Our story today deals with a yōkai who you are probably already familiar with: a kitsune. Although the word kitsune literally just means fox, I prefer to use the Japanese word untranslated when I’m talking about yōkai foxes to differentiate them from normal, non-magical animals. Kitsune are a tremendously famous and popular yōkai, and I just happen to have published a brand new book with a heavy focus on kitsune this year! It’s called The Fox’s Wedding, and it’s available now. So rather than write a lot about kitsune here, I’ll take the opportunity to do a quick plug and recommend you check out my new book!

The Kitsune Who Took Revenge on a Yamabushi

A yamabushi set out from Mount Ōmine for training when he came upon a fox taking an afternoon nap in the road. He crept up to the fox and blew his conch shell horn loudly right next to its ear. The fox was startled out of its wits and scrambled away.

Finding this amusing, the yamabushi continued on his way. Although it was still mid-day, the sky suddenly turned to dusk. Since he was in the middle of the wilderness, there was no lodging for him to take shelter. As he wondered what to do, he saw a graveyard nearby. Although he was afraid, he had no choice but to climb up into the ceiling of the crematorium to spend the night.

It was already as dark as midnight. From a distance several fires were visible, and they started coming closer. It was a funeral procession approaching the graveyard. There were two or three hundred people in the procession. The sight was beautiful. An elder recited a prayer for the dead, then rang a bell, a gong, and a bowl, conducting the ceremony with great solemnity. Finally, he set fire to the body, and then left.

As the fire burned and the body was reduced to ash, suddenly a trembling corpse climbed out of the fire. It stood up, then started walking. The yamabushi saw this and was overcome with fright. As he was wondering what to do, the corpse looked up towards the ceiling of the crematorium. It stared at the yamabushi. Then it climbed up towards him. As the yamabushi shrunk back even further, the corpse spoke.

“What are you doing here?”

And then the corpse pushed the yamabushi down from the ceiling. The yamabushi fainted.

When he finally came to his senses, the yamabushi opened his eyes. It was mid-afternoon, and he was lying alone in the middle of an open field. However, he had thrown out his lower back, and he was forced to walk home in great pain.

It was said that the fox, frightened by the conch, had gotten his revenge.

Today’s story is somewhat rare in that it is a morality tale. With a few exceptions (like Dōchin’s lesson about pride), most of the stories in Shokoku hyakumonogatari read like news reports, simply explaining what happened without commentary or justification for why something happens. Like Matsuura Iyo’s bakemono, or the henge that killed Itagaki Saburō, Japanese folktales often lack logical explanations.

During the Edo period, the shogunate strongly promoted Buddhism—a striking reversal from earlier policies. The temples became a very powerful institution. Many old folktales were re-imagined as morality plays with Buddhist messages that sometimes feel tacked on. Stories like today’s are entertaining on the one hand, but they also serve a secondary purpose of educating people about sin and virtue, and reminding them of their consequences.

How Kiya no Sukegorō’s Mother Ate a Dead Man in Her Dream

There was a man named Kiya no Sukegorō in the Kitano area of Kyōto. His mother was exceedingly greedy and had no interest in performing charity or good deeds. She was stingy and always gossiping about other people, envying their good fortunes and reveling in their misfortunes. She put no thought at all towards her next life.

One morning, she felt ill and stayed in bed longer than usual. Sukegorō went out early that morning to Ichijō Modoribashi on an errand. Underneath the bridge, Sukegorō witnessed an old woman tearing up dead people and eating them.

Looking closer, he saw that the old woman was the spitting image of his own mother. Sukegorō was shocked, and he hurried home. When he woke up his sleeping mother, she seemed greatly disturbed.

“I just had the most awful dream,” she said.

“What kind of dream?” asked Sukegorō.

“I saw myself underneath the bridge at Ichijō Modoribashi. I was tearing up dead people and eating them. It was miserable! But then, thankfully, you came here and woke me up,” she explained.

Sukegorō’s mother’s illness rapidly worsened, and she soon died. Truly she had descended directly from the living world into hell. Sukegorō was overcome with worry about her next life, and his grief was immeasurable. Not long after, Sukegorō entered the priesthood and became a monk.

