The place where the ghost appears, Shōheibashi, is still around, near the Kanda River in Tokyo. During the time of this ghost story, this area would have been much more overgrown and wild than the bustling metropolitan area it is today, and it would be much more fitting for the spooky atmosphere of a ghost tale.

For this blog, I translated the word for “wandering spirit” in the title into English, because it is one that I haven’t used frequently on this site or on yokai.com, so readers may not be familiar with it. That word is 遊魂 (yūkon), and literally just means wandering spirit.

An Eyewitness Account of a Wandering Spirit

This is a story about a young samurai in the service of the Nakayama family. He was exceptionally bright, and his master was especially fond of him and looked after him with care. However, toward the end of the seventh year of the Kansei era (1975), he contracted smallpox, which was rampant at the time, and died. His master was overcome with grief, and held a lavish funeral for him.

Now, a man who was close friends with Nakayama was passing through Shōheibashi when he suddenly came upon the young samurai. He knew nothing of the boy’s death, so he asked, “Is your master doing well?” The young samurai gave the appropriate greetings, and they parted ways.

However, when the man went to the Nakayama residence and inquired about the young samurai, he was told that the boy had died some time earlier.

The man was astonished and said, “Had I been alone, I might suppose that I had mistaken someone else for him.” But when he asked the servant who had been accompanying him, the servant replied that he remembered the young samurai very well and that there was no mistaking him.

They were both astonished.

The idea of children writing or drawing premonitions of death has become such a trope in Hollywood these days that it can feel stale—but here we can see that this has been a thing for much longer, before Hollywood even existed!

I guess “creepy children” is a universal horror theme that crosses both time and cultures.

A Matter Difficult to Determine as Not Being Supernatural

Among the retainers of Andō Sōtai was a man named Kōemon—I forget his surname. This Kōemon initially had two sons. One of them was, by the age of five or six, exceptionally intelligent, and could read and write and write at a level that was remarkable for a child of his age. This boy died at the age of seven.

Shortly before his death, claiming he had been given a posthumous Buddhist name, he wrote the two characters for “Rōkyū” on several sheets of paper. His parents considered this to be ominous and scolded him, trying to stop him—but he paid them no need and continued to write them.

Since he died shortly after, they sent word to their family temple and made arrangements for the funeral. When the temple assigned the boy a posthumous Buddhist name, however, they bestowed upon him the name Ryōkyū. The family asked the temple priest if he had heard this name from them, the priest replied that he knew not the slightest thing about it.

Everybody sighed in wonder at this strange coincidence, so the story goes.

Yoshioka was a great hero, and after his execution his vengeful spirit supposedly hung around and began possessing people. In order to appease his spirit, he was enshrined near his place of death, and that shrine is known as Nitta Daimyōjin. It still stands today, in Ōta Ward, Tokyo.

Negishi attributes this story to “Genzui,” which refers to Akiyama Genzui, aka Akiyama Kakushū, a renowned Edo period physician who was also an acquaintance of Negishi.

I also like how this story ends with Negishi’s very reasonable justification for continuing to maintain shrines like this one!

A Matter in Which It Is Difficult to Say There Was No Divine Curse

This tale was recounted by Genzui.

When he was in his prime, he went out with four or five colleagues to gather herbs. The tomb of Yoshioki, also known as Nitta Daimyōjin, is a place that is now covered in bamboo, and a young novice whom they brought with them began picking herbs there. His colleagues tried to stop the boy, but he paid no attention and continued.

After they returned to their lodging, the novice suddenly began to babble, swearing and shouting things like: “You dare pick the herbs in my domain! How detestable!”

Everyone in the household was greatly alarmed. They returned the herbs to their original place, whereupon the boy returned to normal.

If the wrath of heroes remains frozen and undiminished, perhaps there is reason for future generations to continue revering them as gods?

Smallpox was one of the most deadly and feared diseases around the world before it was eradicated, and this was certainly no different in Edo period Japan. It was generally considered a rite of passage; that is how inevitable it was. You were going to get it at some point, and you would either live or die. People prayed to gods not to escape or avoid infection, but for the disease to pass lightly and without severe long-term effects. Yet plenty of people did die, many of them children, and there are lots of tales about supernatural events related to smallpox.

