Well, I’m back from Kyoto, and while I am tired, I’m excited to share a new story with you all! Mononoke Ichi was a lot of fun as always, and it sounds like plans for even bigger future yokai events are being made at Uzumasa’s Toei Film Studio. I can’t wait for next year’s festival!

The event was so well attended that I barely had any time away from my booth, but I did manage to sneak away and take a few shots of yokai scattered throughout the park:

And some evening views of the park and vendor street:

Tonight’s story is especially fun because it’s both ghost story and a debunking of a ghost story. This reflects Negishi’s attitude to yokai and ghosts that he shows throughout Mimibukuro. He is cleary very skeptical of them, and sometimes even adds a few disclaimer-like sentences that show he is merely reporting what he heard, rather than reporting an actual ghost or yokai.

There is Truth Behind Ghost Stories

In the 6th year of Bunka (1809), the Year of the Snake, a glowing object that appeared every night on the embankment of Yanagihara became the talk of the town.

In the summer or fall of the previous year, there was an incident in which the fourteen year old daughter of Kahē of Kanda Konyachō was passing through the street during a rainstorm when some standing lumber toppled, and she was so surprised that she died from shock. Neighbors who went out at night to investigate the strange glow proclaimed it was the shadowy fire of her delusion left behind on earth.

However, if we examine the facts carefully, we establish that a man named Ichibē, who worked at the Saburōbē Store in the same area as a hairdresser, owned an earthen storehouse about 3.6 meters square. He painted its walls with a plaster mixed with ash and, due perhaps to the strong oils in that mixture, the light from the lanterns held by people passing by was reflecting off of the walls and causing the glow.

Perhaps the plaster had been applied unevenly beneath the eaves of the storehouse, so that when a lantern passed by the light would suddenly reflect brightly, and this effect was greatly exaggerated by all who talked about it.

Whether because of that, or perhaps because there was some other damage, repairs were recently made on that storehouse. Scaffolding was erected, mats were hung, and so on, and this ghostly rumor vanished immediately.

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!)

Tonight’s story is from A Daimio’s Government, by W. E. Griffis. This is a neat one, because it was recorded by one of the first foreigners in Japan! Griffis lived in Fukui for a time, and there is a memorial to him along the Asuwa River in the heart of the city. The fact that one of the earliest foreigners to arrive in Japan was stationed in Fukui is a testament to the high status Fukui had in Japan prior to the 20th century. Below is not my own translation, naturally, as Griffis wrote this in English. But I did make a couple of edits for clarity.

The Ghost of Ippaku

Matsudaira Tadanao was in his youth a brave warrior, one of the first to scale the walls of Osaka Castle when Iyeyasu besieged it in 1615. He killed many enemies with his own hands, but in his old age he became very wicked, and treated the people very cruelly. In the book called Echizen mei seiki kō, a general guidebook and gazetteer of the Province in twelve volumes, nothing to the detriment of the house of Echizen was allowed to be published, but the people held many traditions of his cruelty, which I learned from them. It is said that Tadanao when once out hunting saw high in the air the vision of a lovely woman which so fascinated him that he dispatched emissaries to all parts of Echizen to find the original. A woman of surpassing charms answering to his description was found walking in the fields, and was brought to the prince, and he made her his concubine. She proved to be a demon in female human shape, and prompted her lord to to do many of his wicked acts. He had an unnatural passion for hacking criminals and animals in pieces with his sword. His chief delight was to rip up pregnant women to discover the details of fetal life. In all these, and other villainies, his concubine Ippaku encouraged him. To this day the rude peasantry of Echizen believe the spirits of the dead warriors killed at Osaka revenged themselves by entering into this woman Ippaku, and sending her to tempt, deceive and curse the house of Echizen.

One mossy and overgrown part of Fukui Castle, kept always closed, was pointed out to me as the place where the ghost of Ippaku lurked. No one durst enter this. A few years ago, the people said, the prince sent a strong brave man to watch this gloomy nook at night. After long waiting, he saw at midnight, a lovely woman emerge from the tower, and face the damp and overgrown ramparts. Passing him, she said that she was the spirit of Ippaku, but that if he told anyone that he had seen her, he would shortly die. He then perceived her back was that of a hideous, slimy monster. The next morning, with loyal bravery, he related his experiences to his prince. A few weeks afterwards, he died. The common people and children believed that his death was caused by the spirit whose caution he had disregarded.

For his misgovernment, oppression, and wickedness, the shogun punished this first scion of the house of Echizen by reducing his revenue more than one half, leaving him but 325,000 koku, and assigning the other divisions of the province to subordinate daimyo.

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.