Fukushimaふくしま

The Embodiment of the Abyss of "Karma". Kurozuka (Iwate) is not merely a flesh-eating monster lurking in the mountains. Originally a refined wet nurse for Kyoto aristocrats, she resorted to the madness of murder to cure her mistress's illness, only to plunge into utter insanity and devolve into a demon after unwittingly killing her own daughter. This sequence of events is Japanese literature and theater's most harrowing depiction of "maternal devotion gone rogue," "blind loyalty," and the "inescapable retribution of karma." Her image, brandishing a butcher knife, radiates not just monstrous terror, but the bottomless sorrow and despair of a human toyed with by the cruelty of fate. The "Taboo of Looking" and the Boundary to the Otherworld. In the Kurozuka legend, the taboo of "do not look into the inner room" plays a pivotal role. The front room of the hut represents the "mundane human space," while the inner room is the "otherworld of death and demons" filled with white bones. The moment the traveling monk breaks the taboo, everyday reality collapses, exposing the "monstrous abnormality" hidden within the old woman. This is a perfect medieval adaptation of the ancient Japanese mythic motif of "forbidden viewing" (like Izanagi looking at Izanami in the underworld), symbolizing how terrifyingly fragile the boundary between human and demon, life and death, truly is. Immortal Rebirth Through Art and Tourism. Continuously reinterpreted across Noh, Joruri, Kabuki, and Ukiyo-e (such as Yoshitoshi's bloody prints), Kurozuka established itself as a core repertoire of Japanese theater history. In the modern era, it remains vividly alive as an "active folklore" through works like Baku Yumemakura's *Onmyoji*, Osamu Tezuka's manga, and the tourism efforts in Nihonmatsu City, Fukushima (Adachigahara Furusato Village, Kurozuka Historical Site). Kurozuka has transcended a simple ghost story, elevating into an eternal symbol exploring the philosophical question of the "demonic nature lurking within the human heart."

A spirit formed from the regrets of a woman who died in childbirth, said to appear along night roads, crossroads, and riverbanks. Early modern tales and illustrated books depict her with blood soaking her lower body, cradling a baby and asking passersby to mind the child. Outcomes vary: the helper discovers they held a stone or Jizo statue, receives great strength or wealth as recompense, or suffers misfortune such as being bitten by the infant. Regional variants include Fukushima’s “Obo,” where distracting her with a strip of cloth is advised, and Kyushu’s “Ugume,” whose true nature is revealed at dawn. Edo scholars compared her with nocturnal bird-like portents in Chinese records and reasoned that the qi of those who die in childbirth becomes a yokai. Temple and shrine legends tell of salvation through nembutsu or daimoku, linking her to prayers for childrearing and safe delivery. Ubume is both feared and revered, a spiritual figure embodying a mother’s enduring love.

An uncanny variant of the funayurei said to be the ruined shades of the Taira clan sunk at the Battle of Dan-no-ura. On nights of shifting tides and sea mist in the western straits, they draw alongside a boat, armor dripping, and beg, “Give us a teigo ladle.” Their faces are pale, eyes reddened by salt, voices hoarse yet mannered with samurai courtesy. Keeping the discipline of their former camp, they form ranks even at sea, a herald calls out, and many hands clutch the gunwale. If given a ladle with an intact bottom, they silently bail seawater into the boat until it founders. Those who know the old ways cross the sea with bowls and ladles whose bottoms are pierced, tied ready at the rail. When the ghosts accept them, water runs through and does not stay aboard, and only the weight of their rancor scatters on the tide. Priests sometimes hold services, and then the shadow of war hats melts into the mist, chains of armor return to the sound of waves. They do not drown people at random but approach those ignorant of sea rites or proud souls who scorn the ocean, marking their own downfall upon the world. On the sixteenth of Obon, on equinoctial days, and on battle anniversaries, their tread comes nearest when the sea is unnaturally still, and ghostly fires line the surface like beacons, mirroring the fleets of old. Offerings of ash, rice cakes, incense and flowers, and dumplings soothe their fixation; cast them from the bow and a wave like a shirabyōshi’s sleeve returns once and pushes the boat onward. A hard stare may make them withdraw, not by force of gaze but because the living truly behold the dead and the knotted ki loosens. As Yamaoka Genrin told, their true form is congealed rancor, soot-like grudge given shape upon the current; when winds shift, sutras resound, and offerings sink, the loosened ki disperses into the sea. Thus this version of funayurei can be stilled not only by fear but by memorial rites. Sometimes the outline of a child appears among their ranks, its voice thinner still, never asking for “water,” only hooking small fingers over the rail. If you hear the faint chime of armor bells, correct your helm, take the Hayatomo Rapids on the slant, and let a murmured nembutsu ride the wind. The slayers’ spirits drifting in the western dark yield only to proper forms and compassion.

An Aobōzu type based on images in Edo-period picture scrolls and regional field collections. Depicted as a monk with a bluish hue or as a one-eyed priest, it may be told as an animal in disguise, a manifestation of a mountain deity, or an uncanny being of uncertain nature. It serves to warn children against wandering, anchors tales of hauntings in fields, mountains, and vacant houses, and conveys oral taboos. No fixed proper name or origin is agreed upon, and its conditions of appearance and behavior vary by region. Because Sekien’s print lacks commentary, notes from other sources list it alongside the “One-Eyed Monk” or as an allegory for an unseasoned priest, but neither view is definitive. In premodern oral accounts, concrete images coexist under multiple labels such as “Blue Priest,” “Great Monk,” and “Little Monk.”

In early modern tales, the Vermilion Tray is depicted as a red-faced monk-like figure, appearing as an accomplice of the Long-Tongued Crone or showing its visage alone, reappearing to unnerve and harm people. The name varies between “Watcher of Necks” and “Vermilion Tray,” commonly read as Shunoban. Classic illustrations and yokai prints note a red face, horns, a split mouth, and a fiery aura, though details differ by source. Encounters occur mainly at night at shrine gates, in wastelands, and in tumbledown shacks, and the harm is told as loss of spirit leading to fainting, lingering illness, or death. Reports span regions such as Aizu and Echigo, not as a fixed local deity but as a circulating tale-type of the uncanny.