Strange Tales from Japan: 99 Chilling Stories of Yokai, Ghosts, Demons and the Supernatural

Preface

Some years ago, I found myself waiting on the train platform at Kiso Fukushima with a number of white-clad pilgrims. Kiso Fukushima is one of the main entry points to Mount Ontake, one of the holiest mountains in Japan, and these pilgrims apparently had finished their ascent of the mountain and were returning home. The worship of mountains is an ancient practice in Japan, influenced by the importation of Taoism in about the 5th century A.D., the native Shinto animist religion, and the esoteric Shingon sect of Buddhism. In the worship of Mount Ontake, the mountain is not so much considered the abode of a god, but a god itself; and thus, every tree, rock or pond on the mountain is holy and not to be treated lightly. In this way, the ascent and descent of the mountain is a form of worship. Groups of pilgrims are members of a kou, an organization of believers, and there are a number of these throughout Japan. It has been explained to me that the emphasis of the Mount Ontake religion is not dogma, but rather practice.

As I was sitting quite close to three or four of these pilgrims, I heard them discussing an incident that had taken place long ago; and before long they noticed my interest and were happy to include me in the conversation. It seemed that during the spring planting season, a young hardworking man had not returned to his house that night, and as there was no sign of him for two or three days, the villagers were alarmed and sent search parties out into the mountains and fields, but without result. Their judgment was that this was likely a case of kamikakushi, when an individual—often a child—is taken away by a god or a tengu, a long-nosed goblin that is often a mischief-maker. Oddly enough, a few days later, the younger sister of the man went out into the mulberry grove behind their house and found him there in a sort of stupor, emaciated and with hair that had turned completely white. He had no memory of where he had been or of what had happened to him. The astonished villagers were now absolutely sure that this had been a case of kamikakushi.

As the conversation went on, the man who was telling this story looked over at me from time to time, and must have noticed that my face betrayed some skepticism. He turned to me with a kind smile and said, You know, you Westerners are much too rational. You must think that everything in this world can be scientifically proven. But there are worlds that we cannot see, and spirits and gods that live among us that only show themselves to us from time to time. You cannot imagine how foxes and badgers can have magical powers, but we Japanese have witnessed these things since ancient times. Perhaps you may experience some of this while you are out here in the Kiso area. With that, our train pulled into the station, we all made polite bows, and carried on with our individual journeys.

Introduction

I have sometimes been asked, "Where should I go to see the real Japan?" This is a reasonable question, especially considering the amount of travel time and the expenditure involved. And it is, perhaps, far more reasonable than asking where one might go to see the real America. New York? Boston? New Orleans? San Francisco? Dubuque? All of them are quite different, and all of them are quite American.

But the broad alternatives in Japan, I think, are more limited. On the one hand, there are the large urban centers of Tokyo, Osaka, and, to a lesser degree, Kyoto. In any of these places, you can check into a comfortable hotel, and once settled in, see the sights. Very likely, the concierge and others at the hotel will speak English and will arrange for a taxi or bus service, you will be dropped off at a famous temple or shrine or garden where you can see one of the city’s main attractions, and take a lot of interesting photos to show your friends when you go home. No doubt, you will be well fed, get your quota of sushi, and maybe even some sake to boot. This is one way of experiencing Japan, and it is a fun and interesting one.

I would suggest, however, that the alternative—going rural—will give the visitor an experience far more in-depth of this unique country. In the countryside you will find no five-star hotels, but instead, traditional inns that may have been established centuries ago. You will not be sleeping in a bed as you would in an urban hotel, but rather on a Japanese futon on a tatami floor—just as comfortable, and the way Japanese have slept for over a thousand years. Instead of sushi or Kobe beef, you will dine on local traditional meals of in-season vegetables, herbs and river fish. And rather than the shower provided by most hotels, you will be treated to a typical Japanese bath, in which you can soak as long as you like. Rural villages in Japan also have their share of temples, shrines and gardens, and though perhaps not designed by famous architects (some are), they have a strong flavor of the area, and are not swarming with tourists. Finally, although you may have to struggle a little with your Japanese phrase book, and your host with his or her English one, you will find a true Japanese hospitality based on a unique experience for both host and guest. The same will be true in the tiny shops and noodle restaurants visited by the locals as well as by some Japanese visitors wanting to take a short vacation outside of the big cities. And while you can walk from village to village with just a light pack, trains in Japan will take you almost anywhere you would like to go. But you will not be hustled from tourist attraction to tourist attraction, and will have time to consider where you are.

