忘れ鳥居 祈りの紙を 水が舐める

Forgotten torii –
a prayer slip
licked by water.

 - contemporary haiku, unknown author

First comes the chill. The concrete walls are damp, and the air is thick with moisture and the scent of rust. Anyone unaware of what to expect might fall silent. In the darkness of this underground tunnel stands a torii gate—old and ruined. Its red paint has long since faded, peeling like dead skin. Beneath it—crumbling gravel, chunks of debris, weeds, and sake bottles. The tunnel continues beyond the gate into darkness. Concrete, long, straight—breathing unhealthy air. The walls are stained, the floor muddy, water drips from the ceiling. Curiously, even after so many years, deeper in the tunnel, remnants of past festivals can still be seen—tattered lanterns, frayed strings, unreadable prayer slips. Someone has pinned up a small fox figurine—plastic, with empty eyes. At the end, a rusted truck stands abandoned—its windows smashed, webbed in cobwebs. As if someone left it here just before the end of the world. What exactly happened here? What is this place?

It is not a tourist attraction. You won’t find information boards or entrance tickets. And yet, this place once lived—truly. Every year it resounded with prayers, the laughter of children in kitsune masks, the rhythm of taiko drums, and the light of hundreds of lanterns. It was a festival in honor of Inari—the deity of rice, foxes, and transformation—celebrated not on top of a mountain, but inside it, in a concrete tunnel beneath Mount Amagamine. Today, only memories remain. Or perhaps something more? Why was a shrine built here, of all places? Who first erected the torii at the mouth of this former military corridor from World War II?

The shrine is located in the city of Kani, in Gifu Prefecture, about 30 kilometers north of Nagoya, in central Japan. You won’t easily find it on maps—it lies hidden on the slope of Mount Amagamine (天神峯), in a place that looks more like an abandoned bunker than sacred ground. Here, underground, in a former tunnel of military origin, one of the most extraordinary summer Shintō festivals in the entire country took place for several decades. In today’s article, we’ll take a look at the history of this unique place and its solitary torii gate, which may no longer lead to holiness, but still opens the door to history—the kind remembered by earth and concrete, though forgotten by people.

Oblivion

It’s not found on a mountain trail or among Japanese cypresses. It doesn’t lead to a shrine hidden in a pine forest. This torii stands in the concrete darkness of an old tunnel cut into the hillside in Kani, Gifu Prefecture—a place that resembles a forgotten industrial structure more than sacred terrain. The concrete has cracked, rust eats away at the edges of protruding remnants of old steel frames, and the whole place seems ready to collapse under its own weight.

The torii is wooden, once painted a vivid red, now faded almost to a muddy brown. The paint is peeling off in sheets, revealing rough wood with warped edges. The top beam leans slightly—as if the torii struggles to remain upright, though it still acts as a portal to another world. In front of it, the ground is uneven, covered with gravel and rubble, partially overgrown with weeds. There are no signs of maintenance or informational plaques. The place lives in darkness—both literally and symbolically.

Beyond the torii stretches a tunnel—wide, straight, made of raw concrete. It is humid, and flashlight beams vanish quickly into the gloom. Dark stains from trickling water appear on the side walls. The floor is covered with a thin layer of mud. In some spots, puddles stand—still and cold like mirrors leading nowhere. The smell inside is dense—a blend of stale water, rust, old metal, and something elusive that nevertheless tastes... like oblivion.

Curiously, even after all these years, deeper in the tunnel, fragments of decorations from past festivals are still visible—remnants of lanterns, hanging and frayed strings, prayer slips now illegible. On one of the walls, someone has attached a plastic fox—a symbol of Inari—its eyes faded, but its figure still gazing vigilantly from the shadows. Further in, at the end of the tunnel, in a large, damp chamber, a truck stands abandoned—rusted, its windows shattered, covered in cobwebs. It may once have transported equipment or decorations; now it looks like a relic of catastrophe. Or apocalypse.

All of this makes the place resemble a scene after an evacuation—not as if people never came here, but as if they did, celebrated... and left suddenly, leaving behind a silent space full of traces. The torii still stands at the entrance, no longer guarding against desecration, no longer inviting—simply existing. It remains like a mute guardian of a world no one remembers anymore, save for a few urban explorers filming urbex footage and their viewers online, drawn by the chill of forgotten sacredness.

What is this place? How did this ruin come to be? Why is there a torii gate in a tunnel inside a mountain?