A Matter in Which It Is Difficult to Say There Was No Yūrei

A certain man named Kurihara, who used to come to my house, lived in Kohinata and regularly visited the home of a nearby hatamoto. He was particularly close to the family and was permitted to go into the inner chambers. The hatamoto had a son who was five years old. The boy was utterly adorable, and Kurihara doted on him and would bring him gifts whenever he visited.

When he had not visited for a while, a message arrived from that residence saying that he should by all means come that evening.

Kurihara entered through the front gate and walked down the hallway. The little boy came out as usual, tugged at Kurihara’s sleeve, and led him toward the back of the house. In the inner chambers, folding screens had been set up and there was a solemn, subdued atmosphere. Thinking that someone might be ill, Kurihara passed through calmly.

Just then, the master of the house came out and told him, “My son whom you adored so much has died of smallpox.”

Kurihara was not merely surprised; he told me himself that he was so scared that the hairs on his body stood on end.

The other name, Andō Sōtai, refers to Andō Goemon Koretoshi, another shogunate administrator who was a friend and a colleague of Negishi Yasumori. His name frequently turns up in Mimibukuro. After the Great Fire of An’ei 4 (1775), he aided the victims of the disaster by distributing food and funds. However, this was done without permission, and as a result he was made to commit seppuku in 1782. There is still a small monument to him in Saitama City.

A Matter About Which It Is Difficult to Determine That There Was Not a Past Life

Before the death of Lord Nanryō-in of Kii Province, he left instructions that, should he die, he was to be buried at a place called Okanoyama. This place was said to be near Wakayama Castle.

Upon his death, they began digging a grave at the site; however, after digging down one jō (about 3.03 meters), they discovered a stone burial chamber. Inside of this burial chamber were a bowl and a staff, and nothing else. On the cap of the burial chamber, the two characters for “Nanryō” were clearly inscribed.

Since the posthumous Buddhist name that had been proposed by his family temple before his death was “Nanryō-in,” people at the time marveled at how well everything fit together.

This story is still passed down in Kii Province today, according to Andō Sōtai.

This matter-of-fact, skeptical attitude is one of my favorite things about Japanese folklore, and one that appears frequently in Mimibukuro. It seems to be a common feature in stories recorded by samurai who, like Negishi, served in roles related to administration and government. Many of the tales in my most recent book, Echizen-Wakasa Kidan (co-authored with Nagano Eishun), were recorded by samurai in government positions and who treat incidents with a similar level of skepticism. It’s just my guess, but I suspect that taking such tales of ghosts and yokai seriously would have been incompatible with holding an administrative job under the shogunate.

A Matter in Which It Is Difficult to Establish There Was No Yūrei

In the early summer of the second year of the Tenmei era (1782), the daughter of a merchant family living just outside of Atarashibashi in Asakusa had been placed by her parents into a relationship with a man—either another townsperson or perhaps a samurai. She lived in his household as a concubine and she bore him a child.

After the delivery, she fell ill with a blood disorder, and the child was sent to be fostered at a nearby townhouse that was not particularly well-off. The woman never recovered, and before very long she died.

One night, the woman appeared at the gateway of the home where her child was being fostered and bowed her head. The foster family was putting the child to bed at the time, but seeing the woman, they welcomed her and held up the child for her to see.

“Oh my, look how plump and healthy he has grown,” she said, taking the child in her arms and cuddling him.

“It is such a pity to have to leave such a lovely child behind,” she said.

The foster parents grew suspicious and thought to themselves, “We had heard this woman was gravely ill—how strange this is…”

But it was already time to light the lamps, and people’s faces were growing difficult to make out clearly. So they lit a lamp, and when they did, the woman returned the child, said her goodbyes, and left.

The following day, a message arrived from the woman’s family informing them that she had died of her illness the previous night.

A physician named Tawara from the same town came and explained that this was a poignant example of deep affection and lingering attachment, and the difficulty of severing the bond between mother and child.

I love today’s tale, from the non-committal title to the skeptical nature of the story itself, and Negishi’s detailed commentary about the places and people around him. The description of the yokai is not gratuitous or overdone, and the story is so grounded in reality that it makes it easier to accept the possibility of the supernatural.

