This weekend I am in Kyoto for the KaiKai Yokai Festival and Mononoke Ichi yokai market. And while I would love to be able to paint these two days, this festival is super busy and there’s just no way to operate a booth as well as complete a painting. So I’m scheduling this weekend’s posts in advance just to make sure you are all supplied with yokai while I am away on business! I’ll also have photos to share of the festival after I get back, but for now please enjoy this preview of my upcoming book, Echizen-Wakasa Kidan!

(And if you haven’t checked it out yet, visit my Kickstarter for the book and check out what great rewards you can get if you back this project!)

This story comes from an 18th century book called Kimama no ki. The translation below is not the final version from the book; it is just a rough draft that will be refined before publication.

The Yamabushi of Takurayama
This took place in Keichō 8 (1603), during the construction of Echizen Kitanoshō Castle (later Fukui Castle). A large number of laborers went into Takurayama (in Minamiechizen-chō) to cut down timber for the castle’s main gate. Then, out of nowhere, five or six burly yamabushi came to manager Ogasawara Rihei’s cabin and asked for tea.

Then they said to Ogasawara, “What is the reason for cutting down these trees? We know that the trees found here, so deep in the mountains, cannot be harvested just anywhere. We have made pilgrimages all over the country and we know all the history of the mountains and rivers. Why don’t you stop cutting down these trees?”

Ogasawara thought to himself, “Yamabushi would not come so deep into the mountains at this time. These must be tengu.” He replied, “The reason we are cutting down these trees is none other than to use them as materials for the construction of the castle of our lord, Yūki Hideyasu. The castle is for the preservation and security of the entire province, and not for any personal gain.”

Hearing this, the yamabushi said, “If you are cutting these trees for such a purpose, then even if you have to cut down all the trees on this mountain, it must be done. I have nothing more to say to you.”

With that, they took their leave and climbed up the mountain. Ogasawara thought it was strange, and he followed them with his eyes as they disappeared into the shadows of the trees, but lost sight of them after a while. There were many people on the mountain as well, cutting timber, and they should have seen the yamabushi, but not even one of them did. Ogasawara’s son, Rihei II, was there with his father at that time, though he was a young child, and he later recounted that he had seen these yamabushi.

Tonight’s story features a yokai called a mōryō. I really like these guys, mostly because they have a creepy-cute, bunny-like appearance. Here is how Toriyama Sekien depicts them:

Mōryō are old spirits, going back to ancient China. They are nature spirits, inhabiting rocks, trees, stream, and mountains. They feed on human corpses, and a lot of folk religious ritual was originally developed to protect corpses from being stolen and eaten by mōryō.

What I love about this story is that it implies a complex world of spirits and monsters with its own society and structures. How did this mōryō know his time had come? Do they have some kind of yokai radio or text messages? Do they just know? Does someone tell them? What happens if they fail in their duty? There are so many questions raised that it ignites my imagination. Naturally, there are no answers given — so we are all invited to speculate on what they might be.

I also love that this mōryō has the courtesy to tell his employer of his duty, and the employer has the courtesy to grant him his leave. It’s all so formal and polite, and it just tickles me.

The Demon Servant

There was a certain man named Shibata who served as an accountant. Several years ago he was sent to Mino Province on official construction business, and before he departed he hired a manservant to accompany him. The manservant attended to him faithfully.

One night, after Shibata had retired for the night at an inn, at around midnight, while he was half-dreaming and half-awake, the manservant came to Shibata’s bedside and said:

“I am not a human. I am something called a mōryō. Something unavoidable has come up, and I must ask to take my leave.”

Shibata replied, “If it is something unavoidable, then I must grant you leave. But I would like to hear the reason.”

The manservant said, “I have a duty to steal the corpses of the deceased in turn. Now, my turn has come up, and I must steal the corpse of a certain peasant’s mother about one ri from this village.”

After saying this, the servant disappeared without a trace.

“What a silly dream,” thought Shibata, and he put it out of his mind.

When he woke the next morning, the manservant was missing. He asked around about the peasant’s mother from the village one ri away, and a person from that area told him, “We held her funeral today, but while on the road a dark cloud seemed to descend upon us, and then the corpse vanished from inside of the coffin!”

Upon hearing this, Shibata was utterly astonished.

Tonight’s story has variations in several other places in Japan — in Izu, in Sendai, and tonight’s version, Chiba. The first time I heard it, it was a tale about a jorōgumo, and it ends with a mysterious voice heard saying “Clever, clever!” from the forest; but this time around the story is left vague as to who or what the perpetrator is, and I really like that. This version is far creepier, because you are left not knowing what actually happened. It feels more believable.

