Yokai Encyclopedia

A one-legged goat *majimun* that haunts the Ganguri-yumata intersection in Shimozato. Standing on its solitary hind leg, it glides out of the darkness into deserted crossroads, its hard hooves ringing out with a rhythmic "gan, guri-guri" sound. Once it spots a passerby, it unleashes an ear-splitting shriek that tears through the night and leaps over their head like an arrow, snatching their *mabui* (soul) in the process. However, it cannot harm those who quickly crouch down to avoid being jumped over; defeated, it leaves only its scream and footsteps echoing in the street before melting back into the shadows.

A variant of the Katakuruma said to haunt Kyoto’s Higashi-no-Toin, marked by a strong urge to chasten with words. In the Enpo era, disliking the city’s taste for night roaming and nosy tongues, it rolled through the streets as a single ring of fire. It appears as one lone ox-cart wheel, cypress spokes sooted and red-hot, with a broad-jawed man’s face set in the hub. Its eyes flicker like lantern flames, its teeth gleam like a comb, and it often arrives biting a child’s single foot. Its first cry is always “Look to your child before you look at me,” both a threat and a plain command to tend the home; those who rush inside sometimes avert harm. But peep out of curiosity and, before rumor can spread, calamity befalls the household’s child. The foot it holds is not some stranger’s far away but is bound to the onlooker’s own child—the terror of this type—its fire slipping thinly through the door crack, drawing blood like beriberi in the sleeping room, leaving a tear. This speech-making Katakuruma is often confused with the Wheel Monk, yet it prefers admonition to mockery, and a single line of speech sets both the cause and the end. When a housewife once peered through a slit on Higashi-no-Toin, the wheel halted before the home, pressed its nose to the door, uttered a verse, and left; she ran to the parlor and found the child only lightly harmed, cured by prayer and decoctions. Thereafter, from the bell at sunset, households barred lattices tight, hung dim lamps within, and vowed not to speak of the strange at their lips. Sightings waned, yet during festivals and pilgrimages it returns, rolling as if stepping on the shadows of paper lanterns. It feeds above all on named gossip; if one whispers “katawa-guruma” thrice, its flame licks the eaves and seeks the lattice gap. Elders avoided the name, saying “the one-wheeled fire” or “the wheel’s voice.” Still, a gate warded with waka or votive words can halt it; honoring the power of speech, it eases if the text is orderly and heartfelt for the child. In towns thick with rumor it grows strong, in towns that mind their words and households it wanes, a monster mirroring Kyoto’s temperament.

A regional variant of the katawaguruma said to haunt the Koka foothills and the lake winds’ thoroughfares since the Kanbun era. Its flames are steady like a watchfire, and a single scorched ebony wheel skims along nighted earthen walls. A woman’s face floats at its hub, classical and composed, hair unruffled by wind, the mouth faintly smiling yet almost mocking. When it circles a village threshold, lamps shiver and a far voice calls the names of sleeping children. More feared than its form were its “looks” and “rumor”: those who peeked through a door’s crack at midnight, or joked about it next morning, drew misfortune. The calamity was never grand but left a house half wanting—children vanish for a time, a mother’s milk stops, sheaves on the drying rack grow damp on one side. Villagers called this “stealing the half.” Yet it is no lawless fiend; if humans observe propriety, it answers with reason. One tale tells of a woman who repented peeping and pasted a tanka on her door; the katawaguruma sang it back the next night, saying “How gentle you are,” and returned her child. This is its Koka nature: to chide those who break night taboos and mend order through the power of words. When wayside deities and crossroads shrines waned, it appeared like a night watch, staying travelers’ feet and reminding households of latches and silence. Its female visage is said to echo ancient awe of birth goddesses who govern children’s comings and goings, or the many nights in Koka when women kept the home. The wheel is a lone wheel of an old ox cart, scorched axle-grain traced with sigils like Siddham; its fire gives light without heat. If people pierce its guise and spread tales of its traces, it deems its whereabouts too well known and departs. Thus it rarely lingers after a single appearance, blending back into roadside dark once rumors subside. Often confused with Wanyudo, but this kind favors admonition over scorn and prides itself on always returning the children it takes. Sensitive to song, norito, and quiet prayers at the threshold, it favors dignified speech; hence local house codes forbade loud late-night talk, door cracks, and calling children’s names at night. So the katawaguruma came to be seen as Koka’s hidden guardian, teaching courtesy through affliction and undoing affliction through courtesy.

