Pathway to Japanese Literature

“Mr. Maki, please come in here.”

“Good evening—quite the lively affair, isn’t it?”

“While it’s peculiar to speak of liveliness at a ghostly affair, more people gathered than one might expect.”

It was a recent occurrence.
…Since Shirao—one of tonight’s ghost story gathering organizers—was an acquaintance, he had ushered Maki into a separate room while…

“I’ve long been aware,”
“Whenever we devise macabre and eerie motifs for this gathering—as tradition demands—they say injuries or illnesses tend to occur. And entirely too frequently at that.”
“We’ve resolved to abandon all such pranks entirely—laying konjac in hallways, hanging raw daikon arms colored with red oxide, twisting straw wrappings into dangling snakes.”
“However, even just the ladies make up quite a number.”
“Given that a considerable number have come not to hear ghost stories but to see something, we’ve merely put up a signboard in the detached room beyond the garden plantings—just for show and formalities. Though such things are customary in tales of a hundred nights, the actual arrangement involves everyone later going there one by one for commemorative signatures, of course after night deepens…”

—By this time, it was already past eleven o'clock.

When Makishin San alighted from the train—a matter of convenience en route to Ryokuken, this suburban inn-restaurant—the surroundings already lay steeped in silence, despite it being midsummer.

“Of course, it’s not as though they’ll proceed one by one in an orderly fashion.”
“Since things will likely descend into chaos later, why not take a look at the impressive setup now—ha ha ha, though I suppose ‘impressive’ might be overstating it—and perhaps you could offer any warnings or advice you might have.”

“I’ve no particular warnings to offer, but let me take a look.”

“Now, this way please.”

—Two young geishas from Yoshicho—who he would later learn served as regular attendants—had just finished pouring tea and setting down their chopsticks around dinnertime...
When Shirao—the organizer who seemed wholly disconnected from supernatural matters—stood there, “Oh Big brother! Me too!”
“Me too,” they clung to him—but “You women can wait.”
As they tugged at his sleeve while leaving the organizers’ room, Makishin followed.

The gathering had yet to begin.
Guests overflowed from the banquet hall’s main chamber into reception areas and corridors; weaving through this clamorous throng as though evading collisions, they rounded a corner where they glimpsed kitchens thrown into disarray—the entire household mobilized for boxed meal preparations—then navigated another narrowing hallway where clusters of two or three men and women lingered here and there like drifting shadows.
The sweltering heat drove everyone toward breezy verandas.

“Now, this way to the garden—”

“That one?”

This was Makishin’s first time at this ryotei, and it was nighttime. Though he didn’t recognize the type of tree—the establishment’s main attraction—the garden’s thick growth grew dark until dense under the stars, blue under the lantern light, and glossy with white dew. The lamp filtering through deep trunks and branches—dimly steeped in soot-gray—cast shadow-like reflections on the shoji screens, where in the distance could be discerned the lit paper lantern.

Two panels? Four panels? Half-hidden in leaf shadows, it appeared to be the ryotei’s private tea room. The shoji screen stood slightly ajar—a vertical black slit in the gloom—and as susuki grass or reeds swayed, even this gathering seemed to take on hues reminiscent of long hair in motion.

“Mind the geta—it’s rather dim here.”

“Ah, so it was you… from earlier.—”

Right by the veranda sat a man with his hairy calves fully exposed, calling out to Makishin. By his speech alone, one might have taken him for a military veteran or country gentleman—but he was neither. A ruddy-faced Dai Bouzu with a close-cropped head—nearing sixty yet corpulent and reeking of alcohol. He wore what appeared to be coordinated pilgrimage group attire—a conspicuous yukata with a narrow pale-green Hakata obi crisply tied at his waist, two Yodoya-style tobacco cases dangling from it. From his carelessly exposed chest up to the collar hung—with slight exaggeration—rough-hewn prayer beads strung with large red-painted pellets, whether nuts or shells, each the size of an infant’s fist, clattering heavily against one another. In his uprolled sleeve he held what might be mistaken for an iron scepter—though with an unusually thick grip—a wooden staff about one shaku in length, bizarrely carved all around. To speak without reserve, it bore an uncanny resemblance to a phallus.

When Makishin San had come here—there at the station where he'd alighted—he had in fact already encountered this Dai Bouzu once before. Their starting points seemed different, but they had emerged from the same train car—Dai Bouzu lumbering out a step behind with heavy, thudding steps.—Apart from three or four familiar-looking locals who scattered immediately upon alighting, no shadows of others apparently heading toward Ryokuken in the same direction could be seen. It was unexpected. For ghost stories told through the night—this hour being their peak—one might expect laborers to gather in numbers rivaling those at a village festival. There should have been rickshaws lined up—...what a complete miscalculation. Not a single rickshaw was to be found. The front square was also dark.

He had only just exited the ticket gate; without asking anyone for directions and thus unaware of east or west, he stood there hesitating—when Dai Bouzu materialized,

“Ah，you there.”
He tilted back his grimy，conical Panama hat，

“Aren’t those Ryokuken people?—First time here myself.”
“Might’ve backtracked from our train, but we ended up crossing a railroad crossing instead—let’s just push through that way.”
“……Be a damn nuisance asking directions at some half-asleep tobacco shop anyway.”

