Japanese Ghost Stories

by Lafcadio Hearn

  Now Arakawa had a younger brother named Buichi – also a retainer in the service of Nobunaga. Buichi was furiously angry because Arakawa had been beaten and imprisoned; and he resolved to kill Kwashin Koji. Kwashin Koji no sooner found himself again at liberty than he went straight to a wine-shop, and called for wine. Buichi rushed after him into the shop, struck him down, and cut off his head. Then, taking the hundred ryō that had been paid to the old man, Buichi wrapped up the head and the gold together in a cloth, and hurried home to show them to Arakawa. But when he unfastened the cloth he found, instead of the head, only an empty wine-gourd, and only a lump of filth instead of the gold … And the bewilderment of the brothers was presently increased by the information that the headless body had disappeared from the wine-shop – none could say how or when.

  Nothing more was heard of Kwashin Koji until about a month later, when a drunken man was found one evening asleep in the gateway of Lord Nobunaga’s palace, and snoring so loud that every snore sounded like the rumbling of distant thunder. A retainer discovered that the drunkard was Kwashin Koji. For this insolent offence, the old fellow was at once seized and thrown into the prison. But he did not awake; and in the prison he continued to sleep without interruption for ten days and ten nights – all the while snoring so that the sound could be heard to a great distance.

  About this time, the Lord Nobunaga came to his death through the treachery of one of his captains, Akéchi Mitsuhidé,6 who thereupon usurped rule. But Mitsuhidé’s power endured only for a period of twelve days.

  Now when Mitsuhidé became master of Kyōto, he was told of the case of Kwashin Koji; and he ordered that the prisoner should be brought before him. Accordingly Kwashin Koji was summoned into the presence of the new lord; but Mitsuhidé spoke to him kindly, treated him as a guest, and commanded that a good dinner should be served to him. When the old man had eaten, Mitsuhidé said to him: ‘I have heard that you are very fond of wine; how much wine can you drink at a single sitting?’ Kwashin Koji answered: ‘I do not really know how much; I stop drinking only when I feel intoxication coming on.’ Then the lord set a great wine-cupfn4 before Kwashin Koji, and told a servant to fill the cup as often as the old man wished. And Kwashin Koji emptied the great cup ten times in succession, and asked for more; but the servant made answer that the wine-vessel was exhausted. All present were astounded by this drinking-feat; and the lord asked Kwashin Koji, ‘Are you not yet satisfied, Sir?’ ‘Well, yes,’ replied Kwashin Koji, ‘I am somewhat satisfied; and now, in return for your august kindness, I shall display a little of my art. Be therefore so good as to observe that screen.’ He pointed to a large eight-folding screen upon which were painted the Eight Beautiful Views of the Lake of Ōmi (Ōmi-Hakkei); and everybody looked at the screen. In one of the views the artist had represented, far away on the lake, a man rowing a boat – the boat occupying, upon the surface of the screen, a space of less than an inch in length. Kwashin Koji then waved his hand in the direction of the boat; and all saw the boat suddenly turn, and begin to move toward the foreground of the picture. It grew rapidly larger and larger as it approached; and presently the features of the boatman became clearly distinguishable. Still the boat drew nearer – always becoming larger – until it appeared to be only a short distance away. And, all of a sudden, the water of the lake seemed to overflow – out of the picture into the room; – and the room was flooded; and the spectators girded up their robes in haste, as the water rose above their knees. In the same moment the boat appeared to glide out of the screen – a real fishing-boat; and the creaking of the single oar could be heard. Still the flood in the room continued to rise, until the spectators were standing up to their girdles in water. Then the boat came close up to Kwashin Koji; and Kwashin Koji climbed into it; and the boatman turned about, and began to row away very swiftly. And, as the boat receded, the water in the room began to lower rapidly – seeming to ebb back into the screen. No sooner had the boat passed the apparent foreground of the picture than the room was dry again! But still the painted vessel appeared to glide over the painted water – retreating further into the distance, and ever growing smaller – till at last it dwindled to a dot in the offing. And then it disappeared altogether; and Kwashin Koji disappeared with it. He was never again seen in Japan.