I also enjoy the prologue about the zatō, which is of course just Negishi being honest about where he heard the story. But it adds weight and puts the story in context. If this is the way the zatō told the story to Negishi (the author of Mimibukuro), it makes sense that this version is creepier; after all, zatō were professional storytellers and entertainers, so it seems like they could come up with an impactful way to tell a ghost story.

The Strange River

This tale was told by the zatō Nanaichi. He was born in the village of Ono, in Isumi District, Kazusa Province, and lost his sight at the age of twenty-four. This story took place when he was twenty-two or twenty-three.

In Ono Village there was a river about eighteen meters wide. In that river was a deep spot that was commonly called The Vertical Well. On the opposite shore was an overgrown bamboo thicket that was covered in shadow all day and was a dark and gloomy spot. Before Nanaichi became a zatō, he heard that this was a good fishing spot, and he repeatedly went there to cast his line.

One time, as he was fishing as usual, a spider came out of the water, attached a thread to his toes, and then dove back into the water only to reappear and attached another thread to his toes, repeating this over and over. Eventually most of his ankle was wrapped up in threads, he quietly transferred the threads from his foot to a wooden post nearby and watched to see what would happen. The spider appeared several more times, repeatedly attaching threads as before, and then, from somewhere in the water, it seemed like a voice said, “Ready? Ready?”

Then, from the bamboo thicket, a reply came: “Ready.”

The post snapped clean in half. Nanaichi was terrified and fled back to his home.

Shokoku hyakumonogatari is finished, so today we start on a new source for Japanese ghost stories. The next few stories will be from a story collection called Mimibukuro. This is a fascinating book (or books). It was written over a 30 year period by Negishi Yasumori, an administer under the shogunate who worked on Sado Island from the 1780s until 1814. Mimibukuro contains 10 volumes, 1000 stories in total. They are not all ghost/yokai tales; the collection contains anecdotes and stories from the samurai and merchants of Sado, as well as stories told to Negishi over his long occupation. However there are several such tales among the 1000. The book is written very dry and matter-of-factly, in the style of a government official, and often includes specific names of people who told him the stories, and places where they happened. And I love that! It really ties the book in to the period it was written. Many of the names in the book are verified people that lived in the time, and that adds just enough weight to the stories to make the creepiness in them feel more real. The name Mimibukuro means “ear bag” — as in, this is a big ol’ sack of stories that he heard and wrote down. What a great name!

Anyway, I’ve hand-selected some of my favorite yokai tales from Mimibukuro and will be sharing them in no particular order. Let’s dive in!

How an Unconscious Thing Repaid a Kindness

In Surugadai there was a house called the Plum Manor, for it had an exceptionally large number of plum trees planted in pots. A man named Yamanaka Heikichi lived there, and he cherished the plum trees, furnishing them with elaborate stone pedestals and other things.

One year, Heikichi became gravely ill and confined to his home for a long time. His spirits grew increasingly heavy and troubled, but one night a young boy appeared to him in a dream and said:

“I am someone who has benefited from your deep kindness for many years. Your illness stems from the end of your natural lifespan, and death is near. Yet, for your kindness all of these years, I shall die in your place. Nevertheless, the medicine your doctor is giving you is not helping you. Seek out my colleague Shinoyama Yoshinosuke and ask him to call a doctor. If you take his medicine, you will recover.”

After this, Heikichi woke from his dream. Even though he thought it was very strange, he wrote a letter:

“Truly as I was half awake and half in dream, I am not sure if I should follow this advice, but since the medicine my doctor has given me is not had any effect, and since someone close to me recommended it, I would like to ask Yoshinosuke to consult a doctor for me.”

Just then, a visitor appeared at the front gate and announced that Yoshinosuke had arrived. Heikichi was greatly astonished and immediately invited him into his bedroom.

“I was just about to send a messenger to request to speak with you,” said Heikichi.

“I came to consult with you because you have been sick for a long time. You see, a nameless person came to me in my dream last night and told me to check in on you and to consult about medicine for you; and then I woke up,” explained Yoshinosuke.

Heikichi was even more astounded and said, “I had that very same dream!”

They called for the physician who had been regularly visiting  Yoshinosuke’s house and asked him to treat Heikichi. Heikichi’s condition gradually improved until he finally recovered completely. Strangely, though, as Heikichi began to improve, out of his many plum trees, Heikichi’s most beloved potted plum tree began to sicken, until it finally withered and rotted away.