Makishin San followed.

“Ain’t this supposed to be a monster gathering? So damn clueless.”
“Whether they’re will-o’-the-wisps or white paper lanterns, they should come floating out to greet us.”
“Who d’you think it’d be, you damn fool?”
“Ha ha ha!”

Now in a pleasantly tipsy mood,

“—I’m the vanguard of the Kon Genkyō sect—newly established in Asakusa. …Gonna deliver one helluva sermon later.—See, once I make ’em taste this roar, any will-o’-the-wisps or paper lanterns crawlin’ out’ll scatter like rotted leaves. Rotted leaves, I tell ya.”

Then, with that flaking yet bright vermilion-lacquered—the aforementioned wooden staff—he struck his palm with a resounding thud.

Makishin thought this greasy priest—who claimed to be from Asakusa—must be some smug raconteur descended from the likes of Shidōken of old.

Upon arriving at the venue—the reception desk being part of the same building—he was invited by the organizer who was present and then led to a separate room.

“Yes, earlier... they say there’s a small contrivance set up over there.”

“Hmm, quite the contrivance.”
“It’s a damn sight.”
“Worth a look, I s’pose.”
“’S’all right…”

He landed on the veranda with a heavy thud, flat on his backside.

“The moss—it’s slippery.”
“The straps on these garden clogs are comin’ apart, damn it.”
“Ain’t this dangerous?”
“Well, there ain’t no other damn footwear here.”
“Hmm...”

“Do take care.”

The organizer Shirao attempted to proceed, but he stopped him while stretching out his shins.

“Can’t help but be cautious—if you’re wearin’ that badge, you’re the organizer here, ain’tcha? The big cheese.”
“With a hundred or so people comin’ here—whether they’re goin’ up an’ down the garden or headin’ out to see that damn setup—you all’ve only got three pairs o’ clogs. Two bein’ worn an’ one with broken straps.”
“What kinda damn sense does it make havin’ only three clogs—two wearable an’ one broken?”

“I most sincerely apologize.
However, this is currently simply a private preview.
…After an official unveiling later, we intend to invite everyone to attend.
Yet even then—with five or ten people gathered together—...it may seem a rather childish notion, but there would be neither fright nor amusement to be found.
…I assumed guests would arrive one at a time, or at most two together, so we did not prepare footwear in large numbers.
If you wish to stroll in the garden, please retrieve outdoor footwear…feel free to do so.—”

“Oh my, going one by one? How dreadful.”

As she listened in from among their group, a white-necked woman said this.

“What’s so damn scary about that? Hmph—I’m right here with you.”

Though not part of their circle, the monk rolled up his sleeves and struck his knee with the vermilion-lacquered staff, thrusting himself forward.

“Monk—not another word from you.”

While making his way through the low hedge, Makishin said.
It seems that until hearing that explanation, Makishin too had thought similarly about how few pairs of footwear there were relative to the number of people.

However,

“No, I handled it carelessly, but… I had a sudden realization.
“It was entirely my oversight. …That was woefully inadequate.”
“In any case, given the large number of attendees, I suppose we’ll have to rush to procure some sandals to manage.”

And so, later, the sandals were prepared.
Though it was a night of transformations, specters, ghosts, and lingering grudges, they weren’t fixated on hems or footwear for supernatural reasons—but had there simply been enough sandals at midnight, none of this would have transpired. …Yet with so many gathered in one place.
However, the garden lay damp.
Over seven days had passed since autumn’s arrival, and the night dew hung thickly.…Though foot traffic hadn’t ceased, a light evening shower had fallen in town—while here, they said, it had poured in torrents.
The hollow stretching from the train station was thoroughly drenched, its path sodden.
Moreover, it lay beneath overgrown shrubs.
The sandals clung damply from the moment one slipped them on, growing sodden with each step.
Though conceived as a summer night’s diversion requiring a lengthy excursion lasting until dawn, everyone had dressed accordingly—most wore haori coats and tabi socks.
What’s more, removing those tabi to enter this dormitory-like structure—rumored to hold some eerie contraption—proved more unnerving than stepping into an abandoned house. Thus, none ventured forth casually in sandals; only the exceptionally curious would wait for geta to become available and enter that uncanny space one or two at a time—and therein lay the root of what followed.

Now, on the damp veranda where someone had slid open a shoji door just a crack, there hung an old mosquito net filling the four-and-a-half tatami room—its hem spilling over to catch on the thread-thin sleeve fence.

“...I’d meant to have you pass through on your return, but... well, do take a proper look inside later.”

With these words, Shirao pressed against the mosquito net with a rustling sound, brushed his back high along the wall, and passed through to the next room. [...] Beyond lay a single electric lamp—they had wanted to make this a paper lantern too—dimly lit, with one black washbasin at its center resembling a crouching eggplant-hued cow.
...draped with blue-rusted cotton padding, bore an iron gall ink jar and a feather toothpick laid across it. ...At an angle, a round full-length mirror stood mounted on a framed platform.
The jar had been meticulously filled with iron gall ink, so under the intense heat’s steaming, a musty, putrid stench welled up.

“Though I’m no shrine maiden prattling omens, truth be told, a Chinese-style mirror would have been ideal here—but even if we’d found one, without proper polishing, no face would reflect in it.”
After hearing all sorts of terrifying tales and coming there, he peeks inside.
"...if it reflects like this..."