A rendition based on records and oral tales of the shape-shifting otter. It mimics human speech, but its intonation and sentence endings sound off, and when pressed with questions it gives nonsensical replies. Its guises range from a beautiful woman to a child or a monk, distracting passersby and misleading them with tricks such as snuffing lanterns, inviting people to wrestle, or making stones and tree roots appear human. In some regions it overlaps with kappa lore, possessing great strength in water and luring victims to look upward to gain advantage. In the context of spirit possession, it is feared for sapping a person’s vitality and inducing lethargy. While violent episodes are recorded, most encounters amount to threats or pranks.

Centered on Toriyama Sekien’s illustration and framed by the funerary culture of Mount Toribe and beliefs in salvation through self-immolation. Kabenbō is not a single named human spirit but a class of monk spirits whose frustrated vows or lingering attachments turn into ghostly fire. It appears as a monk wreathed in flame and smoke, haunting graveyards and funeral routes at night. Rather than directly harming people, it instills awe and caution, fitting within tales of strange fires and spirit flames. A folk etymology links it by wordplay to Azabu’s Gazenbō, but evidence is inconclusive, with primary sources limited to Sekien’s print and modern yokai encyclopedias.

The more learning tilts toward tablets, the more often it appears, turning problems into tangible forms to restore a sense of touch. It subtly shifts difficulty to let safe failures stack up. When the block tower holds steady at the peak, understanding sets in, and if it falls, it offers a new angle. For parents and teachers, it rings like a wind chime to cue the right rhythm of guidance.

A canonical image based on Toriyama Sekien’s illustrations and Edo kibyoshi. Dressed like a courtesan of the pleasure quarters, its hair grows unnaturally long to shroud the body so the face cannot be discerned. Born from urban satire centered on Yoshiwara and a pun linking courtesans with shapeshifters, it appears as a literary construct with no proper name or origin tale. Sometimes read as a faceless yōkai, it serves as a symbol that reverses the viewer’s desires and assumptions. Sources are primarily printed editions, with scant oral tradition.

This version looks closely at the form and nature of the kenmun—kin to the kappa, yet bearing colors all its own from Amami. It stands about as tall as a child, its skin tinged with red, its body covered in ape-like hair, with hair that is black or red. In the dish on its head it holds the water that is its source of strength, and its fingertips, its drool, and the dish itself are said to glow faintly. Where the mainland kappa is bound to rivers and pools, the kenmun makes its home in old banyan (gajumaru) trees and moves between sea and mountains with the seasons—a distinctive character rooted in the nature of the southern isles. Its range, too, spreads from island to island, with its own tellings handed down on Amami Ōshima, Kakeroma, Tokunoshima, Okinoerabu, and elsewhere. In the tales of older generations it was most often a harmless spirit that helped people, but as the ages passed its mischievous, menacing side came to the fore. As the island life lived alongside the forest fades, the kenmun’s own place, too, is slowly drawing away.

Kenne-o as the Underworld's Back-End Engineer. The base description noted that Kenne-o is Datsue-ba's counterpart, but here we dissect his "systemic singularity." While Datsue-ba handles the violent "front-end" task of directly interacting with the dead to strip their clothes, Kenne-o manages the "back-end" data processing: receiving the clothes and hanging them on the Eryoju tree to weigh the sins. The resulting measurement—how deeply the branch bends—is sent directly to King Shoko (or King Enma) as the foundational data for the deceased's trial. He does not even converse with the dead, specializing entirely in the role of a "ruthless measuring instrument" that mechanically calculates karma. An Inversion of Gender and Faith in the Japanese Underworld. Typically, in pairings of gods or demons, the male deity assumes the leading role while the female deity is subordinate. However, with the two demons of the Sanzu River, this dynamic is completely inverted. It was the old hag Datsue-ba whose name became known, feared, and ultimately prayed to by the commoners as a "cough-curing deity." The old man Kenne-o, meanwhile, faded entirely from the historical center stage. This occurred because Japanese folk religion exhibits a strong affinity for "motherhood" and the "shamanic power of old women," and because the visceral, direct action of "stripping clothes" was far more sensational in inciting the masses' fear. The Modern Rediscovery of Kenne-o. Even in modern subcultures such as yokai media, horror fiction, and video games, Datsue-ba often appears as a boss character or a memorable NPC, whereas Kenne-o's presence is minimal to nonexistent. Recently, however, alongside the re-evaluation of Buddhist art and hell scrolls, the iconographic significance of the "old man working silently beneath the Eryoju tree" is garnering renewed attention. Without him, the uniquely elaborate Japanese mechanism of "weighing sins by the weight of stripped clothes" simply collapses. To allow the overwhelmingly present Datsue-ba to exist, Kenne-o serves as an absolutely essential "demon as a stage prop."