This story is about another bakemono. The true form of this yōkai is never explained in the story, so whether it was an animal, or a ghost, or something else entirely remains a mystery. All we can be sure of is that it was powerful, and it really held a grudge against Matsuura Iyo.

The Bakemono Who Haunted Matsuura Iyo’s House

In Wakamatsu, Aizu Province, there lived a man named Matsuura Iyo. Many strange things happened in his house.

It all began one night, when the whole house started shaking as if there were an earthquake.

Then, the next night, a strange woman wandered onto the estate from out of nowhere and knocked on the back door, crying out in a loud voice, “Oh how sad!” When Iyo’s wife heard this, she scolded the stranger: “Who do you think you are, come here in the middle of the night and saying such things?”

The stranger stepped back a little after being scolded, but then she saw that the side door was open and rushed to enter the house. She looked like a pale woman wearing a white robe, her long hair untied and scattered. Her countenance was dreadful beyond words. The master’s wife, thinking this was no trivial matter, prayed to Amaterasu, and the woman vanished.

On the third day in the late afternoon, the strange woman was seen in the kitchen building a fire.

On the fourth day, a neighbor’s wife stepped out of her back door and saw the woman standing in her yard, staring over the fence towards the Matsuura house. She was so terrified that she ran back into the house and locked the door. A moment later the woman vanished.

On the fifth night, the woman entered the kitchen, took out a mallet, and went back out into the garden and started pounding the earth with it.

There was nothing the Matsuura household could do but pray. They made various offerings to the gods and buddhas. Then, miraculously, the following day the strange woman did not come.

But before they could say, “Finally she stopped coming!” a voice screamed out from the sky:

“Five times is not my limit!”

That night, while the couple were in bed, the woman appeared by Iyo’s bedside and blew out his candle. Iyo’s wife was so shocked that she fainted.

On the seventh night, the woman again came to the couple’s bedside while they slept. She grabbed their heads and knocked them together. Then she slipped her cold hands up their robes and stroked the couple’s legs. The couple were so terrified that they fainted. Then they both went insane and died.

Nobody ever understood why any of it happened.

Today’s tale showcases an exceedingly famous kind of yōkai: a tengu. They are one of the “big 3” yōkai of Japanese folklore, along with oni and kappa (and sometimes kitsune is thrown in for a nice round 4).

Tengu are great. They have such a rich and varied history, and they look awesome to boot—like a cross between hawks and monkeys, sometimes with a human face and a very long nose. The word tengu is written 天狗 and means “heaven dog.” It probably referred to shooting stars or comets, which run across the sky like a heavenly dog might. In many cultures, comets were seen as evil omens, and tengu were no exception. For much of Japanese history, tengu were considered THE baddies.

Tengu were evil souls who slipped out of the cycle of karmic reincarnation found in Buddhism and existed in their own little world. As such, they were the chief antagonists of Buddhist monks and nuns, and of good lay people attempting to walk the spiritual path. Tengu were said to do awful things. They would kidnap children and force feed then feces until they went insane, and then return them to their villages years later. They would tie people to treetops, then bend the branches down and fling them into the sky and over mountains like a catapult. And they especially loved to corrupt monks and nuns into debauchery.

By the Edo period, tengu’s image had changed a bit. They were often seen not just as wicked monsters, but as amusing, tricky rascals. What’s more, some tengu were even seen as honorable mentors. Tengu were extremely knowledgeable about all kinds of things. They were experts in magic, and in swordplay. The esoteric religion of Shugendō, which focuses on mountain worship and asceticism, viewed tengu as mountain gods who would bestow their knowledge upon the worthy. It was almost a complete reversal of their terrible image from earlier centuries.

One thing that has never changed is that tengu love to punish the wicked. Whether it is by tempting a hypocritical monk to commit terrible acts of debauchery, or by punishing a haughty lord to put him in his place, tengu are masters of knocking people off of their high horses. And that’s what today’s story is about. And when you’re finished, you can read more tengu stories at yokai.com.

How Dōchin’s Pride Was Wounded by a Tengu at Kuragari Peak in Kawachi

Deep in the mountain called Kuragari Peak in the provice of Kawachi, about 1.4 kilometers in, there is a remote temple. A man named Dōchin lived in alone this temple. Dōchin was fifty-one years old, and during his whole life he had never felt real fear. He often boasted to people how he wanted, even just once, to experience something truly terrifying.