Drawn by Shirao, who had stretched his neck, Makishin San instinctively pulled back his own neck that he had extended in unison and shrank back.

“I myself intended it to feel unsettling... It being midnight, you see.—When signing at that window-side desk, I deliberately placed it askew so your attention would be drawn here.”
“—There is a ledger.”
“Since we haven’t employed crude methods like the reverse binding seen in funeral memorandums, if you wish, perhaps an initial brushstroke...”

“No, perhaps later.”

With that, Makishin San stood up and peered.
The small shoji panel of the round window had come off, and within the bamboo thicket outside, a murky pale-blue shadow pulsed with viscous light in heart-shaped ripples, its scaly form seeming to melt as it throbbed.

“It’s a prop.”

“Konjac.”

“No—raw squid.”

The stifling heat intensified—fishy and warm—as a pungent stench came wafting through.
The inky blackness tangled into something unspeakable.
...and then something was regurgitated.
——

In the alcove hung a ghostly beauty by Ōkyo—one he recognized from reproductions—similarly copied and displayed.
This was a painting accompanied by a legend stating that Ōkyo had encountered a girl—abducted from Kyoto in her youth to Nagasaki's pleasure quarters—at her deathbed from consumption, sketching her pitiable visage exactly as it appeared.
Her face—with its long, beautiful eyes, thick lashes, and gentle roundness—bore none of the emaciated frailty typical of casually depicted ghosts.
Though somewhat haggard, she bore not a single blemish as fine as hare’s down. Her disheveled black hair cascaded over her shoulders, parted by the white of deutzia flowers as she gazed forlornly enraptured. Despite the voluminous knot of her obi sash, the delicate frailty of her skin became all the more apparent, while the area around her breasts swelled with a soft luster.
Depicted large as a half-body portrait, it abruptly faded into the scroll’s empty space with nothing beneath.

Incense sticks stood in the burner, and on the floor lay a single short sword.

“It’s meant as a charm against evil，everyone.”
“…Now，into the mosquito net.”
“…Later，I intend to install sliding doors to partition it off.”

Immediately upon passing through the threshold, the sight alone was refreshingly cool—a sheer chirimen silk patterned with autumn grasses, bellflower blues floating on dew and goldenrod shadows cast by maidenflowers, draped softly over a white sheet laid out pliantly.
A pink pillow lay plump and alluring, yet against this whiteness stood a single memorial tablet—only faintly legible as "Shaku Tamaka"—which had been made to pillow a visage laid bare.
Arranged upon the head, cascading over the characters flowed black hair, three locks of false hair artfully blended in.
Whether someone had prepared it anew, I cannot say—but drawn by the aura of black hair, woman's oil had already begun oozing into the pristine pillow paper.

“I took great pains with that lantern.”
“For one thing, funds are being expended.”

He said with a laugh,

“Please observe its antiquity—the sootiness and rat’s nest-like tattering of its state."
"...it was borrowed directly from the stage props used in Yotsuya Kaidan."
"In Asakusa, you see."
“The actors’ crew transported it, but you couldn’t possibly take this thing on the city tram or national railway.”
“We had to use rickshaws all the way.”

“If automobiles prove too extravagant for certain items—and trains would feel rather improper—then rickshaws it is.…”

Abruptly lost in thought, Makishin San muttered absently.

"I also—last year, that is—had occasion to carry a memorial tablet on a long journey…"

“Well, you carried the memorial tablet…”

Shifting his gaze from the old lantern, he looked at Maki’s face and the pillow.
He looked,
“Oh, the memorial tablet is pure white.”
With that, Juku and Shirao pressed their eyes close, tilting their heads so comically their cheeks rubbed as they sniffed,

“It’s face powder—seems someone smeared it on as a prank.”
“Don’t be absurd… Look—it’s light makeup.”
“Given how this looks—perhaps someone applied rouge where it says ‘Shinnyo…’ here.”

“Hmm, does this memorial tablet belong to a woman?”

The questioning voice grew vaguely distant.
And so... regarding both the pillow's hue and the bedchamber's appearance—these elements that should have maintained consistency—it was because he had been listening with distracted inattention.

“Of course—we arranged to have one brought from a nearby cemetery to this house, but from the start, we specifically requested a woman’s.”

Even without this added provocation, he peered at Makishin San’s gloom-clouded face—oppressed by the demonic lantern’s glow, the vengeful spirit’s light, and the mosquito net’s hue—

“Though I must clarify—we ordered one that was disconnected... and moreover either naturally split, broken, or damaged.—I examined it myself, you see—this memorial tablet appears thoroughly weathered by rain and dew, having been snapped clean in half.…”

“And you confirmed it was a woman’s?”

“Certainly—(Shinnyo—) though it was rather weathered.—Is something the matter, you…?”

“No.”