  The Story of Umétsu Chūbeifn1

  Umétsu Chūbei was a young samurai of great strength and courage. He was in the service of the Lord Tomura Jūdayū,1 whose castle stood upon a lofty hill in the neighbourhood of Yokoté, in the province of Dewa. The houses of the lord’s retainers formed a small town at the base of the hill.

  Umétsu was one of those selected for night-duty at the castle-gates. There were two night-watches; the first beginning at sunset and ending at midnight; the second beginning at midnight and ending at sunrise.

  Once, when Umétsu happened to be on the second watch, he met with a strange adventure. While ascending the hill at midnight, to take his place on guard, he perceived a woman standing at the last upper turn of the winding road leading to the castle. She appeared to have a child in her arms, and to be waiting for somebody. Only the most extraordinary circumstances could account for the presence of a woman in that lonesome place at so late an hour; and Umétsu remembered that goblins were wont to assume feminine shapes after dark, in order to deceive and destroy men. He therefore doubted whether the seeming woman before him was really a human being; and when he saw her hasten towards him, as if to speak, he intended to pass her by without a word. But he was too much surprised to do so when the woman called him by name, and said, in a very sweet voice: ‘Good Sir Umétsu, to-night I am in great trouble, and I have a most painful duty to perform: will you not kindly help me by holding this baby for one little moment?’ And she held out the child to him.

  Umétsu did not recognize the woman, who appeared to be very young: he suspected the charm of the strange voice, suspected a supernatural snare, suspected everything; but he was naturally kind; and he felt that it would he unmanly to repress a kindly impulse through fear of goblins. Without replying, he took the child. ‘Please hold it till I come back,’ said the woman: ‘I shall return in a very little while.’ ‘I will hold it,’ he answered; and immediately the woman turned from him, and, leaving the road, sprang soundlessly down the hill so lightly and so quickly that he could scarcely believe his eyes. She was out of sight in a few seconds.

  Umétsu then first looked at the child. It was very small, and appeared to have been just born. It was very still in his hands; and it did not cry at all.

  Suddenly it seemed to be growing larger. He looked at it again … No: it was the same small creature; and it had not even moved. Why had he imagined that it was growing larger?

  In another moment he knew why; and he felt a chill strike through him. The child was not growing larger; but it was growing heavier … At first it had seemed to weigh only seven or eight pounds: then its weight had gradually doubled – tripled – quadrupled. Now it could not weigh less than fifty pounds; and still it was getting heavier and heavier … A hundred pounds! – a hundred and fifty! – two hundred! … Umétsu knew that he had been deluded – that he had not been speaking with any mortal woman – that the child was not human. But he had made a promise; and a samurai was bound by his promise. So he kept the infant in his arms; and it continued to grow heavier. And heavier … two hundred and fifty! – three hundred! – four hundred pounds! … What was going to happen he could not imagine; but he resolved not to be afraid, and not to let the child go while his strength lasted … Five hundred! – five hundred and fifty! – six hundred pounds! All his muscles began to quiver with the strain; and still the weight increased … ‘Namu Amida Butsu!’ he groaned – ‘Namu Amida Butsu! – Namu Amida Butsu!’ Even as he uttered the holy invocation for the third time, the weight passed away from him with a shock; and he stood stupefied, with empty hands – for the child had unaccountably disappeared. But almost in the same instant he saw the mysterious woman returning as quickly as she had
gone. Still panting she came to him; and he then first saw that she was very fair; but her brow dripped with sweat; and her sleeves were bound back with tasuki-cords,2 as if she had been working hard.

  ‘Kind Sir Umétsu,’ she said, ‘you do not know how great a service you have done me. I am the Ujigamifn2 of this place; and to-night one of my Ujiko found herself in the pains of childbirth, and prayed to me for aid. But the labour proved to be very difficult; and I soon saw that by my own power alone I might not be able to save her: therefore I sought for the help of your strength and courage. And the child that I laid in your hands was the child that had not yet been born; and in the time that you first felt the child becoming heavier and heavier, the danger was very great – for the Gates of Birth were closed. And when you felt the child become so heavy that you despaired of being able to bear the weight much longer – in that same moment the mother seemed to be dead, and the family wept for her. Then you three times repeated the prayer, Namu Amida Butsu! – and the third time that you uttered it the power of the Lord Buddha came to our aid, and the Gates of Birth were opened … And for that which you have done you shall be fitly rewarded. To a brave samurai no gift can be more serviceable than strength: therefore, not only to you, but likewise to your children and to your children’s children, great strength shall he given.’