Tonight’s story is the final tale from Shokoku hyakumonogatari! 100 tales from all over Japan, and 4 years of A-Yokai-A-Day posts culminate here. What a journey!

This is a great finale to this story collection. A tale about telling ghost stories, and a reward for those with the courage to stick it through. I love the attitude of the main character: “What a waste of time!” Angry that he was left all alone to finish the game himself, and he did. What a sport.

I also love his attempt to reason with the ghost: “Please pass on with just the Nenbutsu.” As if salvation were negotiable and controllable by the ghost who wants to be saved. I don’t know if that line is meant to be humorous, but I laughed at it.

So now that you’ve heard 100 ghost tales, what did you think of this story collection? And even though the book ends on a happy note, remember… there may just be a ghost creeping up behind you now!

How Telling One Hundred Ghost Stories Lead to Wealth and Honor

Near Gojō-Horikawa, Kyōto lived a man named Komeya Hachirōbē. He had ten children, his sixteen-year-old son being head of the household, and he had long been a widower.

One day he traveled to Ōtsu to buy rice, leaving his children to watch the house. “Mind the house well. I will return tomorrow,” he said as he departed.

That night, seven or eight neighborhood children gathered to play and they began a game of one hundred ghost stories. Before long, they had told forty or fifty tales, and one by one the children left. There were only two or three children left by the time they reached eighty or ninety tales, fear had overtaken them all and they went home, so that only the eldest son was left.

The eldest son thought, “The game of one hundred ghost stories is meant to test the strength of the ghosts. What a waste this has become. Therefore, I will finish the hundred tales by myself!”

He told the rest of the stories, and then went out back to pee. But something was in the garden, and it grabbed his leg firmly with a hairy hand. The eldest son, startled, shouted, “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

Just then it changed into a woman of seventeen or eighteen and said, “I am the former mistress of this house. I died during childbirth, and there was nobody to perform my funeral so I could not pass on. Please recite one thousand sutras for me.”

To this the eldest son replied, “My father is a poor man, and there is no way we could afford a thousand sutra memorial service. Please pass on with just the Nenbutsu.”

The woman replied, “In that case, I will bury gold coins beneath the persimmon tree behind the house. Please use them to perform my service.” Then she vanished into thin air.

The next day, Hachirōbē returned. When he heard the tale of what had happened the previous night, he said, “Well in that case…” and dug beneath the persimmon tree. There he found one hundred ryō in koban coins. He quickly retrieved them all, and he used them to perform a warm-hearted funeral for the woman. After that the Komeya family prospered, and became the foremost rice merchant in Shimogyō.

For those of you keeping count, today’s story is number 99 in Shokoku hyakumonogatari! That is a big deal. Not just because, wow, it’s been a lot of work and a long journey, but also because the penultimate episode has to carry the weight of everything that came before it, and set up for the final story coming next.

I think today’s story manages to do that.

Today’s story deals with another ikiryō, which for a long period was one of the scariest types of ghosts Japanese believed in. Just imagine if someone you wronged — or not even that you wrong but someone who was just jealous of you — had the power to curse you to death, with or without being aware of it! Even in the Edo period, when a lot of people no longer believed in ghosts or yokai, belief in curses remained fairly strong. An ikiyrō was a lot more believable than many types of monsters.

This story features a lot of really cool imagery. It’s downright cinematic, I will say. It has the fire altar, the young shrine maiden painted with calligraphy, a magic talisman and gohei. Then there’s the chanting priest, the exorcism, the 120 candles… and the climax scene right out of a movie when (spoiler alert) the ghost flaps her sleeves, extinguishing the candles and the life of the wife. WOW! And then the brutally violent ending. Phew!

Unfortunately the story is not written very well. This is one where I think Lafcadio Hearn’s flowery touch would do a lot more for the story than the simple way it’s written. I’ve translated it in my usual style — staying as true to the original text as possible — but boy did I fight the temptation to elaborate and expand certain areas where it just felt… not written well.

Here’s one example: 120 candles. Why not 99 candles? It’s the 99th story… And that would also evoke the ao andon, the ghost who appears at the end of the ghost story telling party (and my favorite yokai). Also, the author names Tokiwa before the priest’s epic line: “REVEAL YOUR TRUE FORM!” spoiling the big reveal.

Honestly this is one of my favorite stories in the book. It just needs to be written better.