With that, he spoke somewhat more clearly,

“It’s nothing… It’s just that on our way here, there was a railroad crossing."
…From the train station to here, the path was pitch dark.
"At that railroad crossing ahead, there was an ice shop still open—only a single dim water lantern lit, its noren curtain left hanging with no one present."
"Under the eaves lay a large white-and-brown spotted dog, motionless."
“I was traveling with that Dai Bouzu, though.”
"...Given his usual manner, that brute shamelessly bellowed at the shop entrance and asked directions from a woman with a sleep-thickened voice."
"—Just as we set out, the sleeping dog lumbered up and shambled ahead—I detest such things—('The mutt's guiding us! Behold the great reverend's power!') That’s what the monk boasted."
"At a railroad crossing rising thickly like a dry riverbed amidst grass, built high with embankments—there, that ill-bred spotted creature suddenly arched its spine and leapt wildly."
"It had something in its mouth, gnawing frantically as it thrashed."
"Because it blocked our crossing—'Damn beast! Damn beast!'—when he roared, it turned sluggish and slipped into overgrown grass."
What it had carried lay behind.—(Thinking it might be treasure—what’s this? A broken memorial tablet.) The monk picked it up once, then threw it—Ah, had he hidden it in grass—but since he hurled it yonder instead, the spotted dog darted out, snatched it, and bolted beyond the crossing.
...had already vanished beyond the ice shop’s light.
(Just some memorial tablet.
...Feeding bones to dogs—what enlightenment!
He’ll lecture again.
But unseen—along that Yomi-like shadowed path where the dog carried the broken tablet—its carcass now seemed half-human.
No Three Realms chart—the sort from hell paintings.
A spotted four-legged thing with a human face.

Among them, the woman's aspect had a particularly strange quality. "(Rokurokubi may be virgins, but those in the Beast Realm tend to be smooth-faced middle-aged women with plucked eyebrows—their sins laid bare.)... I came along keeping silent with this unpleasant feeling, pretending not to hear—but since they mentioned this memorial tablet being broken too... somehow... I can't help feeling it might be that same half from the railroad crossing."

“Ghost stories, ghost stories!”

The organizer cheerfully clapped his hands lightly,

“Let’s by all means have that story in the main hall of the venue. With a touch of serpentine embellishment here—if we frame it from the torso upward, so to speak, with the railroad crossing’s tail end—it becomes quite authentic. Say, Mr. Maki.”

The memorial tablet was blue. The mosquito net quivered nervously.

“Certainly not.”

“Well, in exchange, backstage there are countless mundane matters—ordinary things that happen all the time. First off, this memorial tablet itself—they bundled it with coarse branches and dead leaves, stuffed behind the family temple's memorial hall. The young attendants said they pulled it out by targeting the ‘Shinnyo’ part. The broken ones, the bent ones—they’re scattered everywhere.”

Makishin San remained silent as though about to be drawn in, but—

“Only ‘Shaku Tama—’ remains visible, while the rest hides within the Tomoshibi collar as though cradling white carnations—but do you happen to know what follows?”

“...I saw... below is... Ka—.—(Shaku Tamaka Shinnyo).”
“Certainly... What is it? Shall we uncover one part to show you?”

Makishin San pressed his hand down firmly, restraining it.

“In those puzzle tales too, there were stories about them adding rouge to the character for ‘woman’ and such.”
“The memorial tablet isn’t wrapped.”
“A woman’s nakedness is much the same.”

The organizer was a man well-versed in worldly affairs and of sound understanding.

“Ah, how fortunate you restrained yourself.”
“I shall absolutely not uncover this futon.”
“But... is there something troubling you?”

“Well, no.”

“But even so—”

“There’s one with a posthumous name somewhat similar to it.”

“No—that’s…
“Then please do not concern yourself—I must advise against doing so.
“In our sect, posthumous names often repeat. … Particularly for women—though it may be improper to mention in such company—in fact, both my wife’s mother and grandmother share the same posthumous names.
“What was that monk in such a hurry about? Moreover, that... well, it’s right there in Shikitei Sanba’s Ukiyodoko.
“Yuzu the greengrocer (Shaku En’ō Shinnyo)—it doesn’t even escalate into an argument, just becomes a nuisance.”

It was a hollow-sounding laughter, but the two laughed together.

“Now then, shall we proceed there if we’re all resolved?”

“I’ll give you the full account in due course.”

“Ah—did something emerge from the mosquito net?”

Makishin San shuddered.
But he could see nothing.

“...Something like a small shadow figure.”

“It must be our shadows.”

As they stood on either side of the paper lantern, their gazes inadvertently swept across their surroundings.

“Mr. Maki.”

“Ah,”

“You’ve likely never heard traditional tooth-blackening dye simmering."
“Our eras may differ, but what is that—j-j-j…”

“Could it be insects…? It must be the oil boiling.”

The organizer strained his ears, but—
“No, the paper lantern’s flame isn’t moving.”
“Hmm... Could that be the sound of someone applying tooth-blackening dye?”

“…”

“We don’t know that either—ah, that lapping sound… What could it be?”

“Ah.”

“That’s it.”

They spoke in near unison.
In the center of the next six-tatami room, a fluttering black shadow—as if surging up from an ear-shaped basin—traversed up and down the tooth-blackening dye jar two or three times.
It was a black dragonfly.
The dragonfly floated up unsteadily at that moment, then drifted toward the mosquito net as if drawn in. Passing weightlessly through, it cast a reflection on the memorial tablet, staining the surface fleetingly with white powder that resembled lips before vanishing through the bamboo-framed round window like a trailing thread.