  And, with this promise, the divinity disappeared.

  Umétsu Chūbei, wondering greatly, resumed his way to the castle. At sunrise, on being relieved from duty, he proceeded as usual to wash his face and hands before making his morning prayer. But when he began to wring the towel which had served him, he was surprised to feel the tough material snap asunder in his hands. He attempted to twist together the separated portions; and again the stuff parted – like so much wet paper. He tried to wring the four thicknesses; and the result was the same. Presently, after handling various objects of bronze and of iron which yielded to his touch like clay, he understood that he had come into full possession of the great strength promised, and that he would have to be careful thenceforward when touching things, lest they should crumble in his fingers.

  On returning home, he made inquiry as to whether any child had been born in the settlement during the night. Then he learned that a birth had actually taken place at the very hour of his adventure, and that the circumstances had been exactly as related to him by the Ujigami.

  The children of Umétsu Chūbei inherited their father’s strength. Several of his descendants – all remarkably powerful men – were still living in the province of Dewa at the time when this story was written.

  The Legend of Yurei-daki

  Near the village of Kurosaka, in the province of Hōki, there is a waterfall called Yurei-Daki, or The Cascade of Ghosts. Why it is so called I do not know. Near the foot of the fall there is a small Shintō shrine of the god of the locality, whom the people name Taki-Daimyōjin; and in front of the shrine is a little wooden money-box – saisen-bako – to receive the offerings of believers. And there is a story about that money-box.

  One icy winter’s evening, thirty-five years ago, the women and girls employed at a certain asa-toriba, or hemp-factory, in Kurosaka, gathered around the big brazier in the spinning-room after their day’s work had been done. Then they amused themselves by telling ghost-stories. By the time that a dozen stories had been told, most of the gathering felt uncomfortable; and a girl cried out, just to heighten the pleasure of fear, ‘Only think of going this night, all by one’s self, to the Yurei-Daki!’ The suggestion provoked a general scream, followed by nervous bursts of laughter … ‘I’ll give all the hemp I spun to-day,’ mockingly said one of the party, ‘to the person who goes!’ ‘So will I,’ exclaimed another. ‘And I,’ said a third. ‘All of us,’ affirmed a fourth … Then from among the spinners stood up one Yasumoto O-Katsu, the wife of a carpenter; she had her only son, a boy of two years old, snugly wrapped up and asleep upon her back. ‘Listen,’ said O-Katsu; ‘if you will all really agree to make over to me all the hemp spun today, I will go to the Yurei-Daki.’ Her proposal was received with cries of astonishment and of defiance. But after having been several times repeated, it was seriously taken. Each of the spinners in turn agreed to give up her share of the day’s work to O-Katsu, providing that O-Katsu should go to the Yurei-Daki. ‘But how are we to know if she really goes there?’ a sharp voice asked. ‘Why, let her bring back the money-box of the god,’ answered an old woman whom the spinners called Obaa-San, the Grandmother; ‘that will be proof enough.’ ‘I’ll bring it,’ cried O-Katsu. And out she darted into the street, with her sleeping boy upon her back.

  The night was frosty, but clear. Down the empty street O-Katsu hurried; and she saw that all the house fronts were tightly closed, because of the piercing cold. Out of the village, and along the high road she ran – pichà-pichà – with the great silence of frozen rice-fields on either hand, and only the stars to light her. Half an hour she followed the open road; then she turned down a narrower way, winding under cliffs. Darker and rougher the path became as she proceeded; but she knew it well, and she soon heard the dull roar of the water. A few minutes more, and the way widened into a glen, and the dull roar suddenly became a loud clamor, and before her she saw, looming against a mass of blackness, the long glimmering of the fall. Dimly she perceived the shrine, the money-box. She rushed forward – put out her hand …

  ‘Oi! O-Katsu-San!’fn1 suddenly called a warning voice above the crash of the water.