It also depicts a scenario that sounds very much like sleep paralysis. Many people, myself included, have had the terrifying experience of a failed awakening—your body still paralyzed but your eyes and mind awake. And it’s common to hallucinate dark, demonic figures looming over you at these times. The description of this sounds exactly like that, so imagining a visual for this story was not difficult at all.

For anyone unfamiliar with the term, zatō are people who turn up frequently in yokai stories. There is no shortage of zatō tales on this site! The term refers to a profession reserved by the shogunate for blind people, so that they would be guaranteed some form of employment. Zatō were often employed as biwa players or masseuses, and because of the nature of their work they often wandered the country. Thus, they were almost always strangers wherever they went, which probably contributed to their association with strange things like yōkai and kidan.

I hope you enjoy tonight’s tale!

A Matter in Which It Is Hard to Say There Was No Yōkai

From the winter of the ninth year of An’ei (1780), the Year of the Rat, through the following spring, I (Negishi Yasumori) was assigned to official duties concerning river engineering in the six provinces of Kantō, and traveled throughout those six provinces.

I was accompanied by Ōnuki Tsugiemon and Hanada Jinbei, and we traveled together from village to village. Hanada was in his fifties and had become accustomed to civil engineering work over the preceding several years. He was, above all, of sound mind and an utterly fearless disposition.

In the spring of the tenth year of An’ei (1781), The Year of the Ox, while touring the villages along the Tama River, we arrived at Oshidatemura, where I stayed at the home of the village headman, a man named Heizō. The others found lodging at nearby private homes.

Usually, Tsugiemon, Jinbei, and the others would come to my lodging together early in the morning, and we would move on to the next village.

One day, Jinbei arrived later than usual.

“Is something the matter?” I asked.

“No, nothing in particular,” he replied.

The following day, when everyone had gathered at my lodging to discuss official business, Jinbei said to me, “Something bizarre happened at the place I was lodging in Oshidatemura, and I couldn’t sleep all night. That is why I was late the following morning.”

“What happened,” I asked.

Jinbei replied, “That day we left the inn at Hamura. It was drizzling, and I was going up and down the embankments wearing my straw leggings and sandals, and I became utterly exhausted. After leaving your lodging, I decided to return to my lodging and go straight to bed.

“The room I was staying in was built slightly apart from the main house, connected by a corridor, and also a bit distant from where the servants slept. It appeared to be a place where nobody usually lived—the doors and fences were sparse, and behind it was a tall overgrown thicket. It seemed like a rather insecure place.

“I made sure that the doors were all shut and then went to sleep—but just as I was drifting off, I was awakened by a sound from above the ceiling, as if a large stone had been dropped. I sat up and looked, and sitting beside my pillow was a zatō wearing a dirty, striped, single-layered kimono, with his hands resting on the floor.

“Startled, I was about to ask, ‘Are you a zatō?’ but then I wondered if he might reply that he was not a zatō after all, or if he was merely a figment of my imagination. In any case, I got up and grabbed the wakizashi that was beside my pillow, and the zatō who had been there a moment ago vanished. Assuming it was just my imagination, I made sure that the official documents I was carrying were securely tucked inside my robe, checked again that the door was locked, and lay back down.

“However, it continued to bother me. I thought I had better not fall asleep, but the day’s fatigue must have overcome me and I dozed off.

“After some time had passed, I looked next to my pillow. That zatō appeared once more. This time, his arms were spread wide and he was looming over me. I could not bear it. I threw off the blanket and grabbed the wakizashi next to my pillow—and he vanished again.

“Then I kindled the lamp and checked the room, but I could find no sign of where he had entered. I thought of waking one of the servants, but their quarters were far away, and I wondered what I would say anyway. So I lay back down, but it continued to trouble me and I could not sleep.

“The zatō did not come back again. Surely this must have been the work of a fox or a tanuki…”

Kōyasan — a very famous holy site in Japan that is associated with the supernatural because of its ties to Shingon; strongly associated with yamabushi, ghosts, tengu, and other spirits. The tale mentions that women are forbidden from ascending beyond the Nyonindō (literally “Women’s Hall); this is a common feature of old Japanese mountain worship. Women were regarded as spiritually unclean, and thus were not permitted to access the most sacred parts of holy sites.