This entry centers on Toriyama Sekien’s imagery, supplemented only minimally by the popular explanations found in modern yokai handbooks. Citing the anecdote of Song Yu of Chu, Sekien likened a woman laughing alluringly over a wall to the spirit of a wanton. The plate itself does not detail temperament, degree of harm, or methods of dispelling, offering only form and associative origin. Later commentators emphasize a dry laugh heard by one person alone on an empty road, framing it as a psychological apparition that provokes fear, shame, and unease. Tangible harm is rarely noted, sometimes limited to shock, freezing in place, or fainting. Its hauntings are not tied to a specific region, and are imagined wherever sightlines are blocked—along city walls, crossroads, or over hedges—though sources are not cited. Accordingly, this version keeps Sekien’s visual prompt at its core, treating confusion by laughter as an ancillary function.

A hair-covered apparition of uncertain origin first depicted in Sekien’s illustrated compendium. Its name implies “seldom seen,” and this rarity is considered its defining trait. Later links to dampness or illness are editorial interpretations without firm oral tradition. Adhering to the original source, only its appearance and rarity are treated as certain.

Centered on Kokon Chomonjū, this version frames Kidōmaru as an oni confronting Minamoto no Yorimitsu (Raikō) and Watanabe no Tsuna. After escaping capture, he shadows his targets and, anticipating them on the road to Kurama, lies in wait at Ichiharano by hiding inside the body of a cow—an audacious ruse seen through by Raikō’s caution. When Tsuna’s arrow breaks the concealment, Kidōmaru reveals his oni form and charges, only to be felled by a single stroke from Raikō. Iconography was fixed by Toriyama Sekien as a figure draped in cowhide in the snow, and early modern warrior prints often depict him as a rival in contests of sorcery. His lineage is unsettled: in the Unbara tradition he is the child of Shuten Dōji, while in war tales he is a novice from Mount Hiei. In all strands he is understood as a being who hides in wilds, watching for opportunity through brute strength, transformation, and stealth. Avoiding later embellishments, this reconstruction centers on his core behaviors of concealment, transformation, and ambush.

Kihachi was a savage deity who served as an arrow retriever for Takeiwatatsu-no-Mikoto, the pioneer god of Aso. Exhausted from his duties, he kicked an arrow back with his foot, enraging the god, who chased him to Takachiho and struck him down. Yet his severed body attempted to knit itself back together to revive, and even when buried in three separate pieces, he laid a curse, swearing to "make frost fall upon the Aso Valley." Left with no choice, Takeiwatatsu-no-Mikoto enshrined Kihachi as a deity at Shimo Shrine, where every year for fifty-nine days, a young maiden keeps a sacred fire burning day and night to warm his cold, severed body—a ritual that continues to this very day. A demon that brings the chill of frost to Aso, the Mountain of Fire. Slain only to become a god, he is the embodiment of the deep, complex layers of mythology woven into this land.