Many of us like to read up on a foreign country before we visit it, and this, too, provides us with some interesting alternatives. In the case of Japan, English translations abound for almost all of the classics like the Tale of Genji or the Pillow Book, books on Zen Buddhism, or the best of modern literature. But in the case of the classics, many were written by aristocrats living in an ethereal and privileged world and vying for the coveted literary recognition; in the case of books on Zen or other kinds of Buddhism, the authors were often learned priests, often led by the desire to convince the reader of the legitimacy of their own sect; and with modern novels, you have pieces written from an author’s own point of view. All of these are powerful pieces of literature and deserve to be read for that reason alone. But to what extent do they reveal the Japanese as a whole, the Japanese mind, so to speak?

Like the different venues for seeing Japan, there is a similar alternative for looking into the Japanese mind. This is minzoku bungaku or folk literature, also called densetsu or traditional tales. These consist for the most part of legends according to oral tales or literary documents, based on the belief of real happenings in the past in the surroundings of a particular locality. They are still passed on today, especially in the countryside, told by grandparents to their grandchildren on cold winter nights as the family sits around the brazier.

The word densetsu (伝説) literally means traditional explanations, the word setsu originally meaning an explanation of the gods’ answers to prayers. In the case of traditional tales, they are explanations of events that might otherwise be difficult to understand, often centered on a certain temple, shrine, rock or tree by the roadside. Unlike folk tales that begin with long, long ago, in a certain place, an old man and an old woman…, densetsu name the place and sometimes the protagonists, so that no matter how exorbitant or fanciful the story, there is no need for a suspension of belief. What is important to our seeing the real Japan is that these stories were believed to be events experienced by local ancestors, perhaps not so distant, and this gives them an atmosphere of authority and continuity of place. And, although there may be no moral conclusions to densetsu, they do give insight into the lives of Japanese—both past and present—and to what kind of people they were and are—kind, warm, brave, and sometimes gullible or outright foolish.

Again, densetsu are not Hansel and Gretel folk or fairy tales, although there are plenty of these in Japanese folklore, called mukashibanashi, stories of long ago. Densetsu instead may answer specific questions about why a rock at such and such a temple cried every night, or how a certain pond got its name, or why some people in Okinawa still shout Eat shit! (there is no polite way to translate this phrase) every time a baby sneezes. Or they may simply recount an amusing or scary event that took place in the local village at one time. But at the heart of every traditional tale is a remembrance.

Each story in this collection, with the exception of a few dating from far earlier collections, is identified by its place of origin, thus broadening the definition of the locale and its people. No doubt, some of them may have moved around with travelers from the various provinces during the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries when many people were on the road for pilgrimages or just out for a lark. Staying at the same inns far away from home, they might have entertained each other with strange stories from their hometowns, which would then be retold as the listener’s own story at the next inn. But by and large, the place-names identified with each tale would prevent that sort of plagiarism.

Yanagita Kunio, the great folklorist of Japan, defined the difference between traditional tales and folk tales as follows:

What is the difference between traditional tales and folk tales? I would answer that folk tales are like animals, and traditional tales are like plants. Folk tales go about here and there, but no matter where they go, they are perceived as having the same form or face. Traditional tales set their roots down to grow in one locality, and always grow up in that place. Sparrows or field buntings all have the same faces, but plum trees and camellias, tree by tree, are differing in shape, and thus are seen and remembered individually. Many of the cute little birds of folk tales make their nests in the middle of the forests and thickets of traditional tales, but at the same time, the highly fragrant seeds and pollen of various traditional tales are carried off far away as well…. The strength of plants to flourish and grow strong is hidden in the land’s earth and water, and in the brilliance of the sun. History puts these to use, just as in cultivating the soil in agriculture. If one regulates the tillage of history, it is natural that the traditional tales of mountains and fields are restricted in form.

