in 1998 damaged the building’s foundations. The cost of renovation exceeded the owners’ capabilities. Takinoyu was closed without warning. Today, the bathing halls are overgrown with moss, cracked futon lie scattered on the floors, and in one room a neatly folded kimono still rests—a silent witness to a life suddenly interrupted.*

*In one photo—often shared in accounts of this place across the Japanese internet—a folded woman’s kimono lies on a futon, as if someone had just taken it off before a bath. This image has become symbolic of the abrupt abandonment of the ryokan—items left in order, with no signs of looting or chaotic evacuation.

Hōheikyō Hotel – 豊平峡ホテル

Established: 1970s | Closed: 2001

Situated in the mountains of Hokkaidō, near the famous Hōheikyō Dam and the winding road through the valley to Jōzankei, this hotel was once a jewel of the region—a luxury onsen resort for guests from Sapporo and beyond. Its greatest attraction was its open-air hot springs—rotenburo—surrounded by fir trees, from which visitors could gaze upon the vast mountain slopes, especially breathtaking in autumn, when the maple leaves turned into red-orange flames. The facility boasted a spacious lobby with a grand chandelier, several floors of rooms, and banquet halls that, during times of prosperity, hosted weddings, conferences, and corporate retreats.

Its decline came gradually—after the opening of new express routes to better-known destinations like Noboribetsu or the reemerging Furano, interest in Hōheikyō waned. Growing competition, high maintenance costs, and a lack of investment sealed its fate at the dawn of the 21st century. Today, the building still stands—silent, yet strangely alive: the crystal chandelier still hangs in the lobby, the wooden floor creaks underfoot, and a row of shoe lockers greets explorers just as it once welcomed arriving guests. Rainwater still collects in the rusted pool, and fallen leaves pile up on the glass terrace overlooking the pass—as if time stopped precisely the moment the last guest checked out without a word.

Kannon Onsen Hotel – 観音温泉ホテル

Established: 1980s | Closed: 2005

Hidden among the hills of the Izu Peninsula, near the hot spring town of Shimoda, Kannon Onsen Hotel took its name from a nearby Buddhist temple with a monumental statue of the goddess of mercy—Kannon. The hotel was built in the 1980s, during Japan’s economic bubble, as a modern facility combining the comfort of a ryokan with the functionality of a mid-range hotel. It attracted guests not only with the serenity of the surrounding forests and mild climate, but also with water from its own spring—exceptionally clear and rich in minerals. Guests could bathe in large indoor and outdoor pools with views of the forest, and stroll through a meticulously maintained Japanese-style garden where azaleas and camellias bloomed in spring.

The hotel's downfall came suddenly—on a Monday, no guests arrived, and the reception never reopened. From one day to the next, operations ceased, and the building was abandoned. To this day, an unfinished report and a calendar opened to September 2005 lie on the office desk near the entrance. The corridors carry the scent of moisture and wood. The most haunting symbol is a solitary capsule filled with children’s toys, standing in the hallway leading to the game room. Partially flooded by rain, the onsen pools reflect the sky and trees, transforming the hotel into a temple of ruins, with silence as its only remaining priestess.

Kinugawa Kan – 鬼怒川館 / Kappa Onsen – 河童温泉

Established: ca. 1970 | Closed: 1999

Kinugawa Kan was one of the largest hotels built along the Kinugawa River in Tochigi Prefecture, during the golden age of the resort. Over 3 million tourists—mainly Japanese—visited annually, drawn by the highly alkaline thermal waters said to relieve joint pain and rheumatic ailments. Kinugawa Kan was more than a hotel—it was a resort complex: a ten-storey colossus with restaurants, a ballroom, karaoke rooms, massage parlors, and of course, expansive bathhouses. Included in the complex was the more intimate Kappa Onsen—named after the folkloric water-dwelling demon said to inhabit the local springs (you can read more about it here: Kappa - the Face of Japanese Folklore and the Star of All Yōkai). A distinctive statue of the mischievous creature greeted guests at the entrance.