The Nansei Islands Tree Spirit Lineage and "Banyan Culture". While the basic overview discusses regional name variations and dietary habits, this deep dive explores the profound roots of the "Banyan Culture in the Nansei Islands" upon which the Kijimuna stands. The banyan tree (*Ficus microcarpa*) is an evergreen of the mulberry family native to tropical and subtropical climates, characterized by its imposing form draped in countless aerial roots. Ancient banyans, some over several centuries old, are revered as sacred trees where deities reside and have been fiercely protected as objects of worship in the *Utaki* (sacred groves) across Okinawa. The Kijimuna is inextricably tied to these ancient banyans; their existence is merged with the local religious belief that cutting down an *Utaki* tree will rain catastrophe upon the entire village. Comparative Folklore with the Amami "Kenmun". The Kijimuna is frequently compared by folklorists to the "Kenmun" of Amami Oshima—a yokai that shares traits like a red body, dwelling in trees, and a love for fishing and sumo wrestling. The academic distinctions are as follows: - The Kenmun is often categorized alongside the Kappa as more of a "water anomaly," whereas the Kijimuna leans heavily toward being a "nature spirit" of the trees. - The Kenmun prefers sumo wrestling, while the Kijimuna's core folklore revolves around cooperating in fishing. - The Kenmun features many tales regarding male/female pairs and married couples, whereas the Kijimuna is fundamentally treated as an individual entity. By grouping both under the broader umbrella of "Tree Spirits of the Nansei Islands," the island folklore of Okinawa and Amami emerges as a unified cultural sphere. This distribution correlates significantly with the history of human migration and linguistics (the Ryukyuan languages and Amami dialects) in the region. "Fish Eyes" and the Okinawan Concept of the Soul. The Kijimuna's peculiar habit of eating only the left eye of a fish (or both eyes, in some telling) is not mere grotesque eccentricity. In ancient Japanese and Ryukyuan animism, the "eye" was considered one of the primary vessels where the soul resided. Eating an animal's eyes was interpreted as the act of consuming its spirit. Thus, the Kijimuna is not eating the physical flesh of the fish, but draining its soul. This gave rise to regional customs where the leftover, eyeless fish was prized as a "body emptied of its soul." This represents a distinct Ryukyuan variation of the pan-Japanese "Eye = Soul" ideology dating back to the Jomon period. The "Befriend, then Rupture" Narrative Structure. Tales of relations between humans and Kijimuna strictly follow a set pattern: "Massive bounties via fishing cooperation → A minor human blunder (breaking a promise, damaging a banyan, farting) → A total rupture → A lifelong curse." This is not a simple morality tale of good versus evil. It functions to transmit the ethics of living in moderation with nature through the allegory of a "transactional relationship" with a tree spirit. Societal rules—such as "do not cut the banyan," "do not monopolize the fish," and "show respect to entities of the otherworld"—are encoded into a narrative structure designed to be passed down to the next generation. Okinawan Yokai Studies from Kunio Yanagita and Fuyu Iha. Genshichi Shimabukuro's 1929 *Yanbaru no Dozoku* systematically recorded the oral traditions of the Yanbaru region and stands as a pivotal document in the lineage of Okinawan folklore studies pioneered by Kunio Yanagita and Fuyu Iha. Pre-war Okinawan folklore heavily attracted the attention of mainland Japanese academia. As a "unique spirit non-existent on the Japanese mainland," the Kijimuna occupies a critical position in comparative Japanese yokai research. Post-war, local researchers like Tsuneo Sakihara carried the torch, ensuring the spirit's inclusion as a standalone entry in major modern encyclopedias like Kenji Murakami's 2005 *Nihon Yokai Daijiten* (Comprehensive Dictionary of Japanese Yokai). Resurgence in Modern Tourism and Pop Culture. During the community revitalization movements in post-war Okinawa (1970s–90s), the Kijimuna (and Bunagaya) was reconstructed as a powerful symbol of regional identity. Examples include the "Village of the Bunagaya" in Kijoka, the Okinawa Television mascot "Yu-tan," its appearance in Tsuyoshi Takamine's 1989 film *Untamagiru*, and the annual "Kijimuna Festa." Its robust survival in both tourism and modern media is highly exceptional, especially considering how many mainland yokai exist today solely within the pages of old books. As a spirit embodying Okinawa's perspective on nature, sacred trees, and the ethics of coexistence, the Kijimuna remains a living entity in the 21st century.

A standardized profile of the archetypal kijo found across regional tales. She embodies the belief that human passions can ripen into demonic nature, appearing as anything from a beauty to an old woman. By night she lures travelers in mountains or at crossroads, invites them into a lodge or hermitage, then reveals her true form. Many stories end with her being driven off or laid to rest by Buddhist rites, serving as both horror and moral instruction. Depending on locale she may eat humans, target infants, or drink blood, all understood as outcomes of taboo-breaking, suspicion, and obsessive attachment. In Noh, sekkyō, and origin-picture scrolls she is depicted with horns, fangs, and bristling hair, the shock between human guise and oni form being a key dramatic moment.

This version digs into the role the Kiko plays among the four fox ranks: that of a boundary. The fox hierarchy is not merely an order of strength but a single ladder by which the beast draws step by step closer to spirit and to god. The rung on which the Kiko stands is the very seam dividing “the flesh-bodied Yako” from “the form-shedding Kūko and Tenko”. Where the Yako is known for visible mischief — leading travelers astray, taking on a guise to fool them — the Kiko, having already slipped free of its shell, turns its workings further inward: possessing a person, troubling the heart. The view that the fox in tales of possession is no ordinary Yako but a Kiko of deeper attainment is rooted right here. There is one more thing visible in the Kiko: incompleteness. Where the Kūko holds twice its power and goes on to become the Tenko and depart the human world, the Kiko cannot yet cut its ties to people. Swaying between the instinct of the beast and the detachment of a god, deceiving and possessing by turns, it is in a sense a fox still only halfway through its training. If the higher foxes are beings that watch quietly over the world, the Kiko is the one that, nearest of all to humankind, still struggles on.

