Traditional Yokai Encyclopedia

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.

Named in the Chūzan Seikan and centered on the sacred Kuntama image that links royal authority with rites, this critical edition presents both the goddess interpretation and the reading of ritual names. It concerns prayers for maritime safety, abundance, and dynastic peace. Rather than fixing a concrete personal deity, it understands the being as manifesting through ritual practice such as possession, oracular revelation, and the prayers and gestures of noro priestesses. Aware of regional variations and early modern conflations with Kinmamon, it prioritizes the symbols of the sea, the sun, and the far-off Nirai Kanai, situating the figure within the Ryukyuan ritual system.

The legend of Kurama-yama Sōjōbō is a subject to be read with careful separation of historical fact from later accretion. The credibility of its setting rests in the history of Kurama-dera. The Kurama-buki-dera engi relates that Ganchō built a hermitage in the first year of Hōki (770) and that Fujiwara no Iseto raised the temple halls in the fifteenth year of Enryaku (796). This ancient sacred mountain holds the valley of Sōjō-ga-tani where Sōjōbō dwells, and was held to be the place of descent of Gohō Maō-son. The firm dramatization of the tale of martial transmission to Ushiwakamaru begins with the Muromachi-period Noh play Kurama Tengu. In its plot the great tengu of Kurama teaches the art of war to Ushiwaka, who, pursued by the Heike, had taken refuge at Kurama-dera; performed as a fifth-category Noh, it unfolded widely into later kabuki and ukiyo-e. Yet this transmission tale does not exist in the older Gikeiki. What the Gikeiki transmits is the tale of Ushiwaka's acquiring the books of strategy (the Rikutō and Sanryaku) treasured by the onmyōji Kiichi Hōgen—no tengu appears. The identification that binds the two, "Kurama Tengu = Kiichi Hōgen," arose in early-modern times. Its source is the jōruri Kiichi Hōgen Sanryaku no Maki (1731, premiered at the Takemoto-za), which has a scene calling Kiichi Hōgen "the tengu who long ago taught swordsmanship to Ushiwaka on Mt. Kurama." Here the Gikeiki's Kiichi Hōgen and the Noh's tengu-transmission tradition were fused into one. Thus the story widely known today—that Ushiwaka learned the art of war from the Kurama tengu—is rightly seen not as deriving from the Gikeiki, but as a layered legend that began with the Muromachi Noh and was bound to Kiichi Hōgen in the Edo jōruri. One further point to note is the relation to Gohō Maō-son. The grand present-day doctrine by which Kurama-dera links it to Sōjōbō is a modern teaching arranged only after the temple became independent of the Tendai school and founded Kurama-kōkyō in Shōwa 24 (1949)—a lineage apart from the medieval Sōjōbō tradition. The Sōjōbō of the medieval tradition was, as one of the forty-eight tengu, a master tengu who imparted the martial arts and the way of the mountains.

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.

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

A version organized from Toriyama Sekien’s anecdotes and imagery, presenting a beast-man figure bearing a symbolic clog (kutsu) to signify an animated implement. In Hyakki Tsurezure Bukuro, paired with the opposing page’s Long Crown, it allegorizes the proverb “Do not put on shoes in a melon patch, nor adjust your crown beneath a plum tree,” depicting caution against suspicion through a yokai image. No concrete sightings or harms are recorded; it is loosely linked to tales of creatures that eat melons in fields, and banishment is mentioned only via talismanic precedents. No firm association with specific Japanese locales is attested, and its design likely references Muromachi-period yokai scrolls featuring beast forms bearing shallow clogs.

