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The principal deity of Inari, Ukanomitama-no-Kami (also known as Ukanomitama-no-Mikoto), is a goddess of grain and food appearing in the first volume of the "Kojiki" (712). The name combines "Uka" (ancient word for food) and "Mitama" (spirit), preserving its simple folk origin as the "personification of spiritual power dwelling in grains." The head shrine, Fushimi Inari Taisha (Mount Inari, Kii County, Yamashiro Province; present-day Fushimi Ward, Kyoto), originated on the first Day of the Horse in February 711. It was founded when Hata-no-Irogu, head of the Hata clan (an immigrant clan who pioneered the Kyoto basin and Fushimi area), shot an arrow at a target made of mochi (rice cake). In a miraculous event, the mochi transformed into a white swan, flew away, and sprouted rice plants where it landed on the mountain peak, prompting the enshrinement of three deities (according to a lost text of the "Yamashiro no Kuni Fudoki"). The three deities were Ukanomitama-no-Okami (the main deity), Satahikoo-no-Okami, and Omiyanome-no-Okami; later, Tanaka-no-Okami and Shi-no-Okami were added to collectively form the five Inari Okami. For its rapid expansion in faith after the Heian period, its connection with To-ji Temple, the head temple of Shingon Esoteric Buddhism, played a decisive role. Starting with the legend of Kukai seeking Inari's cooperation when constructing To-ji, Shingon Buddhism and the Inari faith became deeply intertwined, leading to a syncretism with the Indian esoteric female demon Dakini-ten (Ḍākinī). Originally a "man-eating female yaksha," Dakini-ten softened as she passed through Tibet and China to Japan, becoming depicted as a "celestial maiden riding a white fox," and was eventually identified with Inari. This established a unique lineage of Buddhist Inari (Toyokawa Inari/Myogon-ji founded in Aichi in 1441, Saijo Inari/Myokyo-ji founded in Okayama in the 1300s, etc.), coexisting with the Shinto Inari (Fushimi lineage). During the Edo period, a massive boom occurred where people of all classes—samurai, townspeople, and farmers—enshrined Inari in small shrines on their properties as household deities. It became so widespread that a famous senryu poem listed "Iseya, Inari, and dog poop" as the most commonly seen things in Edo. Modern Inari shrines are estimated at about 32,000 (2,900 head shrines + branch shrines + household shrines), making it Japan's largest belief system by number of shrines. The relationship with foxes requires careful attention. While Fushimi Inari Taisha officially clarifies that "the fox is a divine messenger (familiar) of the Inari deity, not the deity itself," in folklore, many regions treat the fox itself as the Inari deity. This "fox deity faith" from the Edo period onward remains the mainstream of folk belief today. The messenger foxes are called "Byakko" (white foxes) and are traditionally depicted holding one of four items in their mouths: a jewel, a key, a rice sheaf, or a scroll. The jewel represents divine virtue, the key opens the spiritual granary, the rice sheaf represents grain, and the scroll signifies Buddhist scriptures. The main prayers are for bountiful harvests, prosperous business, family safety, fire prevention, and warding off epidemics. Especially since the Edo period, as it became a merchant household deity, prosperous business and financial fortune have become the primary focus. Today, this practice has spread to corporate and storefront altars (even small shrines on commercial building rooftops) and roadside shrines, embedding itself deeply in Japanese society across the four tiers of shrines, temples, residences, and corporations. The annual Hatsu-uma Matsuri (Festival of the First Day of the Horse) in February marks the descent of the Inari deity and is celebrated grandly at Inari shrines nationwide.

A consolidated image of ayakashi used as a catchall name for sea-borne anomalies tied to maritime disasters across Japan. Forms vary widely—ghostly fires, phantasms, phantom women, sea serpents—but share behaviors such as leading ships astray, blocking courses, distracting crews, and luring the thirsty. In Tsushima, will-o’-wisps are said to become mountains, and local lore advises boldly pressing ahead to disperse them. In Nagasaki they drift as ghostly lights at sea, in Yamaguchi and Saga they are feared as funayurei, and off Bōsō they are recorded as a well-woman specter. The name is also shared with the real remora in folk belief that it slows a vessel, functioning as a folk explanation for natural phenomena and seafaring anxiety. Toriyama Sekien’s imagery shows a giant sea serpent, tying the idea to ancient notions of sea monsters.