This version looks at how the Sesshōseki, as a poison stone, has been told of on the noh stage and at sites of worship. In the noh play Sesshōseki, when the traveling priest Gennō approaches the stone on the Nasu Plain, a village woman appears and tells the stone’s origin; in time the stone splits open and the spirit of the fox emerges from within. The spirit repents of the evil deeds of its life, vows to attain buddhahood, saved by the priest’s ritual power, and vanishes. Here the Killing Stone is not merely a stone that kills, but something in which a lost soul dwells, to be quieted through memorial rites. Around the Killing Stone lies a desolate land where no plant grows and sulfurous smoke hangs in the air, called from of old the Sai-no-Kawara, lined with countless Jizō statues that mourn the dead. The Nasu Onsen Shrine stands close by, and at its Goshinka (Sacred Fire) Festival each May, a rite is said to be held in which the shrine’s fire is carried before the stone to quiet the mountain’s fire and the stone’s numinous power. Seen this way, the dread of the Killing Stone is rooted less in a stone that moves of its own will than in the sense of a boundary: “step past here and you lose your life.” The very zone filled with poison fumes was feared as a threshold between the world of the living and the world beyond, and it was believed that calamity reached only those who trespassed that boundary.

This is Kincho, the guardian deity of Yamatoya and the tanuki commander of Hikaino. Originally a highly loyal tanuki saved by Moemon, he strove to bring prosperity to the dye shop in return for his life. He later went to train under Rokuemon, the supreme commander of Shikoku's tanuki, but despite his extraordinary talents being recognized, he incurred Rokuemon's wrath by refusing a marriage proposal. After his friend was murdered, Kincho led the Hikaino tanuki army in the epic three-day "Awa Tanuki War" against Rokuemon. Though he ultimately vanquished his arch-nemesis in a one-on-one duel, he too succumbed to his wounds. Revered in death as Kincho Myojin, his name lives on today as a god of business prosperity and victory.

An interpretive line anchored in Toriyama Sekien’s iconography, organizing the notion of Fudō Myōō’s epiphany at waterfalls as a yokai-encyclopedia entry. The title “Takiryōō” is treated as a pictorial theme, while the entity itself is viewed as a manifestation of Myōō devotion. It appears at waterfall basins across the provinces, subduing demons and malign influences, and is cited in miracle tales told by ascetics and pilgrims. Its virtue and demon-subduing nature take precedence over yokai-style terror, placing it closer to a divine spirit among strange phenomena. Concrete site names and dated incidents are scarce, with accounts drawn mainly from iconographic materials and temple origin narratives.

Based on Baguchu’s early 17th-century Ryukyu Shintoki. Kinmamon possesses dual yin–yang aspects: the descent from the heavens evokes the distant Everworld, while the ascent from the sea bears the character of a sea-borne visiting deity. Its visitations follow set cycles and rites, delivering oracles to the royal court and communities through possession of the highest priestess, the Kikoe-ōgimi. Folklorically, its core rests on the otherworld symbolized by Nirai Kanai, blessings and ordering power from beyond the sea, and the legitimizing authority that upholds priestess rituals. Literature reinforces its guardian nature and imagery of a palace beneath the sea, though details vary by era and many ritual specifics remain unclear. In modern times some reinterpret it as a chief deity, yet broad popular distribution is hard to confirm. Setting aside creative embellishment, four features remain stable: visitation, possession, oracle-giving, and an otherworld across the sea.

Kinrei appears in Edo-period art and commentary as a spiritual notion symbolizing the reward for moral practice, with household prosperity explained as part of a heaven-given order. Rather than a visitor like a tangible kami, it is understood as the auspicious aura born of selflessness and good deeds. Kintama, by contrast, is told across regions as a strange fire or orb-like visitant that brings luck to a home when respectfully enshrined, yet turns ominous if scraped or damaged, a taboo tied to its form. Early chapbooks and ghost collections depict swarms of coin-spirits drifting in the evening sky, or a roaring sphere flying in to enter the honest. Postwar retellings often link it to the rise and fall of household fortunes, but older records stress symbolic meaning and will-o’-wisp tales. Because names and traits overlap among regional traditions, sources differ in how they use “Kinrei” and “Kintama.”