Kuzunoha of Shinoda Forest is an entity that transforms a fox's shapeshifting tale into a mother's story. Stories of foxes transforming into human women exist everywhere, but in Kuzunoha's case, seduction or mischief is not placed at the center. The rescued fox becomes a human wife as a repayment of kindness, gives birth to a child, and eventually returns to the forest upon having her identity discovered. While maintaining the ancient mold of an inter-species marriage, this plot connects the spiritual power of a fox and a human lineage into a single tragic family history by connecting it to the birth tale of the famous onmyoji, Abe no Seimei. The stage of the story is the Shinoda Forest. The white fox saved by Yasuna takes the form of Kuzunoha, they become husband and wife, and raise Dojimaru. However, a fox that has entered the human world cannot live in that form forever. When her true identity is exposed, Kuzunoha cannot continue to hold her child as a mother, nor can she discard her return to the forest as a fox; she cannot abandon either. In that torn moment, she leaves a farewell poem written on a sliding door (shoji). While indicating her whereabouts, the poem simultaneously implies that even if he goes there, a complete reunion will not be fulfilled. The forest of Shinoda is a place of homecoming, but at the same time, it becomes a place to pursue the mother lost from the human home. Ashiya Doman Ouchi Kagami turned this tale of a fox mother into a strong memory of the stage. The National Theatre performance script found in the NDL Search indicates that the "Kuzunoha scene" has been treated as subject matter for Kabuki appreciation classes even in modern times. The subtitle "Shinoda-zuma Urami Kuzunoha" in the Meiji-era publication pushes the sorrow of Shinoda's wife to the forefront right from the title stage. While Kuzunoha is often explained as "Seimei's mother," on stage she should rather be seen as a woman who leaves her name and departs, a fox whose true identity is known, an otherworldly being who cannot sever the fact that she is a mother. In iconography, Kuzunoha is remembered by the scene of parting with her child. Ashiya Doman Ouchi Kagami: Abe Yasuna, Kuzunoha, and Yokanpei by Toyohara Kunichika in the Izumi City Digital Archive is registered as an actor print depicting the performance at the Ichimura-za in 1865, conveying that Kuzunoha was firmly established in the visual culture of the stage. What is important here is the tension of the "fox mother in human form" played by the actor, rather than the figure of the fox itself. The audience views the parting as the sorrow of a human mother and child, even while knowing she is a fox. It is the moment when a yokai stands at the center of a human drama, and Kuzunoha's charm lies in this duality. The fox's power acts as inheritance rather than attack in Kuzunoha. The child she bears, Dojimaru, is later spoken of as Abe no Seimei. The explanation that Seimei possesses supernatural talent because he carries the blood of a fox is the logic of legend, not history. However, this logic functions to reconnect the onmyoji's spiritual authority back to the natural and otherworldly realms. Seimei's extraordinary abilities are supported not only by courtly knowledge but also by the power of his mother from the forest. There, Kuzunoha becomes a mediator passing the fox's demonic power to human society. Simultaneously, Kuzunoha restrains the dangerous allure often found in fox legends. While Tamamo-no-Mae and the Nine-Tailed Fox are spoken of as entities that disrupt the court, Kuzunoha does not destroy the home; she departs after establishing it. That is why it is sad. When her true identity is revealed, the story does not proceed in the direction of "exterminating the monster." She is depicted not as an enemy to be vanquished, but as a mother who must return. This distinction makes Kuzunoha uniquely special within the genealogy of fox yokai. The significance of reading Kuzunoha in an encyclopedia is to confirm that yokai are not made solely of terror. She is a fox, a wife, a mother, a famous scene on stage, and a geographic memory in Izumi. The figure returning to the Shinoda Forest is the moment the life that briefly opened between yokai and human closes. What remains there is not the eeriness of a supernatural entity whose true form was exposed, but the very process by which affection crossing boundaries is carved long into the land and performing arts. This figure can be read especially as the "mother who leaves her name" among tales of fox wives. Kuzunoha does not merely depart; she points the way to Shinoda Forest through her poem, carving her origins into her child's memory. In the sense that the mother's disappearance directly becomes the beginning of the Seimei legend, she is never a supporting character in the story, but the very entrance bringing spiritual authority from the Otherworld.