The Festival That Fell Silent – The Final Years of the Amagamine Ochobo Inari Tunnel

We are in central Japan, in Gifu Prefecture, in the upland area of the city of Kani (可児市), about 30 kilometers north of Nagoya (or more precisely, beneath it—since we are underground). This is not a popular tourist destination—Kani is a small, quiet town without any spectacular landmarks—it has some local greenery, a moderate climate. And, indeed—a shrine forgotten by the world. At its gate stands a torii that leads not to a pagoda or incense pavilion, but to a tunnel carved into the slope of Mount Amagamine (天神峯)—a former military site that for a time pulsed with spiritual presence. It was here that one of the most unusual and mysterious Shintō festivals in all of Japan took place.

This festival, known locally as Amagamine no Natsu no Reisai (天神峯の夏の例祭 – literally “Summer Ritual Festival of Mount Tenjin”), or more simply “Cave Summer Festival,” was a unique event—it took place inside a cool, damp cavern that served as a shrine to Inari. Since in Japanese culture natural caves and rock formations have long been considered abodes of kami (divine spirits), using a tunnel as sacred space made sense, despite its artificial origin.

The Ochobo Inari Shrine, which stretched within the tunnel, was dedicated to the deity Inari Ōkami (稲荷大神)—protector of rice, fertility, commerce, as well as transformation and foxes (more here: "Foxfires" in Old Edo – A Nocturnal Gathering of Kitsune in Hiroshige’s Ukiyo-e). On summer days, usually in late July, the people of Kani and nearby villages would gather at the tunnel’s entrance, where colorful chōchin (paper lanterns) inscribed with prayers were set up. The concrete corridor’s mouth was adorned with shimenawa—sacred straw ropes that symbolically separated the profane from the sacred. Inside, hundreds of tiny flames and lanterns would cast their light, and the sound of taiko (drums) would echo from the walls, creating an evocative atmosphere.

Children dressed up as little foxes, wearing red and white kitsune masks. Elderly residents brought offerings—rice, sake, dried fish—and arranged them on a makeshift altar in the chamber that held a small stone statue of Inari. A part of the ritual was also a symbolic procession—a silent walk through the entire tunnel by candlelight, intended to purify the soul and bring good fortune for the months ahead.

This festival was not widely known outside the region—it lacked the patronage of major religious institutions, and its organization was handled primarily by the local community, supported by parish shrine guardians and elders from neighboring districts. According to online archives, the last fully-fledged festival was held in 2014. After that, problems began.

After several years of use without proper maintenance, the tunnel began to leak. Underground springs, intensified by heavy rains in the Kani area, started to seep through microcracks in the concrete. Despite attempts at makeshift drainage, the increasing dampness could not be stopped. First, the main chamber was flooded, then water began to accumulate along the entire length of the tunnel. Lanterns could no longer be lit—fire would not burn in such air. Eventually, the organizers ceased further editions, hoping it would be temporary. However, no one stepped in to begin restoration work—funding was lacking, and the younger generation was no longer interested in old rites.

The shrine was abandoned. The torii remained on guard—alone. The lanterns fell apart, fox masks gathered dust, and the truck—once used to transport decorations and equipment—was left stuck in the end chamber, rusting aimlessly. The altar became overgrown with mold, and the statue of Inari is still there—only now engulfed in darkness and silence. There was no earthquake, no fire, no distinct moment of catastrophe. There was only a slow, almost imperceptible fading.

But… we know how the festival ended. How, then, did the altar, the torii gate, and the fox figurine come to be?

The Birth of an Underground Sacred Space – Postwar Adaptation of the Tunnel

If we go back several more decades in Amagamine’s history, we arrive at the late 1940s, when Japan was rising from the ruins of war. In the Kani region—a small town in Gifu Prefecture—many remnants of wartime infrastructure survived, including a system of tunnels dug into the slope of Mount Amagamine. One of these tunnels was relatively wide and remained in decent condition after the war.

In the early 1950s, as Japan began to rebuild not only its cities and industry but also its spiritual identity, the local community started to repurpose the abandoned tunnel for religious purposes. It was a time of renewed Shintō practice, which, following the dissolution of the State Shintō system (kokka shintō) in the postwar period, began to be cultivated locally, more organically and communally. In this context, the idea arose to create a shrine inside the former tunnel—not so much from doctrinal motives, but from the spiritual impulse to reclaim a space that had once belonged to the military, and now—to the people.

