Yokai Encyclopedia

This version consolidates images of the Ipetam found across Ainu traditions. The blade rings of its own accord and shows hunger by the act described as “eating” stone or leather. Once drawn it will not rest until it sees blood, and tales say it may fly on its own to cut people. Its curse threatens households and kotan, inviting disaster beyond the owner’s will, so it is contained through rites and taboos or by sinking it in water. In Asahikawa and Kamikawa, after casting it into a bottomless bog, a rock in the shape of a sword is said to appear, tying requiem to place names and landscape origins. In Saru, a wit tale survives in which imitating the sword’s sound repels bandits, showing its fearsome name worked as a deterrent. In Kiritoi, Kushiro, an alias tale engraves taboo violation and harm into the sword’s very name, marking it as a remembered calamity object. Related types include the man-eating spear Ipe-op and the self-defense knife Sōsamusipe, suggesting a systematic view of baleful blades and weapons. This reconstruction avoids creative embellishment and adheres to regional records of the cursed sword.

Drawing on the Konjaku Monogatari-shū, later scholarship calls it “Ita-oni” (Board Ogre). The entity is either a board itself or a phenomenon dwelling in a board, taking a plank-like form that juts from roof beams or lattices. Its motive and will are unstated, but its core act is crushing sleepers to death. In Heian court and aristocratic residences, night watch and gate duty were crucial, and tales of the uncanny often served to reinforce discipline. Here too, it bypasses two armed men and strikes a defenseless sleeping place, embodying the ethic that negligence invites death. While it aligns with the idea of spirits inhabiting objects, it lacks tales of aging into autonomy or growth, and is told as a transient manifestation of a specific board appearing to suit the scene. There are no records of pursuit or capture, and it appears and vanishes swiftly without leaving traces.

Based on Edo-period records and regional folktales. An aged char trout appears in the guise of a Buddhist monk and speaks to anglers. It often urges moderation, citing the temple’s domain or the pool’s lord, and departs quietly if given alms. Later it may be caught as a great char, where rice or rice cakes given as alms are found in its belly, revealing its identity. The motif reflects reverence for river and pool guardians and ideas akin to eel and other water deities. Depending on region, it appears as a harmless, didactic type, a warning type bearing deadly poison, or a salvific type that sacrifices itself to stop a levee breach, yet all embody folk norms that safeguard the boundary between waters and livelihoods.

Even among early modern ghost fire tales, the Jiosenbi is a rare example where "who, where, and why" are told in concrete detail. The victim is not a nameless monster, but a peddler selling a real-life sweet called Jiosen, and the scene is the Hizagashira Pine at Izuminawate near the Tokaido's Minakuchi post town—a large tree whose location people could identify. The conditions for the fire's occurrence are also restricted to "rainy nights." It is thought that the experience of seeing will-o'-the-wisps or fox fires on humid nights became intertwined with memories of murders along the highway, solidifying into a single ghost story. The fire as a symbol of obsession with money connects to the lineage of grudge tales born from the monetary economy of early modern cities. As an apparition rooted in the land of Minakuchi, Koka District, it holds value in being passed down alongside other local entities like the Katawa-guruma and Koka Saburo.

Uminyobōzu here is envisioned as the vengeful dead of drowning tied to the Izu Seven Islands’ January 24 taboo day. Origins cite grudges against island officials and group deaths of youths lost in storms. Spirits were feared to arrive from off shore riding a basin, bringing calamity to those who behold them. Households covered their gates with baskets, set holly and cleyera in shutters, and strictly avoided going out. On the following day some burned the cleyera, divining crop prospects by the sound and swelling. Practices vary: at Izutsu on Izu Ōshima the spirit is honored as “Hii-sama,” with a shrine cult and a designated household keeping vigil by the shore. On Kōzushima a solemn nocturnal reception by shrine priests is kept, blending vengeful ghost and visiting deity aspects. On Miyakejima dishes or earthenware are offered at doorways, and small children are put to bed early. Across these, the institutionalized taboo protects the boundary between sea and community, and slighting or breaking it is warned to bring anomalies and ill fortune. Southern areas note few related traditions, showing an uneven distribution.

Rooted in the Treasure Compendium account and given concrete form in the Otogizōshi Tamura tales, this type portrays the yokai as a shape-shifting brigand haunting the strategic pass at Narazaka, preying on travelers and tribute. The monk guise, gigantic body, and golden sling-stones became fixed traits. The golden stones are ranked as Tarō, Jirō, and Saburō, each escalating in power and boasted to shatter mountains and armor. The usual slayer is Inase Gorō Sakanoue no Toshimune, who leads troops, blunts the stones with traps and quick wits, and relentlessly pursues the creature with secret whistling arrows. The tale ends in surrender and execution, restoring safety to a key route. It is understood as a specter embodying the dangers and brigandage of local slopes and passes, emphasizing metallic gleam and the terror of flying stones.