Kuzuryū Ōgami of Mount Togakushi is worshipped as a once-violent being transformed through subjugation into a benevolent water deity. The core medieval account tells how the ascetic Gakumon subdued a nine-headed demon and made it a good dragon. Under the name Kuzuryū Gongen, the deity later became a focus of rainmaking rites performed by shrine attendants and Shugendō practitioners. Tradition says that Kuzuryū likes pears. Worshippers offered the fruit when praying for relief from toothache, and from the early modern period the deity also attracted prayers for relationships and marriage. Images vary with time, presenting a divine figure, a serpent, or a dragon, while the sacred geography remains constant: a sealed rock chamber, springs, and mountain ravines. Kuzuryū symbolizes the safety of local water sources and the stability of farming. Its former violence is not imagined to have vanished without trace, but to be quieted through remembrance and continued ritual. The Togakushi deity need not be confused with the Black and White Dragon traditions of Echizen, even though they share the work of a water god: regulating rain and river levels and protecting the lives that depend upon them.

A form named and illustrated by the Edo-period artist Toriyama Sekien, who depicted white bones in a well as “Kyōkotsu.” The motif shows a skeleton in white garb linked to a bucket rope, rising from the well’s depths, often accompanied by phrases stressing violent grudge. Oral tradition for a proper name is sparse, and the figure likely arose from the linkage of image and words (dialect “kyōkotsu,” the term for bare bones “髑髏/白骨”). Later writers attached explanations such as “bones discarded in a well” or “spirits of the drowned or those who fell,” but primary sources do not fix its nature. Its eeriness as a skeletal image is emphasized, foregrounding symbolism over spiritual rank.

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 closely at Kyūsenbō’s singular standing — less a single yokai than the chief of the whole kappa kind. The kappa is by nature a yokai that changes its name from place to place, told of scattered across the rivers of each region. Among them, Kyūsenbō is drawn as the “head” who governs nine thousand kappa across Kyushu with a single hand. This is unlike the fox’s tenko — a vertical ladder up which a single fox climbs through cultivation. The seat Kyūsenbō holds is a horizontal command over many kappa: in plain terms, the authority of a general over an army. That authority is tested in the contest with Katō Kiyomasa. The single battle handed down by the Honchō Zokugenshi reflects at once the kappa’s strength and its weakness. With nine thousand familiars in hand, he is yet helplessly defeated the moment he faces the monkey the kappa has dreaded since of old. The outcome is settled not by force of arms but by the logic of the natural enemy — and in this the kappa’s true nature is laid plainly bare. What comes after defeat is his turn toward the water-god. The Kyūsenbō who moved to the Chikugo River changed from a man-attacking demon into a guardian against flood. His bond of serving Suitengū at Kurume shows the kappa to be a being that bears both meanings at once — the peril of water and the bounty of water. The monument at the Place of the Kappa’s Arrival in Yatsushiro, the kappa masks of Suitengū, and the kappa clan Hino Ashihei founded in the Shōwa era — the tale of Kyūsenbō lives on still, from an Edo miscellany to the town-building of today, as a thread of memory the people of Kyushu have spun together with the river.

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.

Based on Sekien’s image and caption, the crown is shown as if it stands on its own and walks with proper manners, a satire aimed at minds fixated on authority. A crown should rightly regulate decorum and rank, yet when one refuses to remove it for selfish ends, the vessel is said to curse its master, gain form, and wander. Firsthand accounts are scarce; it appears mostly in paintings and texts as an unspoken warning, paired with Kutsuhō as a lesson in suspect behavior and knowing one’s proper place. Later artists like Yoshitoshi echoed this by adding a crown-spirit to Hyakki Yagyō processions. Among early modern aficionados, it was treated as an example of tsukumogami, in which ceremonial items like crowns and scepters acquire spirits as they age.

A local guardian whose tanuki shapeshifter lore was deified at sites such as the Mahō Shrine in Kari, Sōja City, and the Hinokaminari Shrine and Amatsu Shrine in Kibichūō. The name has no relation to Western magic, with a noted theory of corruption from Marishiten. Some local accounts place its arrival in the late Muromachi period. Worship centers on keeping cattle and horses healthy and on protection from fire and theft. On temple fair days, people would visit leading their cattle and horses, and tales speak of a tanuki’s passage hole and offerings of fried tofu. Hallmarks of tanuki lore appear—shapeshifting, omens, and money glamour that makes leaves seem like gold—yet it ultimately came to be enshrined as the village’s tutelary deity.