But the boom of the 1980s did not last forever. When Japan’s speculative bubble burst in the 1990s and the regional bank that financed hotel investments in Kinugawa collapsed—everything began to crumble. In 1999, Kinugawa Kan closed its doors and never reopened. To this day, it remains untouched—you can still find a guest book with final entries from June 1999, calendars frozen on the same month, posters advertising karaoke nights, and handwritten orders that will never be fulfilled. Moss now covers the tiles of the former pools, abandoned hotel keys lie on the reception counter, and the plastic kappa by the entrance bows its head—as if ashamed of what the place has become.

Hachijō Onsen Hotel – 八丈温泉ホテル

Established: 1959 | Closed: 2006

Located at the southern tip of Hachijō-jima island—a purely volcanic jewel of the Izu archipelago—the Hachijō Onsen Hotel was envisioned as the centerpiece of a “tropical paradise.” Its multi-storey modern structure was built in the 1960s, during a time when the government promoted the island as the “Hawai’i of Japan”—a popular destination for city dwellers seeking tranquility and luxurious relaxation. The hotel offered high-end rooms, spacious banquet halls, swimming pools—including open-air thermal baths surrounded by the island’s lush vegetation, which in summer resembled a tropical garden.

However, the hotel’s economy was fragile. With the democratization of overseas travel and increasing accessibility of attractions outside Japan, tourists began to drift away, and Hachijō-jima lost its appeal. An additional blow came with the economic crisis at the end of the 20th century—the hotel, later rebranded as the “Hachijō Oriental Resort,” permanently closed its doors in 2006.

Today, the building stands cracked and overgrown with wild tropical vegetation: palms and marsh grasses have overtaken the former parking lot, and the concrete walls are blanketed in moss. The entrance to the outdoor baths now resembles a theatrical remnant of former pleasures—entirely abandoned, as if time and nature together were conjuring the mood of forsakenness. Despite the passing years, the structure still impresses with its scale and design—it is one of the largest abandoned hotels in Japan, sometimes aptly called a “temple of forgetting.”

Legal Aspects

Exploring abandoned onsen and hotels in Japan—though enticing for their charm of ruin, the melancholy of emptiness, and the aura of abandonment—is not without risk or legal responsibility. Japanese law does not recognize urbex as an exception: entering the premises of an abandoned building, even if it appears deserted, is formally considered trespassing on private property and can be prosecuted. It carries the risk of fines, and in some cases, even arrest. Sometimes the owners of ruins are companies that no longer exist, or private individuals who fear liability in case of accidents.

Among explorers, however, there exists an unwritten code:
“Take nothing but photos, leave nothing but footprints.”

It is a principle that not only expresses respect for the site but emphasizes that haikyō is not an adventure but an experience—a meditation among ruins. Every displaced object, every signature on a wall, every piece of trash disturbs the delicate balance of silence and memory. Many locations are therefore not disclosed publicly—not only out of fear of legal consequences but out of concern for vandalism, theft, or even accidental fires that could destroy what has endured for decades in forgetfulness, yet with dignity.

Haikyō…

In Japanese culture, a ruin is not merely a sign of collapse—it is a gateway to memory. In mono no aware—the pathos of things—there lies not just nostalgia but a deep acceptance that everything that exists is destined to fade. Wabi-sabi finds beauty in patina, in cracks, in shadows. Haikyō thus becomes less an act of exploration and more one of contemplation—a meeting point between past and present, a place where suspended time allows one to hear, once again, the echoes of footsteps, laughter, and steam rising over the bath.

After World War II, Japan underwent a metamorphosis—from the ruins of bombed cities to dynamic modernity. In that logic of progress, there was no room for old ryokan—too expensive to maintain, too remote from new highways. But their abandonment was not the end. The ruin continues to live—as image, symbol, memory. It has become a canvas for those who rediscover and reinterpret it. Haikyōka – 廃墟家 – are not thieves of someone else’s history, but its quiet witnesses. Their blogs, photo albums, essays, and films create a new kind of memory: digital, dispersed, but deeply spiritual.

Haikyō is not an escape into the past. It is an attempt to understand the present through what has been left behind. Every moss-covered onsen, every empty chair in a dining hall, every folded kimono in a guestroom—they are letters that were never sent, but that someone may still read. If only they enter quietly, with reverence. And leave just as they came—leaving behind only footprints.

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"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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