Jayanagi — literally “Snake Willow,” a type of willow tree (Salix eriocarpa) known for its long and snaking roots, but here refers to the title of a kabuki play which premiered in 1763 but was lost some time after that. The story dealt with a snake willow that once stood on Kōyasan in one of the mountains darker secrets: an ancient execution ground where criminals were buried alive. The ghost mentioned is something from the kabuki play, and deals with a priest who was possessed by the spirit of a girl and forced to commit crimes—presumably readers would have been familiar with it at the time.

Kōbō Daishi — (774 – 835) the posthumous name of Kūkai, the monk who introduced Shingon to Japan from China. The main point of Shingon is to undergo arduous spiritual training in order to achieve buddhahood in one’s own lifetime, rather than the many, many lifetimes of dedicated practice it normally is supposed to take to achieve enlightenment. Presumably the “wicked monks” mentioned here is also a reference to the play.

yūrei (ghost) service at Kōya — the description in the story is basically one of a con artist. A wicked priest, or a fake priest, would pose as a shaman and offer to pilgrims at Kōyasan the opportunity to commune with a lost loved one or something like that. Then their partner would appear, either performing the part of the medium whom the spirit would inhabit, or playing the part of the ghost itself. Considering the popularity of Kōyasan as a pilgrim’s destination, and the highly spiritual nature of the mountain, there must have been a lot of people duped into hiring fake mediums.

So, all of that explained, this story doesn’t really tell a tale by itself, but it paints a really vivid picture of a time and place abundant with stories. For that reason, I find this tale particularly interesting. I also really like Negishi’s skepticism at the end. I hope you enjoy it!

Yūrei Service

Kōyasan in Kii Province is a sacred site, known for its unwavering devotion to purity. Women are forbidden from ascending the mountain beyond the Nyonindō hall. The ghost of the Jayanagi is a story widely known among the general public, but perhaps in later generations there were shameless, wicked monks who violated the teachings of the founder, Kōbō Daishi.

Around the eighth year of the Kansei era (1796), there was a woman in the service of a certain man named Hanamura. She had an extremely pale complexion, and since she was not from the Kantō region, her fellow female servants asked her where she was from.

“I used to work in yūrei service at Kōya,” she replied.

This was a job in which one turned themselves into a ghost and deceived laypeople—a trick that wicked monks reportedly used to earn a living. Although this may well be nothing more than a tall tale, I do not dismiss it as entirely implausible, so I have recorded it here.

This story also reminds me of one of my favorite ghost stories: the tale of Kohada Koheiji—although that story is much more fully developed than this one. It is not hard to speculate, though, that this tale and that one may even be derived from an earlier tale about a murder among a theater troupe; but I’m not ready to go down a rabbit hole looking into the origins of these stories.

My favorite part of this tale is the repeated scream and thud, so I made that the focus of tonight’s illustration. I hope you enjoy it!

The Strange Death of an Actor

This happened in the summer of the eighth year of the Kansei era (1796), the Year of the Dragon.

A man living in Tenma-chō who served as the leader of a traveling theater troupe, traveling the country, staged a performance in Gyōtoku. It was a massive hit, and he made a considerable profit. His fellow troupe members were overjoyed as well.

When the show ended, the four of them boarded a boat headed toward Gyōtokugashi. The troupe leader said, “Everything went smoothly this time.” And, having prepared food and sake, the four of them began drinking together. However, somehow the troupe leader vanished from sight within the cramped boat—perhaps he had fallen into the sea.

The remaining three men and the boatman were very alarmed. They turned back toward Gyōtoku, hired some divers to cast nets. They searched all over, but they could not even find a body. Since there was no more they could do, the three men left the boat behind and decided that they should inform the troupe leader’s wife.

They boarded a ferry and returned to Edo, and shortly after noon they arrived at the tenement in Tenmachō where the troupe leader lived. However, all three were too frightened to enter and hesitated, arguing back and forth, “You go first.”

Finally they said, “Anyway, we are not bringing good news, so there is bound to be trouble. In that case, let us have a drink first and then go.” And they went to a nearby sake shop, had a drink, and then returned to the house.