Nihon no densetsu

Densetsu, then, provide an interesting complement to a hike or stay in the traditional Japanese countryside. Just as the Japanese will take trips to small local inns deep in the mountains to refresh their memories and feeling of who they really are, the foreign tourist can do the same from an outsider’s view, and bolster his understanding by reading a number of traditional stories before covering up under his futon for the night, or while taking a break from the day’s walk. Although they may not be the ones included in this book, every village or town will have its own collection of stories, if not printed, then imprinted deep within the local inhabitants’ minds from the time they were children.

As Nishimoto Keisuke, the compiler and re-teller of this collection, wrote, "Behind every sad or scary or just interesting story, there are hidden principles that we cannot overlook, for the very essence of densetsu is a deep psychological truth that cannot be understood rationally. Evolved over a long period of time, they demonstrate the essence of what makes up the heart/mind of the Japanese."

It should be emphasized that the existence of the cast of characters appearing in these stories—ghosts, spirits, semi-supernatural animals, etc.—is not entirely denied by modern Japanese, even in large urban areas. The farmer who sees a fox on the edge of his rice field in the evening may be more inclined to think of it as a messenger of Inari, the god of fertility, rather than just a wild animal looking for a juicy mouse for dinner; and the lone shabby priest encountered in the mountains or even in a big city may be given wide berth, as he could be a tengu in disguise. Once in a park in Nagoya—the third largest city in Japan—my very modern Japanese companion identified two fluttering yellow butterflies as possibly spirits of the dead; and one spring, when I awoke to find a large black snake in my kitchen, my landlady informed me that it was likely the nushi, a sort of spirit master, of the area, and was to be considered good luck. (I admit to being happy enough as it slithered away.)

In this way, the stories collected here should not be thought of as simply interesting old tales, divorced from modern times. Their reality may be submerged, but perhaps not too far from the real Japan. As my acquaintance at the railway platform said, There are worlds that we cannot see, and spirits and gods that live among us that only show themselves to us from time to time. You cannot imagine how foxes and badgers can have magical powers, but we Japanese have witnessed these things since ancient times.

Go into any souvenir shop across the street from village train stations in Japan, and you will likely find a few copies (in Japanese) of local traditional tales for sale. These may be published by local societies for the preservation of local culture, or by town halls, or even by a local high school where students were given a project of collecting such tales from their parents or grandparents. In each case, the prevailing motive is preservation of the place, a physical and psychological definition of where a person is right now.

All of these stories, however, were collected into two volumes, Nihon densetsu shu and Nihon kaidan shu, by Nishimoto Keisuke, a scholar of Japanese folk and traditional tales. To him, I owe a profound debt of gratitude for his organization and presentation of the tales. I would also like to thank all the many others who have encouraged me in this work through the years. Their name is legion, and they know who they are.

William Scott Wilson

Book One:

TRADITIONAL TALES

Spirits and Ghosts

Flowers of the Sweet Olive Tree

¹

Long ago, in a certain village in the prefecture of Tottori there stood a single house owned by a samurai. One day, an old man went to the house for a visit as he and the samurai had been friends for some time. That night was the time for moon-viewing, and a large, round moon shone its bright light into the garden.

The two men extinguished all the lamps and sipped sake on the veranda as they gazed at the moon. From time to time, the fragrance of a sweet olive tree wafted by on a breeze. Ah, what a pleasant scent, the old man said as he looked out over the garden. Just then, a young woman dressed in a white kimono appeared standing next to the sweet olive tree. Her long, disheveled hair fell over her pale white face, and she stared fixedly in the direction of the two men.

That’s strange, the old man said. I must be getting a little drunk. He rubbed his eyes and started to stand up. Suddenly, the woman came up and abruptly thrust her face in between the two men.

The old man involuntarily let out a cry, but the samurai remained totally unafraid. Go on, get out of here, he yelled, or I’ll cut you down! The woman glided away and hid behind the sweet olive tree.

Dear me! the old man gasped as he breathed a sigh of relief.

