Yokai Encyclopedia

*Suiton* is a one-legged yokai unique to the Hiruzen Highlands, based on local folklore recorded in the *Yatsuka-son Shi*. Its name derives from the way it flies in with a "*sui*" and lands on its single leg with a "*ton*". It belongs to the lineage of mind-reading yokai like the *Satori*, reading human hearts to tear apart and devour only the wicked. On the other hand, it has functioned as a moral guardian of the land, protecting the good and keeping the evil away. The anecdote of it fleeing in terror from the sound of bamboo bursting in a fire adds a touch of comedy—showing that despite its powerful mind-reading ability, it is easily frightened by sudden noises. This perfectly illustrates its character as a local yokai that serves as both a warning and a beloved figure. Today, statues of the *Suiton* are erected in various places as a symbol of Hiruzen tourism.

Taiba is recorded as a sudden apparition arriving with wind and blowing sand. It appears from April to July, especially May to June, and travelers were warned on days that shift between sun and cloud. Accounts vary by region regarding the victim horse’s coat and sex: in Mino white horses were targeted, in Enshu chestnut and bay, while old women and mares were said to be spared. Eyewitnesses tell of each mane hair standing on end, a red gleam shining, and when the horse collapses the wind falls still. The Owari and Mino “Giba” is regarded as a personification of Taiba, a small girl who descends from the sky, ensnares a horse, then vanishes with a smile; the chosen horse spins rightward several times and dies. Folk countermeasures include covering the horse’s neck with cloth, fitting deerfly-proof belly guards or bells, and in emergencies letting a little blood from the ear, needling the center of the tailbone, or cutting the air ahead with a sword while reciting the Komyo Mantra. Temples and shrines fostered prayers for quelling horse-plagues, and talismans to horse deities and belly wraps were used as Taiba wards.

A form rooted in the topographic legends of Kitayama Village. A fox is said to possess a person and display uncanny lightness, leaping across sheer cliffs. Variant tales pit it against serpents or yamabushi ascetics, so rivals and techniques differ by account. Anchored to cliff-line marks cited as physical proof, it serves to evoke the village boundary’s numinous authority and taboos. Ritual details and personal names are not preserved, and narratives remain general in outline.

A classic case of tanuki-bayashi reported around Honjo in Edo. The sound layers like flute, drum, and shamisen, seeming to recede as you approach and shifting direction when you turn a corner. It often cuts off abruptly near waterways and moat edges. While common folk sometimes explained it as refraction and echoes caused by wind and terrain, people of the time also took it as the work of tanuki. Counted among the Seven Wonders of Honjo, it was frequently mentioned in sideshows and popular literature, with the names “Baka-bayashi” and “Tanuki-bayashi” used interchangeably. Notably, there are no accompanying sightings of a physical form, making it a sound-only apparition of high record value. Folklore warns that chasing it can leave you lost and wandering into the outskirts by dawn, so one should stop midway and cover the ears.

Tengu-tsubute is told as a formless anomaly whose cause has been variously ascribed to tengu, foxes, or divine intent. Stones fly from all directions though no thrower is seen, impacts and sounds are real yet no stones are found, no marks remain, and the events repeat at set hours. Cases are recorded widely from Kaga, Kanazawa, and Edo in urban quarters to shrine precincts, and some reports note that crowds of onlookers or official patrols led to its quieting. Morally it serves as a warning against misconduct and as an omen of crop failure or illness, and older records link it with thunder as stones cast by Tenjin. Folklore studies connect it conceptually to stone-throwing rites, mass petitions, and indochi stone fights, understanding it as an expression of a supernatural will.

