Ghostly Tales of Japan

By Andi Brooks

An eerie collection of stories exploring the mysterious side of a country where the supernatural is accepted as an everyday fact of life. From the ancient past to the present day, award-winning writer and long-term Tokyo resident Andi Brooks takes you into a world of shadows separated from our own by the thinnest of veils. By turns horrific, whimsical, and moving, the thirty original stories in Ghostly Tales of Japan will make you think twice before turning out the light.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kikui Press
• Release date: Apr 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393297611

Andi Brooks

Co-author of "Vampire Over London: Bela Lugosi in Britain," the acclaimed biography of horror icon Bela Lugosi, curator of “The Bela Lugosi Blog” and a recipient of the Rondo Hatton Classic Horror Award, Andi Brooks has developed a deep fascination with the world of yūrei and yōkai during his fourteen-year residence in Tokyo. Despite a lifelong interest in the supernatural, however, all of his encounters have, to date, been mundanely earthbound.

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Acknowlegements

I am indebted to

Kyoko Brooks for her help in translating Japanese reference material and patiently answering my endless historical and linguistic questions.

Frank J. Dello Stritto, Henrik Sorgenfri Larsen and Brian Smith for kindly proofreading and advising on my poorly assembled manuscript.

Yuine Brooks, Yuka Fujiwara, Kate Hopkins, Hiromi Kamoshida, Miho Nakashima, Miyono Shibata, Wacky, Yoshiko Yatsuda and Madoka Yoshiwara for reading and sharing their thoughts on early drafts of various stories.

Ade Crawley, whose experience of having his umbrella stolen by a monk from outside a Tokyo convenience store provided the inspiration for the story A Strange Happening on a Rainy Night in Edo.

Maki Takagi for her unflinching confidence and encouragement throughout the long gestation period of this collection.

And Japanese calligrapher Yoshiko Yatsuda for creating the calligraphy used in this volume. For bilingual details of lessons and commissions, please visit www.kagenkai.com

A Note on the Text

In this book, I have used macrons to indicate Japanese long vowels in the stories and notes (shōgun, Tōkyō, Kyōto, etc.) to enhance the atmosphere, but have omitted them when talking as myself in English in the introduction or when quoting English language sources.

For the names of characters throughout this collection, I have followed the Japanese convention of giving the family name first, followed by the given name.

Introduction

This collection of stories began life during a bedtime reading session.  My son, Yuine, had been immersed in the world of the Japanese supernatural since the age of three when he stumbled across an episode of the animated TV series Ge! Ge! Ge! No Kitaro in a hotel room in Shimoda on the southern tip of the Izu Peninsula. On this particular evening in Tokyo, we read a tale from Lafcadio Hearn’s Kwaidan.

As I closed the book, Yuine asked, What’s the next story?

There aren’t any more, I replied. That was the last one.

But I want to hear another, he insisted. Tell me another story.

In response, I lay down by his side on the futon and made up the story of The Hunter’s Wife.

When I finished, Yuine said, That was really scary! Tell it to me again tomorrow.

After he fell asleep, I hurriedly scribbled down the story before I forgot it. I told it to him once again on the following evening. As he drifted off to sleep, he murmured, Tell me a new one tomorrow night.

Although he long ago outgrew bedtime reading sessions, the stories that you are about to read were written in response to Yuine’s request.

Andi Brooks, Tokyo, 2020.

Tales of Olden Days

The Hunter’s Wife

There was once in the province of Shinano[1] a hunter who roamed the mountain forest in search of game. One morning in the month of no gods[2] he bid goodbye to his mother at the door of their cottage with a heavy heart. Of late, the once plentiful forest game had become increasingly scarce. There were some who whispered that the forest had become inhabited by malignant spirits, but the hunter had no time for such fanciful tales. All the same, he was worried. Winter was drawing nigh and it would be hard upon them indeed if he could not build up a good store of meat to see them through the long, cold, snowbound months.

After trekking through the day without sighting a single creature in the eerily silent forest, the hunter found himself in a place which he did not recognize. Pausing to take his bearings, a flash of movement caught his eye. He stealthily advanced through the trees to the edge of a small clearing, in the midst of which grazed a magnificent stag with a doe by its side. The beast would provide a fine supply of meat. The hunter slid an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. Holding his breath, he slowly raised his bow, drew back the string, took aim and fired a deadly shot. The stag snorted and reeled before crashing to the ground. The doe’s head snapped around, locking eyes with the hunter. He felt himself paralyzed by the animal’s blazing stare. An icy cold dread crept through his soul as he tried in vain to avert his terror-filled eyes. Penetrating his head like a burning spear, a voice roared inside his skull.

I shall be avenged! I shall be avenged!

The words were repeated over and over until the doe abruptly turned and trotted away into the forest, leaving the hunter dazed, his head ringing in pain.

He said nothing of the disturbing incident to his mother when the returned home with his prize. Instead, he redoubled his efforts to seek out the elusive game in the forest. Through hard labor and perseverance, he was able to secure enough food to see himself and his mother through the harshest winter any could recall. When the spring thaw finally released them from their icy bonds, he had cast his strange experience in the forest from his mind.