Oh, don’t pay any attention to her, the samurai said to the old man as he filled a cup with fresh sake. Here, drink your fill.

But after a while, the woman appeared again, and this time started to walk back and forth in front of the veranda. Now the old man could not even think about his sake. He looked at the woman and trembled all over. The woman suddenly stopped in front of the two men, leapt up onto the veranda, and glared and laughed at them.

A shiver went down the old man’s spine, and he was speechless.

You still don’t understand what I mean? the samurai yelled as he unsheathed his sword and slashed at the woman without warning. But the woman deftly dodged the blows and moved away just like the wind.

Wait! The samurai jumped down into the garden barefoot and chased after the woman. At last he came back, puffing and out of breath.

What an annoying wretch! he complained and spat disgustedly on the ground.

She may be a crazy woman, but it wouldn’t be right to kill her, the old man said.

No, not at all. That woman’s a ghost, the samurai replied. When night falls, she appears like this all the time. If I leave the door open, she comes right into my room and gets up on the futon.

What are you saying! Aren’t you afraid?

Of course, I am, the younger man replied. Even a samurai is afraid of something like that. But I’ve become used to her. And no matter how I slash away with my sword, it never has any effect. If I chase her, she just runs away like the wind.

Well, so that’s what they call a ghost! But why do you suppose a ghost comes here?

To tell the truth, I don’t understand that myself.

Hearing that, the old man was afraid to stay a moment longer. Thanking his host for the sake, he quickly went outside. The moon was still shining brightly down. As he went around toward the front gate, his eyes fell on the large sweet olive tree that stood where the woman had been. A sweet and sour fragrance filled his nostrils.

Just then he heard the sharp sound of a branch being broken. Wondering what was happening, he peered over toward the tree and saw that the ghost was breaking off one of the many branches of the sweet olive tree.

The old man fled without another glance.

After that day, the ghost came every night and broke off another branch of the sweet olive tree. By the time she had broken all of them off, the tree started to wither. Strangely enough, when it had withered away completely, the ghost no longer appeared.

Soon after, the samurai passed away.

The Talking Futon

A long time ago in a town in Tottori prefecture, there was a small inn. One winter night, when one of the guests at the inn was sleeping, he suddenly woke up at midnight to the sound of human voices.

Elder brother, you must be cold.

Little brother, you must be cold.

The voices were those of whispering children.

Well now, where would children be at this hour? the guest wondered. There’s not supposed to be anyone else in this room.

Crawling out from under his futon, the guest peeped into the next-door room to see what was going on. But it was completely quiet, and not a sound could be heard.

That’s strange, he thought. I’m sure I heard something.

The man got back under his futon once again and tried to go to sleep. But this time he heard the voices quite clearly right next to his ear.

Elder brother, you must be cold.

Younger brother, you must be cold.

The guest was shocked and leapt to his feet. He hurriedly lit a lamp, but there was no one else in the room. All he could hear was the sound of his own heart beating.

With the lamp still glowing, the guest lay down on his side. Then, once again, came the sad, whispering voices.

Elder brother, you must be cold.

Little brother, you must be cold.

Somehow, the voices seemed to be coming from right inside the futon.

The man shuddered in horror, brushed away the futon in panic, and nearly falling over himself leapt out of the room, running into the innkeeper.

What foolishness is this? You were probably just having a dream! the innkeeper exclaimed.

No matter how the guest explained the situation, the innkeeper refused to believe him. On the contrary, he got angry. Let’s not drag this out any longer. Do me the favor of getting out of here. And with that, he drove the guest from the inn.

The next night, however, a different guest staying in the same room also ran off at midnight, telling the same story.

This is something strange, the innkeeper thought. Could this be a ghost?

The innkeeper went into the room himself and sat next to the futon for a while. Eventually, from the futon cover, sad voices began whispering.

Elder brother, you must be cold.

Little brother, you must be cold.

The innkeeper turned pale and ran from the room.

What an eerie futon, he thought. And what kind of terrible shop would sell a futon like this? The next day, the innkeeper went to the used furniture store where he had bought the futon to make a complaint. There he heard a sad story.