This is an interpretation of the one-eyed, one-legged paper umbrella monster, typified by post-Edo period kusazoushi (illustrated entertainment books) and performing arts. In this version, Karakasa-kozou is not a terrifying vengeful spirit that takes human lives, but exhibits an extremely comical and mischievous nature, lurking in the dark to surprise passersby and enjoying their reactions. Although its iconographic roots trace back to the Muromachi period's *Hyakki Yagyo Emaki*, the widely recognized form of "the umbrella handle becoming one leg, with a single eye and long tongue sticking out from the umbrella's fabric" is the result of repetitive production in late Edo "monster playing cards," sideshows, and kabuki trick props. Lined up with visually impactful yokai like the Rokurokubi and Mitsume-kozou, it became a staple star of "toy prints" for children due to the amusement of its design. It appears in alleyways and under eaves at night, hopping on one leg while rustling its frame, causing visual and onomatopoeic strange phenomena, such as licking human faces with its long tongue, but it causes no essential harm. Because it lacks region-specific legends, its haunts and activities are freely adapted depending on the medium, which ironically made it easy to adapt to modern movies and animation. In a sense, it is the ultimate form of Edo townspeople culture completely deodorizing the primal fear of "tsukumogami"—the idea that old objects possess souls—into a "character (toy)" and sublimating it into entertainment.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A curated version of a mountain anomaly told among matagi hunters in northern Akita, framed within hunting rites and taboos. It looks like a dormouse or tiny field mouse, round, small, and quick. When it faces a person, it suddenly swells and unleashes a single blast like a gunshot. In many accounts it bursts apart, scattering flesh and viscera, while other tellings say it only bounces about and booms without exploding. Either way, an encounter is a dire sign of the mountain god’s anger or warning, and hunts were to be halted after a sighting. To continue was feared to bring empty bags, bad weather, or avalanches. To avert the curse one should descend the mountain and purify oneself at home by chanting “Namu Aburaunken Sowaka.” As for origins, one tale says seven matagi of the Kodama school were punished and became Kodamanezumi, while another reads the legend as a taboo memory arising from digging up hibernating dormice. Dates and sources are uncertain, with most accounts preserved orally.

A compiled variant portraying the ogre-general aspect of Kanekira Shika within Tamuramaro-style oni-slaying tales along the Kumanonada coast. He is said to have ruled from the ogres’ sea-eroded cavern known as the Demon’s Rock Dwelling, commanding a band of oni to disrupt maritime routes. In the clash with Tamuramaro, he feared Kannon’s protection, tightened his wards, and barred the stone door to endure a siege. Entranced by the dance led by a child avatar of Senju Kannon, he peered through the doorway and was fatally shot in the left eye. After his defeat, the head was buried in a ravine and ritually pacified. Local lore sometimes names him the pirate chief Tagamaru, with traces preserved in temple-shrine origin tales and toponyms such as Mamigashima, Tomari Kannon (Seimizu-dera), Ōma Shrine, and Onimoto. Historicity is uncertain; some see memories of suppressing revolts or local powers in Kumano later recast into Tamuramaro legend, yet all survive as narrative tradition.

The figure of the kugutsu performer is distilled in accounts of a perpetual wanderer who appears at shrine fronts and market squares with the seasons and festivals, showcasing many arts such as puppet play, comic turns, sword dances, and sumo. Old records note mastery of archery and horsemanship, juggling two swords, manipulating seven balls, and astonishing onlookers by making wooden figures dance. Female performers, known as kugutsume, excelled in song and dance and were linked to ideas of purification. In later eras they were tied to temple and shrine guild quarters, joined troupes praising Ebisu and puppet guilds, and are regarded as forerunners of sarugaku, kagura, and puppet theater. Some received patronage from court and samurai, contributing to the transmission of songs and narrative arts. As a yokai, they are told of as liminal wanderers who appear suddenly at village borders or before shrines, offer their art, leave lucky coins or a patter of words, and vanish. Folklorically they are noted in relation to outcaste status, guild systems, and ritual entertainment, understood—without embellishment—as mediators whose itinerant arts bridge the human world and the otherworld.