Among the coastal Nure-onna of northwestern Kyushu, a variant that particularly despises the handling of reed mats and thatch is called the Toma-Shunning Nure-Onna. On windless nights she appears on the beach without leaving footprints, a young woman from the waist up with black hair slicked by brine, shell-pale skin holding the moon, and eyes that reflect the distant whitecaps offshore. Below the waist she is indistinct like sea-mist, and if trod upon there is only sand with no true form. From behind she bears a jagged, craglike shadow like a collapsed rock face, and if one’s gaze falters she seems nothing more than a shore rock. Drawn by the hush of a calm, she stares seaward; if her name is called or a careless voice is thrown at her back, she answers with a shrill cry. The scream overlaps the roar of the tide and cuts the ears, her loosened hair stretching like wet seaweed to entangle the caller. Each briny strand bites the skin like the barb of a fishhook and is said to draw up warm blood along the hair. Yet if three old thatch stems from a reed mat are placed over the chest not as a cross but in the shape of the character for river, her hair recoils from the thatch, and she cannot step on the edge of the mat, only drip seawater in frustration from the gunwale. She favors boarding boats by their stern line; if a stranger’s harbor leaves the stern line set, at midnight she will crawl up it, slip in over the rail, and drape her hair over sleepers’ faces to steal their breath. Thus old fishermen followed the rule of taking in the stern line when calling at a port, dropping only the anchor and keeping watch at the bow while reading the wind. She is susceptible to the human-made ideas of knots and naming in ropes; if the rope is cinched hard while whispering the owner’s name three times, she cannot unravel that name and cannot travel along the line. Though drawn by the grudges of the drowned, she does not harm indiscriminately. When she sees discarded reed mats or thatch, or cut ropes drifting in the tide, she scents the neglect of the hands that wove them and approaches their owner’s boat. Conversely, those who dry nets and mats without letting the ends trail into the sea or blocking the tide’s path may find her invisible presence come near and, by the creak of moorings, warn of a calm about to break, old skippers say. In parts of the Fukuoka coast, it is said she walks the water not for lack of feet, but because she avoids reed mats, stepping only on the thinnest skin of the waves. Northern Kyushu has a crab-incarnation theory, but this Nure-Onna does not hate crabs; rather, when shore crabs scuttle, she draws in her hair and returns to rock. Her name varies by place—Iso-Onna, Nure-Onna, Sea Princess—but her ties to the etiquette of thatch and rope are constant. To avoid her: do not call to a woman’s back on a night beach, do not leave a stern line fast in unfamiliar ports, and place three thatch stems in a river shape where you sleep. Keep these and she will only turn her white offshore eyes toward you, then blend into rock-shadow and unravel into the tide mist, leaving only her presence to be told as footprints that were never there by morning.

A consolidated portrayal of the Iso-nade based on Edo-period strange tales and materia medica notes. It approaches without ruffling the sea’s surface, signaling itself only through shifts in sea color and wind. Its body is shark-like, said to bear coarse protrusions and needle-like organs from tail to back. It most often appears in seasons of cutting cold winds and was especially feared on days of strong northerlies. Seafarers avoided boisterous work, stowed nets and ropes, and kept away from the rail—customs passed down as seamanship to prevent disaster. Names and details vary by region, but the core remains an unseen approach that is noticed too late and the terror of being swept overboard by a single strike of the tail. Early modern records also frame it as a narrative of maritime hazard awareness and caution.

Seen along seashores and riverbanks as a woman with long wet hair. Depending on the region, she either lures victims by making them hold a baby and then immobilizes them, or appears as a menacing aquatic entity evocative of a serpent’s body and a massive tail. Edo-period yokai art often depicts a serpentine woman, though narrative sources offer scant confirmation. In Iwami she is classed as a water spirit linked to the gyuki, with advice to never hold her burden barehanded. She is sometimes conflated with the iso-onna, and both name and traits vary by locale.

This version looks at Hyōsube as a distinctly Kyushu kind of kappa, one tightly bound to the taboos of the home. Where most kappa tales unfold at rivers and deep pools, Hyōsube's stories push indoors—into the bathroom, the bathhouse, and the stable. The water a hairy Hyōsube has used is held to be defiled, fouled with floating hair; a horse that touches it collapses, and anyone who drains the water without leave is cursed and loses his horse. Stories of this kind are told all across the region. When to drain the bath, who may use it—such admonitions about the manners of everyday life were voiced in the form of Hyōsube's curse. In the fields it is said to love and ravage eggplant, and people offered the first of the crop to keep it content. Its birdlike cry of "hyō-hyō" is said to be the very origin of its name. The hairy, bald-crowned, comical figure drawn in the Edo-period Hyakkai Zukan and Gazu Hyakki Yagyō conveys less a thing of terror than a familiar creature living right beside human life.