One day, he went to the nearby village of Imakuchi for his afternoon meal. It was raining, and he was bored, so he stayed and chatted with the villagers until dusk before returning to his temple.

About eight or nine hundred meters into the mountains is a stone bridge. Earlier in the day there was nothing on this bridge, but on Dōchin’s way back there was a dead man lying across it. He thought this was strange, but being a man who had never known fear, he trod on the dead man’s belly and crossed the bridge. As he did so, the dead man bit the hem of Dōchin’s robe and held him fast. Dōchin figured that stepping on the corpse’s belly must have caused its jaw to clamp shut involuntarily. He stepped on its belly again, and its mouth opened back up, releasing him.

Dōchin considered that this person’s family must have been too poor to send his body to a temple for a proper burial, so they just abandoned him here on the bridge. He decided to bury the man. He hoisted the corpse up onto his back and carried it back to his retreat. And, since the corpse had tried to bite him earlier, Dōchin decided to tie it to a pine tree for the night and bury it in the morning.

That night, as Dōchin slept, from somewhere outside the gate a voice called out:

“Dōchin! Dōchin!”

Dōchin woke up and wondered what it was.

“Who has come to visit me in the mountains so late at night?” he called out.

“Why have you tied me up? Untie me immediately!” said the voice.

Dōchin was even more puzzled. He remained quiet.

“If you won’t untie me, then I will come to you!” cried the voice. It was followed by the sound of a rope being cut. Dōchin began to feel uneasy. He took out a large sword he had been practicing with, secured the lock on his door, and then shrank back.

Suddenly, the door opened. Dōchin, thought he was done for. He drew his sword and waited behind his closet door. The dead man searched here and there for him. Suddenly Dōchin jumped out and slashed at his side, severing its arm. The dead man vanished.

Dōchin picked up the arm and examined it. It was a monstrous arm, covered in hairs like needles. Dōchin locked the hand up in a trunk like a precious object. The rest of the night passed peacefully.

Now, Dōchin’s mother made a daily pilgrimage every morning to Dōchin’s temple, but that morning she came earlier than usual. Dōchin was still sleeping, but her visit woke up him. Dōchin rushed to get out of bed.

“You’re earlier than usual, mother,” he said.

“Last night I dreamed something terrible. Did anything happen to you?” she asked.

Dōchin told his mother what had happened the previous night, and she looked surprised.

“Show me the arm,” she said.

“I can’t,” he protested.

“Oh, please!” she insisted.

So Dōchin retrieved the arm and showed it to his mother. Then she reached out with one hand and snatched up the arm.

“This is my arm!” she said. And then she vanished.

The sky, which up until that moment had been clear, suddenly turned dark. A terrible laugh rang out in the air. It was so frightful that the brave Dōchin fainted, as if dead.

In a short while the actual dawn broke. As usual, Dōchin’s mother visited the temple. She was shocked to find Dōchin lying unconscious, and she ran back to the village for help. She returned with other villagers who gave Dōchin some medicine and looked after him until he revived.

“What happened here?” they asked.

Dōchin explained everything. From that day on, everyone said that Dōchin was the biggest coward in all of Japan.

This was all the work of a tengu, who punished Dōchin for being too proud.

Today’s story talks about a monster called a bakemono (pronounced bah-keh-mo-no). Like yesterday’s henge, this is not a specific monster’s name, but a generic term for any monster. Bakemono is written 化物, and it also means “changed thing.” Like henge, bakemono were often thought to be animals using magic to change themselves or other things into monstrous shapes in order to mess with humans.

The main character of the story is a zatō, a word which I have chosen not to translate. A zatō was a member of a guild for blind people. These guilds were established to guarantee that blind people could find employment rather than having to rely on charity or welfare. They were granted monopolies of certain trades, including massage, acupuncture, moxibustion, and playing the biwa. Only zatō could legally perform these jobs.

Zatō functioned on the periphery of society. They traveled from place to place peddling their trades, and were able to do certain things that sighted people were forbidden to do. Because of this, they appear in a lot of yōkai tales. You can find zatō yōkai, like ōzatō, umizatō, and tenome, and there are famous legendary zatō like Zatōichi and Miminashi Hōichi. Even biwa yōkai is related to zatō.