On the outskirts of a town in the same prefecture of Tottori, there had lived a poor family of four. Some days before, after a long illness, the father had died in his sleep, and soon after, the mother had also passed away. This left only an elder brother six years old and a younger brother of four. Having no relatives to care for them, the brothers went day after day with nothing to eat, and shivered from the cold and empty stomachs under a single futon.

Elder brother, you must be cold. The affectionate younger brother would try to pull the futon over his older brother.

Little brother, you must be cold. And the elder brother would put the futon over his little brother.

But the cold-hearted landlord finally came, took the futon in place of the rent, and drove the children from the house.

The two boys, who had had nothing to eat for days, could not even walk. That night, as snow fell, they held each other in their arms under the eave of a nearby house and froze to death.

When the people of the town found out about this, they pitied the two boys and laid them to rest at a nearby temple dedicated to Kannon.²

Is that what happened? the innkeeper said. What a miserable thing the landlord did.

He promptly set out to visit the temple dedicated to Kannon and formally read a sutra for the sake of the two little boys.³

It is said that after that, the futon never spoke again.

The Long-necks

⁴

This happened about five hundred years ago, when a priest by the name of Kairyu was traveling through Japan, and arrived in the province of Kai.⁵

Kairyu was traveling along a road through the mountains when night closed in.

There’s nothing to be done about it, he thought. I’ll just rest here tonight.

The priest lay gently down on the grass by the side of the road and soon began to snore.

There was no way of telling how long he had been sleeping when he awoke to the voice of someone calling.

Hello. Hello.

A woodcutter was standing over him looking down at his face.

Venerable priest, you shouldn’t be sleeping in a place like this, the man said. There’s a terrible ghost living around here who eats people. If you like, please spend the night in my small hut.

The priest accompanied the kind woodcutter to his small hut.

In the woodcutter’s hut there were three men and a woman. Though dressed in miserable attire, they were all perfectly courteous. The priest was impressed and questioned the eldest of the woodcutters.

Are all of you from the capital?⁶

Yes, the elder man replied. But we did something bad, and eventually killed some people. Reflecting on the crimes we had committed, we came here and are secretly living in the mountains like this.

This, the elder woodcutter stated in obvious embarrassment.

You’ve spoken well, the priest said. If your hearts are like this, even the dead will surely forgive you. In addition, I’ll read a sutra and pray for the souls of the people who died.

So saying, the priest stayed up late that night, peacefully reciting a sutra. The night was at its blackest, and in the next room everyone was asleep.

Well then, the priest thought. Perhaps I should go to sleep, too. As he stood up, he accidentally glanced into the next room.

Dear me! What is this?

Instantaneously, the priest’s eyes opened wide. Lined up under the futon were five headless bodies.

Well now, he wondered. Did the man-eater come in without my knowing it?

The priest quickly entered the room, but strangely enough, there was no sign of blood.

Then maybe these woodcutters are man-eating long-necks, he thought. All right, then. I’ll hide the bodies so their heads won’t be able to come back.

The priest hid all of the bodies under the bedding and then went outside. Just then, he could hear the voices of people talking, coming from the nearby forest. When he approached the direction of the voices, something went whizzing by.

Five heads, wavering here, swaying there, flew all around, talking to each other.

The priest hid behind a tree.

That good-for-nothing priest is nice and fat. He should taste really good, the long-neck that had guided the priest to the hut said.

As long as he’s endlessly reciting that sutra, we can’t even get close, the eldest long-neck complained. But the night is already quite late. He should be sound asleep by now. Somebody go and take a look.

The woman long-neck streaked away but returned almost as soon as she had flown off.

This is terrible, she wailed. There’s no sign of the priest, and worse, our bodies are nowhere to be found.

What!

The eldest long-neck instantly took on a terrifying appearance. His hair stood up straight on his head, his eyes turned up back into their sockets, and he gnashed his teeth in a horrifying way. Even the priest felt a chill run down his spine.

Without our bodies, we’ll die for sure, the long-neck screamed. "But if this is the way it’s going to be, we’ll do that good-for-nothing priest the favor of tearing him limb