Based on Toriyama Sekien’s “Tesso” motif, it appears as a giant rat draped in robe-like shadows, with red eyes and teeth said to be iron-hard. Its origin lies in the vengeful spirit tale of Raigō tied to disputes over the ordination platform at Onjōji, where rivalry between Enryakuji’s Sannō faction and the Miidera side was cast into story and overlapped with real rat damage to temple sutras and treasures. Names vary by period and source, with “Raigō Nezumi” and “Miidera Nezumi” coexisting. Medieval war tales exaggerate its numbers into a calamity of swarming rats, while from early modern times it links to shrine legends of pacification and blessings. Chronologies in records do not always align and the tale is highly narrative, yet shrine and temple names, linked verse, and oral lore support a core tradition. In some regions, extermination stories feature a great cat of Mount Hiei or guardian deities, reflecting the boundary-conscious rivalry between two religious centers.

A waterside bake-danuki tale tied to the Aoiishise shallows of the Yoshino River in Awa Province. At midnight, when a boat moors, a colossal pipe is offered and an enormous amount of shredded tobacco is demanded. The motif of a shape that begs tobacco, found across Japan, merges here with Awa’s tanuki beliefs, forming a folk pattern in which lack of offerings brings curse or calamity. The quantity is said to reach ten forty-momme bags—impossible to carry—serving as a practical warning against overnight mooring at the rapids. If the pipe is fully packed, it departs without harm, reflecting a folk sense of boundaries, bargains, and payment. Its form is rarely described, often only a giant hand and pipe are perceived. Boats are threatened by sounds and waves, sometimes said to sink, turning fear of careless conduct aboard and the night waters into story. It warns against excessive curiosity and negligence while transmitting the geographic dangers of the shallows.

The Kesa-bō of Igusa is told as a kappa belonging to the local waters, marked by a monkly appearance symbolized by a priest’s kesa stole. Its pranks cause real harm, such as obstructing passage or adding weight, and at times tie into sacrificial notions surrounding the intestines. The listing of neighboring kappa names typifies kappa groups distributed along each water system, accompanied by ideas of mutual visits and marriage ties. The setting centers on the channels near Ochiai Bridge, where nighttime travel was shunned. Later records sometimes confuse it with examples from Miyagi Prefecture, but locally the tradition is firmly fixed under the name Igusa.

A portrayal based on the tale of the Guardian Crane at Morinji Temple in Jōshū. The ever-boiling teakettle symbolizes almsgiving and joy in the Dharma, and sharing tea with monks and visitors is understood as spreading virtue. The guardian is a long-lived tanuki who lives among humans while bound by Buddhist ties. When its true nature is exposed, it leaves the temple, but at parting uses illusion to show scenes of ancient battles and Buddhist rites, teaching people impermanence and the virtue of the Law. Later, this tradition split into two strands: one reshaped into the folktale Bunbuku Chagama with showy acrobatics, and one remaining within the temple’s origin legend. Locally, it is told in connection with the temple’s treasured kettle, influenced by tanuki worship, storytelling, and essays, yet its core reduces to two points: the inexhaustible hot water and the departing wise tanuki.

A recorded marvel revered and feared as the very phenomenon of an ancient chinkapin that shed no leaves. Understood less as a personified will and more as the ambience of the land or the work of a tree spirit, it is told alongside other Honjo Seven Mysteries such as Okehazubori and the Foot-Washing Mansion as an enigma that reveals no cause. Named in Mimibukuro and in local gazetteers and collections of strange tales, it is not remembered for direct harm but for an uncanny presence that keeps people away. It aligns with tree veneration and the notion of household guardian trees, with hyperbole like needing no sweeping of fallen leaves to emphasize the marvel. The identification of the actual tree is debated and unconfirmed.

A classic Edo urban apparition that finds sacred presence in familiar natural anomalies. The single-bladed reed form signals a communal storytelling device that shares unease without fixing a cause. The anomaly is sensed less as a property of the plant than as an atmosphere of place, told alongside night silence and the sound of water. Memorial rites, posted placards, and small shrines are often noted as local pacification practices, and like other Seven Wonders (such as the ginkgo that never sheds its leaves), the tale pointedly withholds rational explanation and leaves the strangeness intact. Later embellishments personify people and incidents, but older accounts remain origin-unknown and phenomenon-focused.