This story also references Sanjō Kokaji, a man who might be more familiar to some as Munechika. Munechika was a legendary swordsmith who lived in the 10th century and is considered one of the greatest swordsmiths to ever have lived. It might feel like a weird casual name drop at the end of the story, but Edo period readers would have immediately understood the reference and recognized that a Munechika blade would be a holy relic, with powers beyond that of a normal sword.

The Zatō Who Met a Bakemono on a Journey

A zatō from the capital was traveling through the countryside with one of his disciples. They were passing through a remote mountain village when the sun went down. There was no place to stay in the village, so they made camp at a wayside shrine.

Sometime after midnight the zatō heard a woman’s voice: “Where have you visitors come from? My hermitage is not a very nice one, but instead of camping out here why not come spend the night at my place?”

The zatō replied, “You are generous, and I will not forget your kindness. But we are used to traveling, and so staying out here is no problem. On top of that, it is quite late and thus impossible to travel.”

The disciple said, “But it is a kind offer. Instead of staying in a place like this, wouldn’t it be better to rest in a place with a fire and hot water? Let us go.”

“Certainly,” said the woman.

“Nevertheless, we will stay here,” the zatō replied. And he refused to argue further.

“In that case, would you please watch my child for a short time,” said the woman.

“No, no. I am blind. On top of that it is the middle of the night. I cannot take care of a child,” the zatō was stubborn.

“That is so unkind! Please, you must watch my child,” she asked again and offered her baby.

“If it’s just for a short time, surely we can watch him,” said the disciple.

Upon hearing this the zatō became furious. “Never!”

“Well I don’t mind,” said the disciple. He took the child and cradled it in his arms, and the woman left.

Soon, the child began to grow larger in the disciple’s arms. By the time the disciple could call out, “What is going on?” the child had grown as large as a boy of 14 or 15 years. Then it started to bite and eat the disciple.

“What is happening?!” he screamed. In just a few moments, the child had eaten him up.

Then the woman’s voice reappeared. “Now let Master Zatō hold you,” she said.

The zatō was terrified. Fumbling around, he found the box containing his family sword. Gripping the sword tightly, he readied himself to stab at whatever might come close to him. The child was too scared to approach the zatō.

“Why won’t you let him hold you?” the woman’s voice scolded.

A child’s voice complained back, “I can’t get close enough to him.”

The zatō listened to them argue for a bit, and then they vanished.

“What a frightful thing to happen!” thought the zatō. He continued to grip his sword tightly, and soon dawn broke. The zatō decided to leave as quickly as possible. He hurried out to the street, and he bumped into a stranger on the road.

“Master Zatō, where are you headed to? Do you have a place to stay?”

The zatō told the stranger about his encounter the previous night.

“That place is haunted by bakemono!” the stranger said. “It’s a wonder that you escaped with your life. Please come inside and tell me all the details of what happened.”

The stranger brought the zatō to his home and prepared a fine meal for him.

“By the way, let me have a look at that sword of yours.”

The zatō considered for a moment, and then replied, “No, I cannot show this sword to anyone.” He held the sword at his side, ready to draw, just in case.

Then, right next to him, a voice said: “If he won’t show you, then devour him!”

The voice repeated itself over and over. The zatō knew it was the same bakemono from before. He drew his blade and slashed wildly in all directions. Then everything grew quiet. The zatō waited for a while, and the sky grew light. This time it was truly dawn.

It is said that the reason the zatō barely escaped with his life and made it back to the capital was thanks to his sword, which was forged by Sanjō Kokaji.

Hello yokai lovers!

It’s that time of the year again: A-Yokai-A-Day is here! In celebration of Halloween season, every day this October I will post a translation and an illustration of a yokai story on this website & social media.

You can follow along by checking back every day for a new story & art, or participate along with me and many others by posting your own yokai-themed doodles, paintings, or anything on social media using the hashtags #ayokaiaday or #ayokaiaday2022.

This year, I am sharing stories from an Edo period book called Shokoku hyakumonogatari (“One Hundred Tales From Various Provinces”). This collection of spooky stories was compiled and published in 1677. It contains five volumes, each with 20 stories. The author and editor are unknown, but it was one of the forerunners of the ghost story boom that took place during the Edo period, and thus its influence can be seen in countless later works.