The ghostly hanging scrolls were lined up in straight rows.
From where these two stood flanking the paper lantern, they remained unseen.
Yet there lingered a charged atmosphere - as if some pale visage had shifted in the dark.

“This requires careful consideration—after consulting with the initiators and organizers, I believe it might be best not to tell anyone about what happened at the detached pavilion and to restrict access.”

While retracing his steps through the plantings, Shirao said somberly, sinking beneath the leaves.

“The hall has darkened... The gathering has already begun.”
“Do take care.”
“……Oh… It’s glowing……”

“Heat lightning.”

“No—dangling limply from the tree branches like a woman’s breasts—loathsomely pale, and there, by your head too.”

“Yes.”

“When that area darkens, they say lights begin flickering on and off—a testament to this house’s culinary ingenuity. As expected, they’ve hung plenty of raw squid.”

The original engawa.
Then the corridor was bright.
But swallowed into the hall's darkness, there was no one.
Trailing hems and shoulders—intermingled with women—pressed into the corridor with only their backs visible.

In front of the kitchen, stacked boxed lunches stood piled high against the doors. As the organizer passed by, a burly man in a workman's coat emerged from the shadows, rising from his stool.

“Mr. Shirao.
What do you make of this shape—stacked boxed lunches looking like some grand coffin?”

he said with a triumphant look.
The organizer could only manage a wry smile.

At this moment, there came scattered, muffled applause from just five or six people. Given the gathering's peculiar nature, they seemed to have held back out of consideration. Yet this occurred precisely as a certain popular actor representing the initiators had just concluded delivering the opening remarks.

Makishin and Shirao, the organizer, stopped mid-stride to peer inside from behind the crowd. The hall's spacious room—formed by combining ten-tatami and eight-tatami spaces with encircling verandas into a large serpentine "巳" shape through removed sliding doors—resembled a lotus pond layered with leaves across its expanse, their white undersides faintly shimmered like yukata in the dark night. Round fans and folding fans fluttered intermittently visible, while even the dimly lit faces of those seated along the corridor blurred into indistinct haze—when suddenly, like a headless mud turtle surfacing through murk, Dai Bouzu's bald pate emerged ominously at the center.

“Got it, got it.—Right then, just like the initiator said, I’m countin’ on you lot to spin your yarns.”
“...Specters, shape-shifters, fox tricks, otter imps, oni demons, tengu goblins, hellspawn—phantom flames, corpse-lights, every manner of creepy glowin’ shit—living spirits, dead spirits, ghosts, grudges—don’t matter what crawls out.”
“Line ’em up and make ’em show themselves right here!”
“Now that I—the Great Vanguard of the Kon Genkyou sect—got my vermilion staff at the ready, I’ll purge ’em where they stand without liftin’ a damn finger!”
“Depending on what slithers up, might even grant ’em salvation n’ Buddhahood.”
“...But cross the wrong sorta spirit? Things’ll get messy.”

He struck the tobacco tray with a bang.

“Women and children, don’t make a racket! No matter what crawls out, keep your cool and act unruffled! Now that I’ve taken this stance, not even stinkin’ maggoty vermin’ll dare show their faces! Don’t piss yourselves! Hah—no pissing allowed! That’s the Kon Genkyou sect’s Denden-sawa decree!”

“Excuse me...”

“It’s the Great Vanguard’s Denden-sawa!”

“Excuse me, Reverend.”

The actor composed himself neatly.

“I cannot say whether this meets your fancy or not, but this gathering’s purpose is not to exorcise specters or lay ghosts to rest.”
“Rather, we should embrace the mysterious and fearsome—prepared to be intimidated by what intimidates, cursed by what curses, resented by what resents… Though this may not be how things ought to be done—whether it be rokurokubi, mikoshi nyūdō, or umibōzu.”

Someone spoke up in a hushed, chilling whisper.

“Since we wish to welcome whatever manifests here, I must ask that you exercise both ascetic and dharmic power with care.”

This time, the crowd applauded.
There was no doubt everyone found this monk’s face detestable.

“Half understood.—Well then, start!…Come on, bring out whatever you’ve got—it’s a showdown with whatever monsters appear!”

With a loud, resounding crash, he struck the tobacco tray with his wooden staff once more.

With the bearing of one ready to mediate should any conflict arise, Shirao parted through the crowd and took his seat.

It seemed to be a seaside location—judging by how the story was told.
——(A student on summer retreat, alone at the base of sand dunes late at night, had shifted his gaze from watching waves to contemplating stars in the vast sky—when suddenly the trailing hems of two women passing smoothly along the shore drew his attention back toward the sea.
On a moonless dark night, their skin glowing white through sheer silk robes, one with a Shimada-style chignon and another with casual pinned-up hair passed by—the first pressing a pale green round fan, the second a silver-ground folding fan against chest and sleeve.……Waves gently clung to hems of garments as shore sands imprinted plover-patterned footprints trailing away.
Ahead, a boat had been pulled up on the shore.
The two women came to stand precisely where the boat’s midsection lay.
But with the hull riding high, the gunwale appeared to slice through where it curved.)