An amalgam of seven-in-a-row ghost tales found across Shikoku. Its core traits are threefold: seven figures advance in single file without a word, they appear at crossroads, on night roads, or at rainy dusk, and an encounter portends misfortune. Names, time of appearance, and garb vary by locale. In Sanuki they look human but are usually invisible, perceptible only through a ritual vantage—peering from beneath a cow’s hindquarters. A subtype limited to crossroads at the dead of night is called Shichi-nin Dōji, and certain once-busy junctions are remembered for their passage. The Shichi-nin Dōshi, who appear in rain wearing straw raincoats and hats, are linked to executed souls; a folk remedy to dispel the gloom after meeting them is to fan oneself with a winnowing basket. In Tokushima, seven child spirits accompanying the Headless Horse are said to have faded after Jizō statues were erected for their repose, reflecting a regional belief that memorial rites quell calamity. Though sometimes conflated with Shichi-nin Misaki, local names and functions differ; Shichi-nin Dōkō are identified by the outward feature of seven spirits marching in a line.

Told as an urban-legend-style ghost tale from Edo’s Honjo district, this curiosity lies in the pairing of objects and institutions rather than vivid supernatural feats. The phenomenon itself is scarcely described; the very adoption of a drum for duty is treated as uncanny. Shaped by the locale, samurai compound regulations, and a city prone to fires, the oddity of sound lingered in memory and became a tale. A variant recounts that striking a wooden clapper produced a drum’s sound, hinting at auditory error or transmission drift. Sources appear in local topographies and essays, and typically lack specific origins or named figures. Later creative retellings add ghosts of fire brigades or watchmen, but older lore is restrained, focusing on the strange pairing of residence and watchtower.

A late Edo period folk belief recounts that households employing a woman from Ikebukuro would suffer a barrage of noisy disturbances: sounds of thrown stones, damaged shutters, flying utensils and lanterns, and small fires flitting into the tatami room. Many versions begin with an affair between the master and a maid, and the phenomena cease once the maid is dismissed. Explanations vary, including obligations to the local tutelary deity, links to Osaki-possession tales from the Chichibu area, or simple human contrivance such as hoaxes and harassment. Rather than a single yokai individual, the term serves as a catch-all for disturbances tied to hiring women from certain locales, with parallel cases recorded for places like Ikejiri, Numabukuro, and Meguro.

Based on records from Horie Village in Awa Province, this version organizes the image of the Itobiki-Musume as a young woman operating a spinning wheel by the roadside. The moment someone looks her way, she transforms into an old crone and bursts into loud laughter. No harm beyond revealing her true form is reported, and she neither touches nor pursues people. Stories most often place her from dusk to midnight in spots where foot traffic thins—village outskirts, field paths, and crossroads. Folklorically she belongs to roadside怪異 tales, told as a warning not to be deceived by looks and not to dawdle off one’s route. The trigger for the change is acts like “staring” or “approaching,” and the silent switch to an old-woman figure is the core of the fright. The spinning wheel is an everyday tool, and her realistic working motions heighten the uncanny shock of a chance encounter. Parallels exist outside the region, but the named example from Awa is the best known.

This version organizes the Saramiyama monster tale preserved around Takagawa in Tosayama Village, Tosa Province. Aside from the aberrant traits of three eyes and eight faces, its appearance is left undescribed, with only the enormity of its remains emphasized. Cast as a mountain demon that attacks passersby, the tale centers on pacifying the mountain and slaying it with fire under the leadership of a local notable. A ritual wand (gohei) is said to have endured amid the blaze, leaving traces in toponyms and legendary sites known as the Pacifying Stone and Pacifying Place. While linked by association to regional stories of multi-headed serpents, it is not directly identified with them, and the true nature of the three-eyed, eight-faced being remains unknown. The story conveys taboos against crossing mountain boundaries and the folk theme of calming with fire and purification, though details such as dates, identities, and specific rites are unclear in tradition.