The choice fell on the cult of Inari Ōkami—one of the most widely venerated kami in the entire country. Inari is a multifaceted deity: protector of rice, trade, fertility, transformation, and foxes. It was a natural choice for local farmers and artisans who sought protection, abundance, and success in those difficult new times.

The tunnel walls were cleaned by hand, without heavy equipment—mostly with the bare hands of local volunteers. In the rear chamber, a stone altar (hokora, 祠) was placed, likely brought from one of the neighboring shrines, possibly from a nearby Inari-jinja in Tajimi or Minokamo. There, a symbolic figurine of kitsune, the messenger of Inari—a white fox with a red ribbon around its neck—was placed.

At the tunnel’s exterior, at its simple, raw concrete entrance, a wooden torii gate was erected, made from local hinoki wood (Japanese cypress). It was neither large nor particularly ornate—it stood about two and a half meters tall and had a classic rectangular shape, with a slightly upward-curving top beam (kasagi) (for more on types of torii, see: Torii – The Japanese Gate of Transformation). Its red color symbolized protection from evil and spiritual threats, and the very structure had ritual significance—it marked the transition from the profane to the sacred, even if that sacred realm was now a concrete space underground.

No formal documents survive regarding the exact date the shrine was established—like many such local initiatives, it was a spontaneous, unofficial activity, but one filled with sincere faith. The memories of Kani’s older residents indicate that the first rituals began around 1952–1953, initially in the form of modest prayers and small offerings. Only later, in the 1960s, did the shrine begin to gain significance, eventually leading to the creation of the summer festival.

The tunnel found a new life, a wholly different identity. And though it was raw, cold, and dark, it became a place where one could commune with the divine. A place that, over time, would gain its own rhythm, its own holidays, and ultimately—its own legend.

But… what was here before the Inari altar? Where did this tunnel come from?

Tunnel of War – The Silenced Past of Mount Amagamine

The silence that now reigns within its depths was not always so. In the 1940s, when Japan was engulfed in total war mobilization, the slopes of Mount Amagamine were being cut into—not by sacred ritual blades, but by iron and explosives. In late 1944, in the final months of the Pacific War, construction began here on a system of military-purpose tunnels. In the surviving documents—few, sparse, and reluctantly shared—this place is not listed by the name of a shrine or hill, but as engineering site number 53–A, Gifu region, designated as part of underground industrial installations supporting the Imperial Japanese Navy.

The tunnel was dug into layers of soft rock and reinforced with reinforced concrete arches, designed to withstand not only the mountain’s weight but potential aerial bombardment. Its exact length is unknown, but the main corridor, accessible to this day, measures around 80 meters, and witnesses from the era recall the existence of side branches leading to storage chambers that are now inaccessible or collapsed. What was in those chambers?

What was the tunnel used for? Here begin the speculations.

Officially, it is described as an underground warehouse for aircraft parts destined for nearby industrial plants associated with the Kawasaki company and the Minokamo arsenal, which at the time was producing arms for the navy. Other accounts—passed more by whisper than in writing—suggest that it may have functioned as a temporary assembly center for kamikaze fighter components, such as the Mitsubishi Ki-15, or as a storage site for explosives. Still others speak of a secret laboratory, where experiments on new materials or radioactive components were allegedly conducted, though there is no proof.

What do we know for certain?

Several dozen forced laborers worked here, including Koreans, whose names were not recorded in registers—only assignment numbers. The conditions were brutal—moisture, darkness, no ventilation. Work was conducted day and night, for the war’s end left no room for caution. Many of the laborers never returned home—it is unknown how many died during the collapse of one of the side chambers, or where their bodies were buried. There are no graves, no plaques. Only a silent tunnel remains.

After the war, the installation was abandoned. The military withdrew, equipment was dismantled, side passages partially filled in or sealed with concrete slabs. But those who had known this place before knew that Mount Amagamine was never truly “clean.” That something had happened beneath its surface. That this place was not simply “abandoned,” but intentionally left behind, sealed like a wound best left untouched.

And so it is all the more striking that someone decided to erect a torii here.

A torii is, after all, a gate—but not every gate leads to light. Sometimes it leads into shadow. And perhaps that is why Inari—the deity of transformations, as ambiguous as a fox, who laughs at human attempts to impose order on the world—found a dwelling place in a space where the boundary between war and peace, the human and the divine, demands at the very least a complete redefinition.

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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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