The name Kuro-bōzu has long served as a catch-all for regionally varied apparitions. In Edo-Tokyo it was recorded as a bedroom prowler that drew close to women’s mouths to sip their sleeping breath, leaving a fishy odor before departing. Sightings are vague and it is sometimes classed with faceless ghosts. In the Kii Kumano region, meeting it in the mountains causes its height to shoot up, and the more one pursues it the larger it grows before fleeing at great speed. Near the Osada River in Kaga, it appears as a black mass outlined only by its silhouette and escapes into water when struck with a staff, a behavior some locals attribute to an otter spirit. Across Japan the term also substitutes for giants like Ōnyūdō or sea spirits like Umibōzu, sharing one or more traits of black coloration, monk-like appearance, sudden elongation, and affinity with watersides. None of these types show sustained habitation, and reports of appearances typically cease in time.

Based on Sekien’s design, it is portrayed as a frayed Buddhist scroll that unrolls by itself, its ends moving like limbs. It sidles up without a sound and quivers in response to chanting. If someone desecrates a venerable sutra—tearing it, trampling it—then late at night the rustle of paper and faint sutra-recitation are said to echo, while characters from the scripture drift within lamplight. Conversely, if the sutra is purified and properly stored, it settles down and remains harmless, even dusting the study. This figure stands at the crossroads of early modern book-veneration and tsukumogami belief. Its association with the bird-headed figure in the Night Parade scrolls is understood through the beak’s symbolism as a bearer of words and spell-power, though exact locales and names are unknown beyond scattered sources.

This version looks a little more closely at what kind of being the Kūko actually is. In the Edo-period ranking of foxes, only the lowest, the Yako, was thought to possess a visible body of flesh; from the Kiko upward, foxes were believed to become formless spiritual beings. Because the Kūko ranks just below the Tenko, its shape as an ordinary beast has lost almost all meaning, and it manifests instead as a presence or an influence. By its very nature it differs from the Yako, which stands before people’s eyes to deceive them. A high-ranking fox is closer to one that protects and guides than to one that harms. Overlapping with the lineage of white foxes regarded as messengers of Inari, the Kūko and Tenko were revered in the world of belief as wise foxes that serve the gods. The reason the Kūko so rarely causes any concrete incident is not weakness but that it has long since outgrown the stage of meddling with people out of vanity. Even so, because it wields immense supernatural power, it was thought that to slight it might invite calamity. Gentle toward those who revere it, showing a glimpse of its power only before the arrogant, the Kūko has been spoken of as a mature fox that knows exactly the right distance to keep from human beings.

A stall-based apparition type rumored in the town quarters of Edo’s Honjo. It does not attack directly but carries a taboo-like dread in which misfortune befalls those who touch it after a delay. Two variants are told side by side: one where the lantern stays extinguished, and one where the oil never runs out and the flame keeps burning. Both are marked by lights that stray from the ordinary. The absence of a stall keeper echoes empty-mansion ghost tales; though often explained as a tanuki trick, local lore commonly avoids naming a definite identity. It appears near watersides at night when foot traffic thins, drawing no customers and inspiring fear simply by existing. Records appear in local folktale collections and oral traditions, with details varying by storyteller.

Maki-onna is a demon-woman figure found in temple chronicles and local histories around Ishinomaki, paired with the ogre Ōtakemaru of Mt. Nōgatake. While the slaying tales center on Ōtakemaru, she appears as his consort and later becomes an object of memorial rites and pacification. In the legend where General Tamura subdues various demons with a Kannon image attributed to Enchin and installs Kannon statues on each mountain, Makiyama preserves a tale of dedicating Maki-onna’s cut hair. Place-name and temple-name origin lore (Magiyama to Makiyama) and the transfer of Kannon images are recounted as religious history. Her concrete figure remains understated, yet she stands as a symbol of mountain dread fused with Kannon devotion. Anecdotes with strong fictional color are avoided, and some sources omit her entirely, showing the range of the tradition.

Based on types recorded around Kumano and Mount Kuanashi, this yokai takes the form of a young woman, asks for a light from a lantern, then steals it and slips into the dark to drain the victim’s flesh or vital essence. In encounter tales, brandishing strong flame from a matchcord or fire striker drives it off, and bullets engraved with Buddhist names expose its true form as a skeletal fiend—mountain taboos and carry-on wisdom are emphasized. Although later images show it slipping indoors to steal vitality while nestled close, this version centers on wilderness meetings and warnings for night travel, noting that lanterns, live embers, and recitation of Buddhist names function like protective charms. It avoids conflation with foreign lore and follows Kii oral traditions and records.