A single storyteller seated in position spoke thus.
......It was past two o'clock when Makishin joined the gathering and heard this tale.
——After parting with Shirao earlier, a stifling gloom had settled over him, weighing on his heart. He returned alone to the organizer's room thinking he might lie down briefly if possible, but the crowd made this impractical.
That young geisha was no longer there.
In any case, both acquaintances and strangers alike seemed to have moved to the hall, leaving only unfamiliar faces among those remaining.
Though people addressed him familiarly, he couldn't fully lower his guard—yet felt somewhat relieved—though remaining seated had grown wearisome.
Given there were charming people present, he shouldn’t overstay his welcome.
When someone suggested he show his face elsewhere awhile, self-consciousness overtook him; without actively moving forward, he found himself pressed along the corridor to the ghost story gathering.
With the crowd overflowing, securing a spot near the edge proved manageable.
He settled into a position just a knee's distance from the veranda edge; hushed "ohs" rippled through the ongoing tale, but he took comfort in having acquaintances before and behind him.
It was then he heard it.
......He couldn't grasp the preceding narrative thread.
(——Perhaps as the two shore women cut through the bow, white waves came crashing in.
They would likely circle to the stern.
As the student watched them tread through dune-connected grass—the momentarily paused women burst into hohoho laughter—then sliced the boat's hull cleanly from gunwale, their checkered sashes remaining visible and wave-patterned hems undisturbed as they passed beyond.)——

It was precisely at this moment.

To the side of where he sat along the edge, if he turned around they would face diagonally; remaining as he was, they lined up behind him—a group of four or five women with sashes and sleeves, some among them languid from the sweltering heat and press of bodies.
From among them came a woman who—head slightly bowed—turned toward San with a face faintly glowing through its translucent sheen, her garments rustling subtly as she faced him directly.

“You.”

“…………”

“Mr. Maki.”

“Ah,”

she had said, but her figure remained wedged like parted flower petals between another woman’s back and shoulders, knees and chest concealed from view.
The faint outline of Akashi’s willow-slender shoulders lingered at the edge of sight.

“You’ve come in quite well tonight.”

“Hah.”

The ghost story session was already underway.
The very presence of voices meant the words stayed hushed.
Yet at this juncture too, whispers foamed up here and there like bubbles—with so little need for restraint now, they rose clearly audible.
But whose voices these were remained uncertain.
No one could pinpoint their source.

“Excuse me, but… who are you? It’s dark here.”

“The darkness is preferable. It’s rather embarrassing… You see, I’ve been meaning to express my heartfelt gratitude for your generous gratuity.”

“……Excuse me, but really, it’s nothing……”

“Well, um, I am well aware of it...”

(——Then, the two women passed through the boat—passed through it completely—and only then, with those indescribable expressions, turned to face the student and smiled faintly. In the direction of the village, dogs howled in the distance, and the Ox Hour bell tolled.……)

“How dreadful. Oh, dogs are simply dreadful indeed.”

Her voice grew even lower.
But more than her entrancingly gentle face—face—face, it was the clean line of her hairline and the luster of her hair that stood out.

“That monk is dreadful too.”

“Where are you?
Now...”

“Oh, look—dragonflies are flying.”

This voice must have been heard.
The women’s faces flickered in disarray, their eyes and hair fluttering like black feathers.
Flutter flutter flutter flutter.

The woman who had spoken to San became lost among the riot of sleeves, the scattering flutter of perfume, and the lingering musk of tomeoki incense.

The story seemed to have reached just such a scene.

In any case, those who had been listening intently released their collective tension, shoulders relaxing, and their sweat-drenched bodies all stirred as if a dead wind had passed through them.

“Is someone weeping here? Is someone weeping here? ... It seems to be a lady.”

It was the voice of Shirao, the organizer.

“It seems someone is weeping—is there someone feeling unwell?”

Weeping... someone’s weeping... whispered voices rose in hushed murmurs, then abruptly ceased, leaving utter silence.

“A mistake, was it?—You’re quite alright then?…… Then—would someone else please continue the tale?”

One of the storytellers was glimpsed like a shadow pulling on the thin haori he had removed, then stood and returned to his designated seat.

Once more, between the woman’s shoulder and chest diagonally to Makishin San’s right, the beautiful face appeared.

“It’s me. I’m weeping.”

The wet stray hairs clinging to the cheek looked chillingly cold.

“…………”

“The monk is detestable… detestable… I…”

“The monk—where’s he now?”

Unconsciously raising his knee and stifling his voice, he drew close to the woman and asked—or so it seemed—

“Huh? The monk?...”

The one who turned around and responded—a jade bead resting near her brow—was the geisha he had seen earlier in the organizer’s room.
――For there were four or five of them.
Among them, the countenance that had seemed present moments before bore no resemblance even to smoke.

“Excuse me.”

Feeling awkward, he retreated in a slinking manner.
His mind chafed; his chest stirred restlessly...

“What happened to the monk?”