The Silk Tanuki is a yokai born from printed books, a visual conceit that overlays vocabulary from Hachijo silk (Kihachijo) with tales of shape-shifting tanuki. In Sekien’s example, a tanuki draped in silk patterns is paired with a caption that evokes both the name Hachijo and popular lore of trickster tanuki. Independent oral traditions are scarce; later readings add the sound of fulling blocks and cloth-beating gestures, but these remain reinterpretations of the image. Its nature aligns with object-spirits and a mitate-based tsukumogami, more a crystallization of wordplay and design in print culture than a field-reported apparition. It is described as wearing the yellow-striped Kihachijo motif and revealing itself less by appearance than by nocturnal cloth-beating sounds, yet such traits are interpretive and no fixed image is established.

A multiplying apparition said to appear at night on mountain passes and bypaths in Niigata. It takes the form of a small child to lower one’s guard, then hounds its target into striking; each cut doubles its number, forcing flight. Its true nature is unstated—seen as a vengeful spirit or a mountain entity—but folklore stresses that its power fails at dawn or at the cock’s crow. The name “Ichibai” points to its doubling trait, and tales note chicken motifs on sword fittings acting as talismans. Its exact origin is unknown; encounter stories warn against night travel on mountain roads.

This version of Kisaragi Station is a form for reading the station itself as a yokai. Instead of depicting a monster with a physical shape, it combines elements like platforms, tracks, tunnels, in-train announcements, and mobile phone signals to capture the moment everyday space changes slightly into different rules. The otherworld is not in the deep mountains far away. When you think you've slept past one station on your usual way home, the train has already entered an unknown order. The initial terror begins with the breakdown of the sense of time. The distance between stations is too long, the train passes stations it should stop at, the scenery out the window changes to something unfamiliar. At this stage, it can still be explained as "got on the wrong train" or "half asleep." But as explainability is crushed one by one, the reader is placed in the same closed train car as the poster. The message board format plays a major role here. Because a third party is advising but cannot save her, the voice of reason itself is incorporated into part of the anomaly. The hiragana notation of the station name is also important. If written in kanji as "如月駅," it leans toward an elegant place name or month name, but writing it as "きさらぎ駅" (Kisaragi) makes it an inorganic symbol printed on a station nameplate. A softness that even a child can read and a blankness that doesn't belong to any municipality stand simultaneously. According to Asazato Itsuki's organization of modern anomalies, there is a naming power here that pierces memory with just short words, the same as "Red Paper, Blue Paper" in school ghost stories or "Mary-san" in phone ghost stories. If Kisaragi Station were to be connected to the lineage of classical yokai, it would be spiriting away (kamikakushi) and road anomalies. Tengu taking people to the mountains, travelers bewitched by foxes walking in circles in the same place, festival music heard at crossroads. They have all spoken of the moment a road leaves human control. In Kisaragi Station, that road became a railway track. Tracks are originally a modern promise guaranteeing destination and time, but in this ghost story, the very strength of the guarantee flips. You can't go back even if you get off, and you won't reach your destination even if you stay on. The reason there are so many subsequent derivatives is that the stage setting is very easy to expand. Change the station name, change the route, add a smartphone or map app, and another Kisaragi Station is immediately born. As the urban legend theory compiled by ASIOS shows, modern ghost stories circulate by not only preserving fixed original texts but including verification, denial, and reenactment. Kisaragi Station is an anomaly including its circulation format, and even the reader's act of searching becomes an extension of the story. Therefore, the most sincere attitude toward this unmanned station is not to determine a real station. There is an outline that looks like western Shizuoka Prefecture. But the moment you crush the outline into a real station name, the essence of Kisaragi Station is lost. On YOKAI.JP, we treat it as an otherworld originating from a creation, while simultaneously leaving the realistic texture of the railway network. A station not on the map is not scary because it's off the map. It's scary because the more people believe in maps, the more they arrive there. Another point of interest is that advice does not become salvation. The message board residents think rationally and propose realistic means like the police, station staff, family, and confirming the current location. But once she enters the otherworld, all that rationality arrives slightly too late. Kisaragi Station does not deny modern safety devices, but lets them idle while making them look like they're functioning. Therein lies a coldness typical of Heisei internet ghost stories.