  O-Katsu stood motionless, stupefied by terror.

  ‘Oi! O-Katsu-San!’ again pealed the voice, this time with more of menace in its tone.

  But O-Katsu was really a bold woman. At once recovering from her stupefaction, she snatched up the money-box and ran. She neither heard nor saw anything more to alarm her until she reached the highroad, where she stopped a moment to take breath. Then she ran on steadily – pichà-pichà – till she got to Kurosaka, and thumped at the door of the asa-toriba.

  How the women and the girls cried out as she entered, panting, with the money-box of the god in her hand! Breathlessly they heard her story; sympathetically they screeched when she told them of the Voice that had called her name, twice, out of the haunted water … What a woman! Brave O-Katsu! – well had she earned the hemp! … ‘But your boy must be cold, O-Katsu!’ cried the Obaa-San, ‘let us have him here by the fire!’

  ‘He ought to be hungry,’ exclaimed the mother; ‘I must give him his milk presently.’ … ‘Poor O-Katsu!’ said the Obaa-San, helping to remove the wraps in which the boy had been carried – ‘why, you are all wet behind!’ Then, with a husky scream, the helper vociferated, ‘Ara! it is blood!’

  And out of the wrappings unfastened there fell to the floor a blood-soaked bundle of baby clothes that left exposed two very small brown feet, and two very small brown hands – nothing more. The child’s head had been torn off! …

  In a Cup of Tea

  Have you ever attempted to mount some old tower stairway, spiring up through darkness, and in the heart of that darkness found yourself at the cobwebbed edge of nothing? Or have you followed some coast path, cut along the face of a cliff, only to discover yourself, at a turn, on the jagged verge of a break. The emotional worth of such experience – from a literary point of view – is proved by the force of the sensations aroused, and by the vividness with which they are remembered.

  Now there have been curiously preserved, in old Japanese story-books, certain fragments of fiction that produce an almost similar emotional experience … Perhaps the writer was lazy; perhaps he had a quarrel with the publisher; perhaps he was suddenly called away from his little table, and never came back; perhaps death stopped the writing-brush in the very middle of a sentence.

  But no mortal man can ever tell us exactly why these things were left unfinished … I select a typical example.

  * * *

  On the fourth day of the first month of the third Tenwa,1 – that is to say, about two hundred and twenty years ago, – the lord Nakagawa Sado, wh
ile on his way to make a New Year’s visit, halted with his train at a tea-house in Hakusan, in the Hongō district of Yedo. While the party were resting there, one of the lord’s attendants – a wakatōfn1 named Sekinai – feeling very thirsty, filled for himself a large water-cup with tea. He was raising the cup to his lips when he suddenly perceived, in the transparent yellow infusion, the image or reflection of a face that was not his own. Startled, he looked around, but could see no one near him. The face in the tea appeared, from the coiffure, to be the face of a young samurai: it was strangely distinct, and very handsome – delicate as the face of a girl. And it seemed the reflection of a living face; for the eyes and the lips were moving. Bewildered by this mysterious apparition, Sekinai threw away the tea, and carefully examined the cup. It proved to be a very cheap water-cup, with no artistic devices of any sort. He found and filled another cup; and again the face appeared in the tea. He then ordered fresh tea, and refilled the cup; and once more the strange face appeared – this time with a mocking smile. But Sekinai did not allow himself to be frightened. ‘Whoever you are,’ he muttered, ‘you shall delude me no further!’ – then he swallowed the tea, face and all, and went his way, wondering whether he had swallowed a ghost.

  Late in the evening of the same day, while on watch in the palace of the lord Nakagawa, Sekinai was surprised by the soundless coming of a stranger into the apartment. This stranger, a richly dressed young samurai, seated himself directly in front of Sekinai, and, saluting the wakatō with a slight bow, observed:

  ‘I am Shikibu Heinai – met you to-day for the first time … You do not seem to recognize me.’

  He spoke in a very low, but penetrating voice. And Sekinai was astonished to find before him the same sinister, handsome face of which he had seen, and swallowed, the apparition in a cup of tea. It was smiling now, as the phantom had smiled; but the steady gaze of the eyes, above the smiling lips, was at once a challenge and an insult.