What had happened?
The monk—the monk—
From those nearby—familiar faces—Makishin San carelessly made his inquiries. ... “Well now, where did he go?” he asked.
They said he had been seen around there just now.
……There were also those who had no connection whatsoever.
The monk—the monk?—they said he had interrupted repeatedly and annoyingly.
Though they had heard about trouble arising from the gathering’s side, upon obtaining a lead, they groped their way through the crowd until finally spotting Shirao. When whispered inquiries were made, the three of them managed to lead him aside and negotiate calmly, somehow quieting the disturbance—but that bulbous head planted upside-down like an eight-radish was nowhere to be seen now, they observed as Makishin San scanned through the attendees.
Of course, to avoid disturbing the storyteller, even the organizers moved about discreetly—hushed whispers pressed to ears, cheeks leaning close—searching here and there for the monk, the monk—though for Makishin San, had that monk been present here, his mind would have found some measure of relief—but he was nowhere to be found.

The monk—the monk—ah, I realized I had spewed that detestable monk from my mouth, scattering him throughout the hall. To listening ears and conversing mouths, even this breath must surely have reeked—and indeed, my own breath now stank foul. When nausea surged through me and I groped for my garden sandals as though retching into the shoe cupboard, there at the veranda entrance where I had earlier been led to the detached pavilion—alone—I spotted what resembled a burning decayed squid among the trees, cold sweat drenching my neck and sides before I collapsed utterly.

In short, the beautiful woman was the shadow of the memorial tablet.
If he wasn’t visible in his seat, it was because he feared the monk—the monk—might have invaded the detached pavilion and disturbed the mosquito net.

“Please listen.
...This may be tedious, but I beg you to listen.—I am a Western-style painter—though truly just a house painter...”

Makishin San, accompanying the memorial tablet in the bedchamber, spoke while barely able to touch his own rolled-up trouser legs at the same bedside.
The moment I entered this sukiya, what struck me was Dai Bouzu transferring the old paper lantern's flame to his silver-wrapped pipe. Puffing away, he'd apparently sucked up grease—clicking his tongue—then unabashedly spat ptui ptui onto the mosquito net.
Ah, if he were to proceed in that manner... As I lifted the mosquito net to enter, the monk clomped up without so much as a backward glance.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m demonstrating my ascetic power!”

Then he said solemnly with feigned humility—

“I have an important teacher,”
“Though he passed away young, he was a person of great renown in the world.”
“That grave is in Aoyama.”
“Last year after that earthquake disaster—once things had settled enough regarding both fire and water—I went immediately to check on the stone monument.”
“…Just another landslide it was—grand lanterns shattered everywhere, stone torii gates broken into three pieces and flung about. Damned shame—the monument had fallen face-down from its pedestal onto the neighboring grave, forming a bridge-like mess. I begged the management office to fix it posthaste, but their response might as well have been a stick up the nose—‘We’ll have it upright by sundown if you grease our palms! A proper consultation?’ they said. ‘Next year? The year after? Can’t promise squat—graves ain’t priority! Who knows how many can’t even get shelter from rain? Even the nobility haven’t fixed theirs!’ Pathetic excuses that stuck in my craw.”
“…From my disciples who hadn’t been scattered by the quake, I gathered four or five men. We readied levers, hemp ropes, shovels, cement—some in shirts and trousers, others in yukatas with work sashes—charged out like a proper work crew.”
“But with folks meddling, we only got as far as preparations—none of us knew how to actually raise the damn monument with shovels or cement.”
“From a florist near the cemetery—anyhow, saying we just needed supervision—we begged one stonemason foreman who was busy elsewhere.”
“When this mason caught our spirit—not just advising but rolling up his sleeves—we all heaved together to shift it from the neighbor’s plot to before our teacher’s grave. Just as we were raising the foundation stone a level, someone said ‘Chip that monument and we’re screwed!’ Quick as you please, the mason snaps it clean in half and slaps down a memorial tablet—not from next door, mind you,”
“but one plot over.”
“Course we knew we’d pulled out the fallen one…but…this here’s that very tablet.”
“The posthumous name belongs to a lady.”

he said, slightly out of breath, wiping his sweat with a handkerchief.

“We figured it must’ve belonged to the dead, so while my pals weren’t looking, we put it back where we found it, propped it up proper, paid our respects, and left it at that for the day.—But it gnawed at me… Let it slide all the way till December, but when I went grave-visiting then, asked around at a teahouse and learned which family temple owned that tablet.”
“That temple’s far off… Though ‘far’… direction’s different… but turns out it’s right here in these parts.”

“Fiction my ass!” he sneered.
Dai Bouzu glared sharply at him.

“No—this is absolutely no fabrication.
“At the gravesite, the broken one still remained as it was—unlike others—and given those circumstances, since I found it detestable to let dogs or cats defile it, I had it brought all the way by rickshaw to the family temple. After explaining the situation to the priest, I offered a small monetary token for the old memorial tablet while presenting a new one, entrusted it to the temple, and left—this occurred during the season of short days.”
“After nightfall, I offered this replacement—the new one—at the grave in Aoyama—(Shaku Tamaka Shinnyo.)—The donor is Mr. Kotama—I’ll never forget it.”
“…Since I swear there exists such a connection, I beg you—by my sake—please do not torment this memorial tablet.”

“Torment.”
“—What do you mean by ‘torment’?”

“I overstepped.
“I beg you—refrain from touching it.”