An image based on a block-printed text copied in Kato Hekioan’s Warekoromo. It bears a human face, two horns, a crimson belly, and a triple-sword tail, and is said to have appeared as a messenger from the Dragon Palace to foretell abundance and the spread of disease. Copies of its likeness were promoted as amulets for averting calamity and prolonging life when pasted on doorways or viewed in devotion, leading to widespread circulation of the image. Parallels from Hirado’s “Himeuo” and cases in Echigo show close similarities in iconography and captions, marking a nexus of popular epidemic countermeasures, folk practice, and print distribution. Some propose origins in specific animals, but no proof exists; folklorically it functions alongside prophetic beasts like Amabie and Amabiko.

Among the shiranui, the Parent Fire Guide of Hassaku is a high-ranking variant that appears before dawn on the first day of the eighth lunar month. A single reddish light, sometimes two, first kindles several kilometers offshore, called the parent fire by villagers. It then splits to either side birthing child lights, until hundreds and thousands form a single horizontal line. People say the line may stretch four to eight ri, invisible from the surf but clearly seen from headlands or heights a few ken above the tide wind. When the ebb runs deepest, about the hour around midnight, the flames breathe in unison, and distant watchers see a shimmer like dragon scales flickering beneath the waves. If chased the lights retreat, if neared they draw away. Launch a boat to seize them and they slip aside with the shadow of the current, allowing no approach while indicating only the heading home. Old records tell that when Emperor Keikō’s boat was wrapped in darkness, this parent fire rose far ahead and turned his prow toward shore. For this reason villagers revered the nameless fire, ceasing their nets and resting their oars at midnight on Hassaku, waiting for the line to unspool. The Parent Fire Guide is linked to the presence of a stormy dragon god, yet it shuns harming people and instead warns against arrogance and haste. Boats that grasp for quick profit wander bewildered along the line and must furl their sails, while those who heed the tide climb a shore pine to read the fire’s breathing and slip out quietly with the break in the lights. Offshore shoals then prove gentler than expected, and on the return the embers sway by the coastal shadow to welcome the boat. So pure is the parent fire that villagers murmur Thousand Lanterns or Dragon Lantern and press their hands in prayer, but if people call it coarsely and jeer, the line breaks at once and scatters into beach fog. Wind does not fan it larger, it waxes and wanes only by the pulse of the tide. Thus from capes and mounds it appears a tidy band, while from the wave edge it cannot be seen. They say the Parent Fire Guide can even shift the angle of shrine shimenawa by the sea and the hue of lighthouse flames, and when the sacred rope bows slightly seaward at night, it is a sign that far offshore the lights are being born. Elders who know this tell young crews, Today the tide falls and the fire will rise, refrain from sailing. Unlike man-made flames it leaves no ash or smoke. Only at one hour after dawn do shells on the flats shine pale rose, and dew on reed tips holds the fire’s afterglow. On such mornings villagers cast salt upon the beach and give thanks for the lives guided by the fire. The Parent Fire Guide opens the way to those who know awe and courtesy, withdraws from the overproud, and quietly redraws the boundary between sea and humankind.

This version turns to how the Yako was spoken of in the Buddhist world, and in Zen in particular. Zen has the term yako-zen, "wild-fox Zen." It is a word of admonition for a half-finished state in which one has not truly attained enlightenment yet believes oneself enlightened. Its source is the famous tale "Hyakujō and the Wild Fox," recorded in the Song-dynasty Zen collection of dialogues, the Mumonkan. An old man came to listen each time the Tang Zen master Baizhang Huaihai (Hyakujō Ekai) preached. One day the old man revealed his story. Long ago, when he had been abbot of this very temple, he was asked whether one who has attained enlightenment still falls subject to cause and effect (karmic retribution), and he answered, "He does not fall (into cause and effect)." For that single mistaken word he had been cast into the body of a wild fox through five hundred rebirths. The old man begged Hyakujō for the correct answer. When Hyakujō rephrased it as "He does not obscure cause and effect," the old man was freed of his delusion on the spot, shed the wild-fox body, and attained buddhahood. Here the wild fox becomes a symbol of admonition—the form into which one who has fallen into half-baked enlightenment is transformed. Quite apart from the village field fox that deceives people, the Yako has lived on at length within the language of Zen as well, as "where shallow cleverness ends up."