Ehon Hyaku Monogatari presents Maikubi as the vengeful heads haunting the sea off Manazuru. Although the warriors have been beheaded, their hatred survives: the three heads keep biting one another and breathe fire from their mouths. The book preserves two explanations for their deaths. One begins with a quarrel and sword fight during a festival; the other says that several men were executed for gambling. In either account, the heads move by themselves, dance over the water, and create whirlpools and ghost lights. Their circling is also tied to the place-name Tomoe-ga-fuchi. Later kibyōshi picture books and yomihon novels reused similar images of three linked heads in flight. As a coastal ghost story, Maikubi preserves fear of the severed head and of the grudge left by private violence, while also warning of the real danger around deep water and rocky shores.

"Mamono" vs. "Majimun": Similar Words, Different Worlds. While the basic overview touched upon the shared etymology with the ancient word "Majimono," this deep dive explores how "Majimun," despite sounding akin to the mainland Japanese "Mamono," operates within an entirely different conceptual framework. The mainland "Mamono" is an abstract concept that absorbed the Buddhist and Onmyōdō notion of "Mara" (demons/impediments to enlightenment). In stark contrast, the Ryukyuan Majimun is rooted in the indigenous, pre-Buddhist animism of the southern islands, holistically encompassing nature spirits, ghosts of the dead, localized spirits, and haunted objects. This reflects the historical trajectory of the Ryukyu Kingdom, which received relatively little influence from the centralized Buddhist cultural sphere, thereby preserving its unique religious ecosystem. The Logic of Genesis: "The Generation of Demonic Force". While the mainland Japanese *Tsukumogami* relies on the generative logic that "a tool left for 100 years will have a soul dwell within it," the Ryukyuan object Majimun operates on a more abstract dynamic theory: "demonic force is generated from old objects." This aligns perfectly with the Ryukyuan religious concept of *Seji* (spiritual power), grounded in a worldview where invisible forces inherent in all things manifest under certain conditions. Following Chōei Kinjō's classification, Majimun can be understood as the "photographic negative of Seji"—spiritual power turned malignant. A Structural Analysis of "Crotch-Crawling". The universal Ryukyuan taboo that "you will die if an animal Majimun crawls between your legs" is structurally fascinating. In the schema of the human body, the crotch is a privileged liminal space acting as a "bottom-to-top passageway." For an otherworldly entity to pass through this space signifies an invasion and a violent forced extraction of the soul. While this parallels mainland Japan's spiritual anxieties regarding boundaries like "bridges, crossroads, and borders," Ryukyu is unique in its emphasis on the boundaries of the physical body. In Ryukyuan belief, the *Mabui* (soul) is not fixed to a specific spot but flows in and out; "crotch-crawling" is positioned as a violent connection that forces this extraction. The Epistemological Trait: "Majimun Have No Fixed Form". Surveying the cases in the *Yokai Database*, the greatest characteristic of the Majimun is its "lack of inherent visual form." It is only named by appending "Majimun" to whatever it has possessed or transformed into (a pig, a rice scoop, an infant). There exists no iconographic representation of "Majimun itself." This stands in sharp contrast to mainland Japanese yokai, which, since Sekien Toriyama's *Gazu Hyakki Yagyo* (The Illustrated Night Parade of a Hundred Demons), moved toward solidifying "visual identity as individual characters." Ryukyu retained the Majimun as an abstract concept of "invisible demonic force" until the very end, making it a uniquely challenging subject in comparative yokai studies. Kinjō, Iha, and Orikuchi: The Lineage of Pre-war Okinawan Studies. In the pre-war era, Majimun research blossomed within the broader context of Okinawan Studies. Sparked by Fuyū Iha's *Ko Ryukyu* (Ancient Ryukyu) in 1911, prominent mainland scholars like Shinobu Orikuchi and Kunio Yanagita frequently visited Okinawa, positioning the southern islands' folklore as a vital comparative mirror to the mainland. Chōei Kinjō's yokai treatises were written amid this academic tide, providing a perspective that read the Majimun not merely as a "bizarre Okinawan oddity," but as a "systematic expression of the Ryukyuan concept of the soul." Post-war scholars like Ken'ichi Tanigawa and Kenji Murakami inherited this mantle, shaping the modern discipline of Ryukyuan yokai studies. Systemic Integration with Shisa and Utaki Faith. The Majimun concept does not operate in isolation; it forms a cohesive system with the entirety of Ryukyuan religious culture. Majimun shoulder the "demonic power," while the *Shisa* (guardian lion statues), *Utaki* (sacred groves), *Yuta* (shamans), and *Nuru* (priestesses) shoulder the "sacred power." The symmetry and mutual necessity of these two sides construct the Ryukyuan cosmic order of the sacred and the profane, the pure and the impure, and this world and the next. To study Majimun is directly tied to studying the entire worldview of Okinawan folklore, possessing a cultural anthropological scope far beyond a single monster encyclopedia entry. Modern Legacy: Folkloric Tourism and Entertainment. In post-war Okinawa (and especially after the reversion to Japan), Majimun legends have been adapted into tourism resources, children's books, and manga. They appear in children's literature like *Okinawa no Majimun-zu!* (Border Ink), in exhibits at the Ocean Expo Park's "Native Okinawan Village," and even in mainland exhibitions like the Hyogo Prefectural Museum of History's 2017 showcase on Ryukyuan Yokai. However, because Majimun are inextricably linked to Okinawan living ethics, boundary consciousness, and views on life and death, their consumption in the context of tourism and entertainment demands a respectful attitude toward their profound cultural depths.