*

One fall evening, while hurrying home from an errand in a nearby village, the hunter espied the form of a young woman ahead of him upon the road. Drawing alongside her, the light of his lantern revealed that she was both a stranger and exceedingly pleasing to look upon. Curious as to why she traveled alone in a remote area at such an hour, he inquired as to where she was headed.

I am on a pilgrimage to the Suwa Grand Shrine,[3] she replied.

But that is many days from here, he said in surprise. There are no inns or places for a traveler to rest in this area. In these lawless times it is dangerous for a young woman to travel alone even in daylight hours.

He paused for a moment before continuing. My father died many years ago and I am taken away from home hunting for long periods. Although she never complains, I know that my elderly mother often suffers from loneliness. It would give her great pleasure to share your company even for just one night. If you would deign to accept our humble hospitality, I would be honored to escort you to the nearest inn on the morrow.

The woman smiled coyly, thanked him for his kindness and accepted his invitation.

The hunter’s mother was immediately drawn to the young woman and delighted in her companionship. With genuine humility, she asked if she would not consider resting with them a while longer before recommencing her pilgrimage. Displaying mutual affection for her hostess, the young woman willingly agreed to delay her departure.

The days turned to weeks, the weeks to months. The seasons turned full circle and found the young woman and the hunter husband and wife. She bore him a child; a girl of a beauty exceeding her own. The couple had been happy before the birth, but the new addition to their family brought them a joy beyond compare. When the hunter’s beloved mother passed away that winter, his family provided him with solace.

When the child was in its fourth year, the hunter returned home late one evening after many days in the forest. His wife greeted him as usual at the door of their home. She took his bow and hung it on its hook by the doorway.

You must be hungry, my love, she said as she turned her attention to a pot of stew simmering over the fire in the center of the room.

That I am, he replied. But before I eat I will look in on our dear child.

His wife placed her hand lightly upon his arm to stay him. She was restless this evening. She only fell asleep shortly before your return. Please do not disturb her. Eat first.

The hunter smiled, kissed his wife upon her forehead and seated himself by the fire.

Eat well my love, she smiled as she handed him a large bowl of the steaming stew.

It tasted every bit as delicious as it smelled. After two bowls, the hunter sat back and patted his full stomach.

I dared never say it when she was alive, but you are a better cook than even my dear mother, and there were none in the region that could surpass her art. Now, to look in on the little one.

The hunter lit a lantern, crossed to the bedroom and slowly opened the wooden door. As the flickering light chased away the shadows, the sight illuminated within filled him with a horror that robbed him of his senses. Instead of a scene of peaceful slumber, the room resembled a butcher’s workshop. The walls were splashed with blood from floor to ceiling. The bedding was soaked crimson. Of their daughter there was no sign. The hunter fell back from the doorway, gasping for air. Wild-eyed, he staggered around to find his wife kneeling by the hearth stirring the pot of stew, her face hidden by her long hair.

How was she? she asked without looking up.

Gone! Gone! he blurted out.

Ladling stew into a bowl, she said calmly, Gone? She is not gone. She is right here.

Hope rising, the hunter stared frantically around the room. Where? Where is she?

Here, his wife replied, turning with the bowl in her outstretched hands, Was she not delicious?

Uncomprehending, the hunter raised his gaze from the bowl to her face. He mouthed a silent scream and collapsed to his knees at the sight of his wife’s terrifying countenance. Her eyes blazed with a demonic hatred. They were the very same eyes which had bored into his soul in the forest clearing all those years ago. Circling the room, she approached the paralyzed hunter until her face almost touched his.

Did you forget your crime? she hissed. I did not. You slew my beloved, he whom I loved more than anything in this world. Now I have slain the thing you loved most in this world. I could have killed you many times over as you slept, but I wanted you to suffer as I have suffered. From here on you will know the agonies which I have endured.

She turned and walked out of the house. Half mad, the hunter crawled to the open door. Illuminated by the full moon, the footprints of the thing he had called his wife led through the freshly fallen snow to the forest. On the edge of the trees, a doe stood by a kimono discarded upon the ground. The animal turned and stared directly at him.

A voice roared in his head.

I am avenged!

The Kimono

The kimono was breathtaking. The material was of the finest quality; the craftsmanship exquisite. Its beauty was equaled only by that of the daimyō’s[4] daughter. They were a perfect match. Looking upon the kimono, the daimyō smiled at a thought which took form in his mind. When his daughter wore the robe upon her wedding day she would be more dazzling than Amaterasu[5] herself.

Perhaps, as he often later rued, it was the vanity of that very thought which brought tragedy down upon his house, for on the eve of her wedding his daughter fell ill with a savage fever which rapidly consumed her. On the following day, at the very hour she was due to marry, the unfortunate creature departed this world.

The daimyō’s overwhelming grief was soon tainted with feelings of guilt. He could not bear being under the same roof as the kimono. Its very existence was like a pointing accusatory finger. And so he issued orders for it to be destroyed. His chief retainer, however, could not bring himself to be the instrument of destruction of a thing of such great beauty. Instead, he secretly passed it to his sister, the wife of a merchant in the neighboring province of Ōmi.[6] She had a daughter, yet a child, who could wear the kimono upon her own wedding day.

*

The years rolled by. The daimyō never recovered from his great loss. While he faded away, a recluse in the dark musty halls of his castle, the retainer’s niece bloomed into womanhood and was betrothed to the son of a fellow merchant of Ōmi. The