“Touch it? I won’t just touch it—I’ll take it to bed! What does it matter—Tamaka, Kotama—they’re all just dead women in the end. Don’t you worry. That ain’t the woman—but even if it were, I don’t give a damn. I’ll provide salvation and set her spirit to rest. Look, these days—it ain’t like I’m completely in the dark—if someone told me not to touch something like this, well, they wouldn’t even need to ask… But guess what? I ain’t like other people. If the Great Leader of the Kon Genkyou sect slept hugging a memorial tablet under some broken lantern in the Hundred Tales detached cottage, they’d inscribe it in his chronicle as proof of ascetic power and spiritual might—undaunted by terror, unflinching before the uncanny. First off, ain’t this thing the main attraction?”

“That’s why I’m begging you on my hands and knees.”

“Ain’t been asked.”
“I ain’t like other people.”
“If this were just about lust—thinkin’ I’d bought some cheap thrills—I might’ve endured one night. But mine’s doctrine—doctrine!”
“Who’d ever agree to be told to change sects?”
“Even them old Kirishitan believers never changed faith, even when they got killed for it.”

“Think of her as my relative.”

“No way.”

“Think of her as my older sister.”
“...Think of her as my younger sister.”

“No way!”

“Then what’d you do if it was your wife?”

He bristled with irritation but remained unfazed.

“Still gonna take her to bed.”

“Monk—you’re drunk.”

“What’s it to ya?… Got so damn irritated I went drinkin’ in the kitchen—gulped down masu after masu of sake. So what?”
“Not usin’ event funds.”
“Two-three masu ain’t enough to knock this ascetic down—sober as Buddha here, see?… But powder on Tamaka’s ghostly mug plus that ratty wig—fuck if that don’t get me goin’.”
“There ya go, sweetcheeks.”

“Won’t you quit this?”

Suppressing his voice, he poked at the wig with his vermilion-lacquered wooden staff,

“White powder and jade—just a bit—reflected bluish-white in the mosquito net, with disheveled hair around the cheeks.”
“Jade and powder—”
“This thing ain’t here—and I can’t stand it.”
“Ain’t a single one in tonight’s crowd who’s this much of a catch.”

Like a giant spider crawling forth, he writhed with great strides and slithered down, entangled in the roots of autumn grass.

“Bastard!”

Without room to dodge—taking a sideways blow from the monk’s staff—Makishin San snatched the memorial tablet in one swift motion and kicked at the mosquito net.—There proved no harm in letting it escape toward the garden.

No small shield in sight, with the full-length mirror beside him, he lost himself in shielding Tamaka from the pursuing monk—tearing off one sleeve of his kimono to wrap around her and cover Shinnyo.

"You bastard!"

The monk loomed abruptly before his eyes.

Even in such a moment—thinking that rather than the unsightliness of a torn sleeve…—Makishin San swiftly stripped it off over his entire skin.
The strange sight reflected in the mirror—I have no memory of my skin ever being this white and smooth.
Before his eyes, his breasts swelled into smooth fullness, and his face—now transformed in hue—became that of a woman entirely.

This skin, these arms—against that corrugated iron—were struck fiercely two, three times. While being struck, he gazed intently at the face of the woman in the full-length mirror—a face that could have been his own—and even distinctly saw droplets from her disheveled hair dripping into water. Ah, the vermilion-lacquered wooden staff tormented the white skin as it emitted the stench of rotting squid, and with each strike assaulted his nose.

“How dare you!”

His hand flew toward the dagger.

The author... was in fact one of the initiators of this gathering.
I make no claims to speak out but will not partake in debates concerning the private affairs of the memorial tablet.

Makishin sustained an injury to his arm bone.
The Kon Genkyou sect leader lost the fingers of the hand gripping the wooden staff.
Though Makishin was not killed，there was said to have been an intention to sever one of his hands.

The two were still at the hospital.

The injuries did not end with just this.

As a group from Yoshicho—eight or nine people including the organizer—returned in the pale light of dawn after circling the park surrounding this large pond, they noticed across the water the roofline of a hall resembling the Dragon Palace in the misty sky above quiet morning waves; there, on this shore separated by water, slightly down the bank, lay a fallen beast.
The reed plumes swayed faintly in the fields, bowing like the slender waning moon.
The surrounding ground held not a speck of dust—in this place as if swept clean—the beast lay dead.

As they approached, it was a dog with white patches.
From its limply hanging tongue, they thought black blood—no, a black snake—had been spat out and cried out, but it was actually a swarm of inky-black dragonflies clustered around its jawline, aligned straight along the small grasses with wings at rest.

But this wasn’t all.
After lingering around that pond and crossing a bridge to a sluice gate—its long horizontal beam half-submerged—where the water flowing over it showed clear through to the bottom, ah, there again slid a great black serpent-like shape in one slick streak.
Changing hues while scattering across the footbridge crowded with people, floating through low-clinging morning mist, were countless black-winged dragonflies—so numerous they defied counting—all swathed softly in that mist, each bearing the same metallic sheen.

Those who had touched it.
Merely laying eyes on it was enough to make the women burst into an uproar.

The memorial tablet—after the organizer and initiators inquired with Mr. Maki about its origin—received a token memorial service at what was called Ryōenji Temple.
All her relatives had moved to distant lands.
Alas, it is said that the owner of the memorial tablet, due to certain circumstances, had thrown herself into this great pond.

As for the location, you may generally consider it to be a place akin to Inokashira.

(From 『女性』 (Women) magazine, October 1924 [Taishō 13])