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.

This version looks closely at how the medochi, though merely “a dialect name for the kappa,” carries a face all its own, belonging to the land of Tsugaru. Begin with the name. Medochi derives from mizuchi (蛟), which once meant a water-serpent deity. How it came to be the name of the kappa traces a larger current in waterside belief — a water-god declining over the ages, descending step by step from a revered deity into a dreaded yokai. The name medochi carries that memory of decline down to the present day. In its image, too, the Tsugaru medochi stands apart. Where the Edo artists drew the kappa with a beak and a shell, the people of Tsugaru told of a monkey face and a black body. Around Towada they say the medotsu has a red face; color and form waver from place to place. All that holds constant is the stature of a child, and that eerie pull toward the water. What must not be overlooked in matters of belief is its two-sidedness with Suiko-sama. In Tsugaru, the medochi that drags people under (the demon) and the Suiko-sama that quells it (the water-god) are often spoken of as two faces of one same being. In 1934 Orikuchi Shinobu saw with his own eyes the Suiko image at Nagata, had a copy made of it, and held a river festival at Kokugakuin. The figure of “one Suiko-sama for forty-eight” has no scholarly grounding, yet the sense of rank — the medochi governed by a “chief” — is truly rooted in the water-god belief of Tsugaru. Its weaknesses, and the means of quelling it, all come back to its bond with the river. It dissolves at the touch of a hemp stalk; offer the first cucumber of the season and it takes no one; enshrine Suiko-sama and the deep pool grows calm. The people of Tsugaru lived by the water and feared it too — and the medochi, this kappa, is something like the knot they tied of those days in their hearts.

Based on Toriyama Sekien’s illustration and notes, this version interprets Noh and Sarugaku masks as having accumulated vital aura over long years. The spiritual qi residing in the masks is said to rise at night, slip out from shelves and boxes, line up, and dance. They do not harm people without cause, showing resentment only when treated roughly, a later tsukumogami-like trait, yet at its core the phenomenon is an allegory for the living vitality born from the masks’ refinement. In households that revere the arts, they are enshrined and purified, with words of blessing offered during airing and maintenance to calm their numinous power.

In texts, the Metsuhō Shell appears solely as an image: an enigmatic shell-dwelling creature that emerges around rivers, marshes, and ponds. Eyes peer from the rim of its shell, and a tail-like appendage sways as if propelling it. Its behavior, malice, and omens are not recorded. Late Edo picture scrolls omit explanatory captions, inviting readers to infer origins from its name and form, and set it alongside other water spirits. The term metsuhō evokes a sense of lawlessness or being out of bounds, but no firm source, orthographic variants, or toponymic links are attested. Accordingly, this entry confines itself to minimal notes based on iconographic traits and extant sources.