Perhaps because of its age, copies of this book are exceedingly rare. The only remaining full set containing all five volumes is owned by the Tokyo National Museum. Fortunately, they have graciously made scans of the book available online. You can see the original book here, including the original illustrations contained within!

All of the translations I share this month are my own. I don’t know of any English language translations of Shokoku hyakumonogatari, although I’m sure at least some of the individual stories have been translated before. Some of them appear in the articles on yokai.com as well, so you may be familiar with some of the stories I share this month. Hopefully, some, many, or even all of them will be new to you, and help you develop a deeper appreciation for Japanese folklore!

Note that I will not be translating the names of the monsters in these stories, for I believe they work better as loanwords. However I will do my best to explain unfamiliar terms found in each story.

Our first story deals with a henge (pronounced hen-geh). This is a generic term for monsters and doesn’t refer to a specific type of creature. Henge is written 変化, which literally translates to “change.” It frequently refers to a shape-changed tanuki, mujina, or kitsune, but can mean pretty much any ghost, spirit, or monster. These days, yōkai is the more common catch-all term for Japanese monsters, but before the 20th century, henge and mononoke were the main terms used for monsters in Japanese.

How Itagaki Saburō Was Killed by a Henge in Suruga Province

In Suruga Province there lived a man named Yoshimoto. One night, overcome with boredom, he gathered all of his family and servants together for a night of feasting and merrymaking. Then, he said, “Is there anyone amongst you who is willing to climb to the shrine on top of Mount Asama this night?”

Normally, there were many people who boasted about their bravery, but this was a place rumored to be inhabited by evil spirits. Thus, nobody readily stepped forward and volunteered to go.

There was one man, Itagaki no Saburō from Kai Province, whose family had a reputation for bravery and his skill with the bow and arrow going back several generations.

“I will go,” he said.

Yoshimoto was moved by this display of bravery that he immediately gave the warrior a token to use as proof of his visit. Itagaki, being a man of great courage, left for Asama without so much as another word.

It was mid-September. The full moon shone bright through the forest canopy. A strong wind howled, and the sound of the blowing leaves was dreadful. The mountain road was forlorn, but Itagaki passed through it and planted the token in front of the shrine at the top of the mountain.

As he was returning, a woman wrapped in a white traveling robe suddenly came out of nowhere. Itagaki thought this must be the henge who lived on Mount Asama, trying to test him. He ran towards the woman and tore away the white cloth covering her face. Underneath it was a single eye, and countless horns sticking out from beneath her parted hair. She wore light make up and her teeth were blacked. No words can describe how dreadful a sight she was, yet Itagaki was not scared.

“What are you?” he shouted, and put his hand on the sword at his waist. But the figure suddenly vanished.

Itagaki completed his journey and returned to Yoshimoto’s party.

“I have placed the token and returned, my lord,” he reported.

All of the men praised him, saying that only a man such as Itagaki could return safely from such a place.

“And did anything unusual happen to you?” they asked.

“No, nothing at all,” he replied.

Then, although the moon had been bright, suddenly the sky grew dark. It started to pour, and thunder roared. All of the men at the party including Yoshimoto turned white with fear. Then, from the sky, a hoarse voice shrieked:

“Itagaki! Tell them! Tell them!”

All of the men present cried to Itagaki: “If you saw something, you must tell Master Yoshimoto! Tell it exactly as it happened!”

Thinking he might lose his life if he did not speak the truth, Itagaki told the whole story of what had happened on Asama, leaving nothing out. However, the wind and rain did not let up, and lightning thunder continued to crash around them. No words can convey how terrible it truly was.

“If we don’t do something, Itagaki will not survive this!” the men cried. “Hurry, hide him in a trunk!”

The men shut Itagaki in a heavy wooden chest, then took up arms and stood watch over it.

Eventually the storm subsided, and morning came. The men decided to let Itagaki out, however when they opened the trunk, it was empty!

The men were terrified and asked each other and Yoshimoto what was going on.

Then, they heard a noise like two or three thousand voices bursting out in laughter. When they ran outside to investigate, Itagaki’s severed head fell from the sky. It rolled underneath the veranda, then disappeared forever.