The Tofu-kozo is a character that embodies the sensibility of the late Edo period, which shifted *yokai* from 'objects of fear' to 'objects of affection and laughter'. While ancient Japanese and Chinese *yokai* were feared in dark tales and picture scrolls, the Tofu-kozo was born from the start as a character in printed entertainment books, intended not to frighten readers but to amuse them. The core of its form lies in the fixed iconography of 'hat, tofu, tray, and stuck-out tongue'. Rather than the invention of a single author, this became standardized as it was repeated and shared across printed books. Its very powerlessness—having no real abilities, causing no harm, and simply standing with tofu—ironically generated strong semiotic power. Visual traits such as the white of the tofu against the red of the maple stamp, and the disproportion between the child's body and the large hat, provided the foundation for its spin-off into toys and kite paintings. The Tofu-kozo is an entity that demonstrated early on that *yokai* could be detached from local beliefs and circulated as urban products and brands, and can be read as a distant archetype of modern mascots (*yuru-chara*) and the character business.

This form brings together traditions from Shima, Izu, and Echizen in which a diver sees another self in the water. Tomokadzuki duplicates the witness's face, clothing, and equipment. Only the end of its headcloth, hanging much too long behind it, gives the double away. It appears when cloud cover or fading light has dimmed the sea, approaches with an abalone or another shellfish, and then leads the diver toward the darker side of the water. Ama passed down several responses: do not let fear disrupt the sequence of movements, do not reach forward for what the apparition offers, and wear towels or garments bearing protective signs. None was considered infallible. Some stories tell of a netlike shroud falling over the diver. Encounters overwhelmingly occur during solitary work, which is why many communities regarded diving in company as the safest defense. Tomokadzuki can be understood as a revenant that draws people beneath the sea, but explanations based on delirium, fatigue, and hallucination after long periods of diving have also circulated for generations. Whatever its nature, Shima ama marked their clothing and headcloths with the pentagram and lattice known together as Seiman–Dōman. In Antō, the related umi-ama is also said to move contrary to expectation, never allowing the witness a clear view. The legend gives visible form to a diver's most dangerous moment: alone, disoriented, and no longer certain whether the figure in the water is a companion or herself.

A version organized from folklore materials of a child-shaped mountain spirit seen in the eastern Tanzawa mountains. Generally harmless, it simply follows quietly behind travelers, yet at times steps ahead at forks to guide them onto the right path. It wears rough straw matting or homespun, sometimes pelts, blending into the forest’s shadow and vanishing when one turns back. It is said to appear most often in the afternoon, and at night to carry a small light like a lantern. Those who meet it repeatedly often think of lost children and leave rice balls, yams, sweets, or dried persimmons on rocks or stumps as offerings. Some accounts say it fades away as one nears the villages, others that it withdraws when called to at night, and none describe it as vengeful. Rooted in overlapping ideas of mountains and the dead, it stands as a symbol of the boundary nature of the mountain realm.

A traditional reading of the Tsurube-bi based on Edo-period ghost tales and Sekien’s imagery. Told across Japan as a tree-born will-o’-wisp, its bluish-white fire-orbs dangle from branch tips and bob up and down like a well bucket’s pulley, misleading travelers. The flame is weaker than it looks and is said not to catch on clothes or vegetation. Early-modern accounts cite fire apparitions around Saiin in Kyoto, and later yokai encyclopedias file it as a will-o’-wisp akin to Tsurube-otoshi or as a separate kind. Sightings are said to peak on moonless or misty nights; when approached it slips away, when left it drifts back. A shadowed face sometimes appears, causing confusion with hitodama, yet it is remembered as a local, earthbound fire spirit.