Just as before, all three of them hesitated to enter; but finally, the oldest man stepped forward and went in. The others followed him inside.

The troupe leader’s wife was doing the laundry by the gate. She looked at the three men and said, “Why did you come back so late? My husband returned this morning.”

Surprised, they said, “He got back safely? We wish to see him. Please show us the way.”

“He got back a little while ago, had a drink and a meal, and now he is sleeping upstairs. Just go ahead on up,” she replied.

The three grew even more uneasy and said, “Maybe you should go up first and wake him.”

Since they were old theater colleagues and there was no need for her to show them around, the wife did not understand what they were talking about and she just ignored them, continuing her chores. The troupe members forcibly stopped her from tending to the fire and such, and made her go upstairs.

She went up. They heard her scream, “Waaah!!” and seemingly collapse to the floor.

Startled by the sound, some neighbors rushed over. The three men explained the situation, called the landlord, and then went upstairs together. It appeared that the troupe leader had indeed returned and went to sleep, as the furnishings were in disarray. The wife was lying unconscious right beside them.

When they splashed some water on her face, the wife gradually came to her senses. They asked her what had happened, and she said: “When he came home this morning, everything was exactly as usual. But now that I think about it, he said something strange. He said, ‘If I should die, hold a proper funeral for me, and then feel free to remarry whoever you like.’ I thought he was joking, but then he said something else strange… But I cannot tell anyone else what it was.”

The others urged her earnestly, “Surely there are things that are difficult to discuss between husband and wife, but if it is alright, please tell us.”

She replied, “It is not a matter between husband and wife. Nor is it a matter that I am ashamed to speak of. But, my husband strictly warned me not to let anyone else know of this…” And she refused to speak any further.

The others coaxed and pleaded with her, until finally she said, “In that case… very well,” and began to speak.

As soon as two or three words came out of her mouth, there was a noise from above the second floor like a large stone being dropped.

The woman screamed, “Waaah!” and collapsed. Everyone else was so frightened and, unable to listen to the rest of the story, they went back to their own homes.

One of those three troupe members had dealings with someone in the Udagawa household, and the topic of this story came up. This person pressed the troupe member: “Just what were those two or three words that the troupe leader’s wife told you?”

He had no choice but to recount the story.

However, as he did there was a sound in the next room like a large stone being dropped, and he was so startled that he stopped immediately—at least that is what people say.

I am enjoying the opportunity to paint several ghosts in this series, and it is a challenge to find something different to paint to express each ghost’s identity without making them look too similar to each other.

Tonight’s story also comes from volume 4 of Mimibukuro, and is in the same vein as last night’s story. It is a ghost story, with a bit of a bittersweet vibe. Let’s take a look!

How a Maidservant’s Ghost Came to Her Master’s House

A woman who had served for several years in the household of a man named Udono Shikibu Nagamori had been ill for a long time and asked to be released from her duties. She was therefore granted an extended leave of absence.

Some time passed, until one day, the woman came back. She went to the home where Shikibu’s mother was living in retirement and offered her greetings, saying, “The great kindness you have shown me for so long has allowed me to recuperate, and I am deeply grateful.”

The elderly mother was delighted to see that she had recovered from her illness and offered her blessings, saying, “Your complexion still looks pale, so take good care of yourself and come back to work for us again when you are better.”

The woman replied, “I am well enough to work now. I brought these as a token of my gratitude. I made them myself.” She offered the appropriate greetings and presented a two-tiered lacquered box filled with dango.

The elderly mother returned her greetings and said, “In that case, take care of your health before anything else, and return to your duties.”

The woman left and went somewhere else, and the elderly mother went straight to the kitchen and told the servants, “That maidservant has returned and says she has recovered from her illness. But she still looks pale, so make sure all of the servants work together to help her.”

The servants replied, “None of us has heard about the maidservant returning.” And they searched all over, but they could not find where she had gone. However, they did find the lacquered box that she had brought, filled with white dango.

They sent someone to the woman’s parents’ home to inquire about the situation, and were told, “She passed away a couple of days ago. We had been putting off telling you.” After that, a member of her family visited the household and formally delivered the news of her death.

It was, as someone from the Udono family later recounted, a most mysterious incident.