Oh, and one last thing before getting to today’s story: As of today, we received the OK from Japan Post to resume shipping parcels to the US from our webstore. US readers can now place orders once again on the yokai.com web shop.

Okay, on to #99!

The Woman’s Ikiryō; or, The Divine Power of a Yoritsuke

In Sagami Province there was a man named Nobuhisa who came from a high-ranking family. His wife was the daughter of a man named Toki Genshun. She was a woman of renowned beauty, and Nobuhisa’s love for her had no bounds. She had a maidservant named Tokiwa. Tokiwa was no less beautiful than Nobuhisa’s wife, and Nobuhisa visited her bed frequently. After that, Tokiwa served her mistress with utter devotion.

One day the wife fell ill, and her condition gradually grew worse and worse. Nobuhisa grew suspicious and thought, “Perhaps this is due to some person’s jealousy.”

He hired a renowned priest to perform an exorcism for her. The priest brought his scriptures and pondered her condition.

“This illness is caused by a person’s ikiryō possessing her. If I use a yoritsuke on her, it should reveal the person whose spirit is possessing her,” said the priest.

Nobuhisa replied, “I beg you to do what is best.”

The priest had a girl of twelve or thirteen stripped naked, then he painted the Lotus Sutra on her body and placed gohei in both of her hands. He gathered one hundred and twenty priests and had them recite the Lotus Sutra, and he set up an altar at the bedside of the sick woman. He lit one hundred and twenty candles and burned various fine incenses, and chanted the sutra without pause. As expected, the twelve or thirteen year old girl used as the yoritsuke began to babble. The priest chanted the sutra with even more intensity, and Tokiwa appeared above the altar.

The priest said, “Reveal your true form!”

At this, Tokiwa’s clothing transformed into an elegant uchikake kimono, and, with one flap of her sleeve, all one hundred and twenty candles blew out. At the same moment the fires were extinguished, the wife passed away.

Nobuhisa was incensed. He had Tokiwa brought forth and, as an offering to his wife’s soul, executed her by quartering.

I think tonight’s ghost story is a sweet one. I like it especially because this ghost is exactly the kind of ghost I would hope to become: one that comes back only to play board games.

Sugoroku is a famous Japanese board and dice game that originated in ancient China and came to Japan in the 8th century. It has evolved several variations; the one being discussed in this story is called “ban-sugoroku,” which is a game similar to backgammon. The best known variation is called “e-sugoroku” and is popular with young children today, although this is a different game than ban-sugoroku and more resembles games like Snakes and Ladders, where you throw dice and progress along a board track. This version became popular in the Edo period due to the printing press, and countless variations were created based on any theme you could imagine — novels, travel spots, even yokai!

Here’s an example of a yokai sugoroku game from the Edo period. How many yokai can you identify?

Meanwhile, ban-sugoroku also appears in lots of artwork and looks like this:

So how about it — would you play board games with a ghost?

How Ōmori Hikogorō’s Wife Died and then Came Back to Play Sugoroku

In Kameyama, Tanba Province, there lived a retainer named Ōmori Hikogorō, with a fief of 300 koku. His wife was famed for her beauty, however she died in childbirth. Hikogorō grieved deeply, but there was nothing else he could do.

His wife had an attendant who had served them since the age of seven. This girl grieved so bitterly that she attempted to kill herself fourteen or fifteen times within seven days. They somehow managed to calm her down, and eventually three years passed.

Hikogorō’s family members pressured him into once again taking a wife. His second wife was highly versed in propriety for a woman, and kept the first wife in her thoughts by performing daily prayers for her at the family altar, so that everybody said that surely the first wife rejoiced beneath the soil.

While the first wife was alive she loved sugoroku, and she was always playing with her attendant. Even after she died, perhaps due to her attachment to the game, she appeared every night for those three years to play sugoroku with her attendant.

One night the attendant said, “It has been three years that you’ve come here nightly to play with me. Ever since I was seven you’ve cared for me, and now I have grown into an adult. No matter how long I remain a servant, I could never repay your kindness. However, now I have a new mistress, and if it was ever discovered that you were visiting me every night, it might seem as though you came to bear a grudge against her. From now on, please do not come anymore.”

The dead wife replied, “Truly as you say, nobody would guess that I was actually attached to this sugoroku game. From this day forward, I will not come here.”

Saying this, she left. However, afterward, when the attendant told this story to Hikogorō and his wife, they said, “So that’s what it was?” And they had a sugoroku board made and placed before the first wife’s grave as an offering, and prayed for her with deep affection.