At dusk on a mountain road, a branch creaks once overhead. You look up, but the canopy has already dissolved into darkness. The moment you begin walking again, laughter rings out and an enormous severed head plunges down with the speed of a well bucket. In this form, Tsurube-otoshi turns the simple act of falling into terror. Two scenes from the traditions of the former Sogabe Village, preserved in *Kuchi Tanba Kōhishū*, are especially important for understanding this image. The presence in the kaya tree at Hōki calls, “Is the night work done? Shall I lower the bucket? Creak, creak,” descending with laughter before climbing back into the tree. From an old pine at Tera, by contrast, a severed head drops and eats people. The detail that it stays away for two or three days after feeding makes it more than a passing illusion. It was imagined as a hungry predator lying in wait along the community's night roads. Placed side by side, the two stories reveal a method of attack. First, a voice or the sound of a branch draws the traveler's attention overhead. Then the thing closes the distance at once from the darkness of the canopy. After the attack, it rises again as though a rope were hauling up a well bucket. The name describes its motion more precisely than its appearance. The everyday movement of a bucket at a familiar well, transferred to an old tree at night, becomes a dreadful question: what is about to fall onto the person below? The giant severed head is not Tsurube-otoshi's only form. Hokuriku traditions also record a being that drops the bucket itself from a tree, one that forces travelers into a riddle-like exchange, and one that carries anyone who touches it into the sky. The head is a forceful image connecting the man-eating traditions of Tanba with modern yokai art, but it cannot stand for every regional account. The form described here brings one strand of the wider tradition into focus: Tsurube-otoshi as a predator hidden in an old tree. Nor can its difference from Tsurube-bi be decided by appearance alone. The early-modern Tsurube-oroshi and Sekien's Tsurube-bi center on uncanny fire descending from a tree. The severed-head form instead centers on voice, sudden descent, and predation. Even so, both inhabit old trees and move up and down like a well bucket. No source shows a flame simply transforming into a face, but the evidence is equally insufficient to call the traditions unrelated. A sounder reading is that a shared older name and motion acquired different bodies in different local narratives. Mizuki Shigeru's 1992 original painting *Tsurube-otoshi* clearly embodies the modern impression of an enormous face appearing in a tree. A giant head communicates danger immediately and makes the instant of descent easy to visualize. It was therefore more readily remembered in manga, encyclopedias, and three-dimensional figures than an invisible voice or an ordinary bucket. Yet returning to the local tales after seeing the face lets us hear what the picture cannot show: a question about finished night work, the creak of a rope, the movement of leaves, and a presence drawing closer from somewhere above. Tsurube-otoshi's true domain is not the giant face alone. It is the instant in which a person cannot help but look up.

A version that preserves only the appearance seen in early modern picture scrolls. Key features are a horse-like face, cloven deer-like hooves, upturned eyeballs, clothing, and a stance with both forelegs braced. No behavior or abilities are recorded. The name is understood as a visual pun on the written word for “baka” (fool), and any allegory remains speculative. Later embellishments are avoided here; description is confined to the iconography.

A cove in southern Sado preserves the story of an old woman who rises from the sea. She appears at dusk, when the weather is breaking and darkness settles over the water. Her skin is pale, and she holds both hands behind her back as though carrying something, but the original account never says what the burden is. People around Shukunegi said that Usuoi-baba appeared only once every two to five years. Seeing her was not thought to bring illness or immediate shipwreck, and no tale has her lure or devour anyone. Modern yokai encyclopedias often place her beside Iso-onna and Nure-onna, but she is better understood as an apparition associated with poor fishing or a sudden change in weather. The name Usuoi-baba is rarely recorded outside this local body of ghost stories and may have belonged to Shukunegi alone.

A reference version reconstructed from 18th–19th century yokai picture scrolls that depict the figure without commentary. Only the massive upper body of a beast is shown, bearing large single hooked claws on each forelimb. Color varies by example from dark green to earth tones, with some renderings appearing amphibian. The name is associated with a word meaning fear and is set alongside Otoroshi in works like Hyakkai Zukan and Gazu Hyakki Yagyo. No behavior, ecology, or moral alignment is recorded, presenting it merely as an eerie presence of the mountains. Concrete folk traditions remain unknown, and later embellishments are excluded for lack of sources.