An Edo-period anecdotal and ghost-story variant in which a giant priest-like figure blocks the night road, chilling the heart of anyone who looks up. In some regions it is treated as a plague-bringing deity that can cause fever or sudden death, and is taboo to step over. Its true nature is left unclear, sometimes taken as a disguise of a shape-shifting animal or a haunted object. Methods of banishment emphasize conduct unshaken by fear, such as calling it out by name, looking down on it, or pretending to measure its height.

In this version, we read Minamoto no Yorimitsu as the "commander of oni extermination who unites the Four Heavenly Kings." What must not be overlooked in the Yorimitsu tales is that he is not a solitary master swordsman, but the center of a team. He bundles the strength of his Four Heavenly Kings—Watanabe no Tsuna, Sakata no Kintoki, Urabe no Suetake, and Usui Sadamitsu—receives divine protection, and uses disguises and poisonous sake to enter the oni's castle. Oni extermination is a story of organization and strategy, not just brute force. In the subjugation of Shuten-doji at Mt. Ooe, Yorimitsu does not assault the oni's castle head-on. Disguised as mountain ascetics, they infiltrate the banquet as traveling practitioners and force the oni to drink sake. This procedure resembles a ritual for human order to penetrate the otherworld. For a samurai to defeat an oni, he needs more than a sword; he must change his appearance, blend into the setting, and use poisonous sake granted by the gods. Yorimitsu's heroism is placed on the boundary between the capital and the mountains. Shuten-doji barricades himself outside the capital at Mt. Ooe, the Tsuchigumo appears inside the capital as illness and grotesquerie, and the Oni of Rashomon stands at the capital's gate. Yorimitsu goes to each boundary and pulls the anomalies back into human stories. Thus, despite not being a yokai himself, he is indispensable for understanding the structure of the yokai world. His relationship with the Four Heavenly Kings further broadens the reading of this version. Watanabe no Tsuna bears the individual valor of severing the oni's arm, while Sakata no Kintoki brings mountain-bred superhuman strength to the human side. Yorimitsu organizes their abilities into a single subjugation story. In placing this collection of martial prowess within the framework of imperial commands and faith, Yorimitsu is not an individual powerhouse, but the political center of anomaly subjugation. In this version, while Yorimitsu protects the capital by defeating oni, he simultaneously preserves the oni's charm as a story. Shuten-doji becomes famous by being slain, and Tsuna and Kintoki are remembered through oni extermination. Yorimitsu's victory does not merely erase anomalies; it fixes them into a form that is passed down. Therein lies the paradox of the exterminating hero in yokai literature. Yorimitsu's nature as a commander is highlighted by the distinct personalities of the Four Heavenly Kings. Precisely because Tsuna's strong sword, Kintoki's immense strength, and the actions of Suetake and Sadamitsu are all different, Yorimitsu appears not merely as a strong man, but as the center uniting disparate powers. Yokai extermination is not an individual sport, but a strategized operation with divided roles. Furthermore, there is a political nature to the Yorimitsu tales. Slaying an oni who abducts princesses is an act of restoring the women and order of the capital, and Yorimitsu, acting under imperial command, behaves as the court's apparatus of violence. The oni is both an enemy from the otherworld and a peripheral force beyond the capital's rule. In this version, Yorimitsu's victory is not reduced to simple poetic justice. The more he slays oni, the more beautifully and strongly the oni's story remains. Extermination is not oblivion, but also preservation. Yorimitsu is a hero who erased yokai, and simultaneously a narrative device that pushed yokai to the center of folklore. Reading Yorimitsu this way reveals that yokai extermination is not just violence, but the editing of stories. Who to bring, which god's help to obtain, in what scene to reveal their true identities. Yorimitsu sits at the center of this editing, rearranging the world of oni into a form humans can narrate.