Pathway to Japanese Literature

Ghost Story

Old Doll Maker

Ōe Randō, the novelist, found himself compelled to write about the doll maker’s workshop.
He consulted Britannica, Americana, and other encyclopedias, but couldn’t find such specific details.

Randō called the Ginza tailor who always made his clothes.
And he asked where they procured the mannequin dolls displayed in the front of the store.

Having obtained the mannequin supplier’s telephone number, he called them.
“This is Ōe Randō, the novelist. I would like to see a doll maker’s workshop.”
“The more bizarre the workshop, the better.”
When he asked if they could introduce him to an eccentric doll maker, the person on the other end laughed creepily—“Eheheheheh.”

“Are you Sensei Ōe Randō, the one who writes those terrifying horror novels?”
“Eheheheheh, in that case, we have just the right old doll maker for you.”
“He’s a master craftsman, but no one has ever entered that atelier.”
“He keeps it secret.”
“But you see, Sensei—if it’s you, he’ll show it to you.”
“Bateren Jijii—that’s the doll maker’s nickname—that Bateren Jijii is quite fond of you.”
“He’s a devoted reader of your novels.”
“He has always said he wishes to meet you just once, Sensei, and hear your stories.”
“If it’s about you, Sensei, he’ll surely be delighted to show you the secret atelier.”

He was an extremely affable employee.

Bateren Jijii’s atelier was said to be in Kyōdō, Setagaya. When he insisted, “Please introduce me to that old man,” the employee replied over the phone, “I will check his availability, so please wait a moment,” then hung up—but a response came shortly after.

“Professor, the other party is delighted.”
“He says that since he’ll have free hands around seven tonight, if you would kindly visit at that time, he’ll be waiting.”
“He asked me to convey his deepest regards to you, Professor.”

Therefore, Ōe Randō decided to visit Bateren Jijii in Kyōdō that evening.

After getting off the train at Kyōdō Station and walking about ten blocks along the instructed path, he came upon a large stone Jizō statue standing at a street corner.
Beyond that lay a forest, and walking along its edge brought him to a district of walled estates with nothing but hedges and fences, here and there interspersed with vacant lots overgrown with grass.
Guided by the dim streetlamp, he finally arrived at the house he sought.
A gate lantern with broken glass illuminated a nameplate that read "Higure Monzō."
This was Bateren Jijii’s real name.

When he passed through the gateless gate, an old wooden Western-style house stood amidst the grass.

He must have heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
The entrance door opened, and a small-statured old man’s silhouette emerged within the crimson light.
The crimson light flickered restlessly.
The old man held the candlestick behind his body and seemed to be staring intently in his direction.

“You must be Professor Ōe Randō?”
“Please, come in.”
“I’ve been expecting you.”

It was an oddly youthful voice, like the chirping of some bird.

“I am Bateren Jijii—the Old Christian Man. How kind of you to come. Now then, please step this way.”

As if about to seize his hand, he opened the corridor door and ushered him into a Western-style room that resembled a study.

The room too had no electric light.
The old man swung a thick-candled candlestick about as if displaying the surroundings, then placed it atop the desk.

The bookshelf stood lined with ancient books of unknowable provenance.
Large reproductions of Leonardo da Vinci’s anatomical diagrams clung densely to the walls.
A crude wooden desk and chairs like those found in village offices—Randō found himself seated at one, while the old man settled opposite him.

This was splendid. This could become ghost story material exactly as it was. Randō glowed with satisfaction. The old man too seemed intensely pleased to have met Randō,

“You’ve come at last.”
“I’ll show you everything.”
“I’ll tell you everything.”
“But first, how about a glass?”
“I have some top-quality cognac here.”

With that, he brought over a strangely shaped liquor bottle and two glasses that had been nestled among the old books on the shelf, then poured the drink.
Randō took the glass and sniffed it; sure enough, it was excellent cognac.
He took a small sip and looked at the old man’s face, whereupon the old man also took a small sip and smirked.

“You wish to know the doll maker’s secret, do you? To write about it in your novel?”

Gradually, his eyes grew accustomed to the candlelight.
The old man appeared to be sixty-five or sixty-six years old.
He wore a baggy black Western-style suit, was thin, and his face was terribly wrinkled.
His eyes were clear.
They were brown.
His face also bore prominent age spots.

“Do you fit sawdust and paper into a mold for mannequin dolls and then coat the outside with vinyl?”

“There are those kinds as well.”
“There are various kinds.”
“However, I don’t make things like show window mannequins.”
“I leave such things to my apprentices.”
“I am a professional doll maker.”
“In my childhood, I even apprenticed under Yasumoto Kamehachi.”
“They are Japanese-style lifelike dolls.”
“I carve them from paulownia wood.”
“I apply white shell powder from above and polish it.”
“I still do this even now, you know.”
“But when it comes down to it, wax dolls are the real thing.”
“It’s like those from Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum in London.”
“I went to London about twenty years ago and saw those dolls.”
“Japanese lifelike dolls made by masters do seem alive, but when it comes to Madame Tussaud’s wax dolls, they’re exactly like real humans.”
“They are alive, you know.”
“If we’re talking about corpse dolls, they’re truly dead, you know.”
“Has Ōe-sensei ever been to London…?”

“I haven’t.”
“However, I know about Madame Tussaud from books.”
“I rather like those wax dolls myself.”
“The skin is so translucent, it’s as if blood is flowing through it, don’t you think?”

“Yes, yes.”
“The blood courses through them.”
“If we’re talking about corpse dolls, their pulses seem to have stopped.”

“So you make wax dolls?”

“Yes.”
“Wax dolls are now my primary focus.”
“Physiological models for medical schools and museums, you understand.”
“Mostly models of diseases.”
“But that’s merely for profit.”
“It can’t be called art.”
“I sustain myself through model dolls while pursuing research into artistic ones.”
“You’re surely aware, Ōe-sensei—the beautiful girl doll in Hoffmann’s *The Sandman*, Miss Olympia?”
“That is my aspiration.”
“You grasp my meaning.”
“A doll that could make young men fall earnestly in love, you see.”

Bateren Jijii was quite knowledgeable.
In Hoffmann’s tale, the young man Nathaniel fell desperately in love with the doll Olympia rather than with any living girl.

“Then, have you read Jerome K. Jerome’s *The Dancing Doll*?”

Randō found himself drawn into discussing Western novels.
Then, the old man grinned and,

“Of course I’ve read it—that’s one of my favorite novels.”
“It’s the story of a master doll maker who creates an iron male doll that never tires, no matter how long it dances with the girls as their partner.”
“I trained because I wanted to become a master like that.”
“That iron doll also came to life and started moving.”
“It kept dancing endlessly while holding a single girl.”
“What a splendid story.”
“When I read such novels, I feel the very raison d’être of a doll maker.”

Since there should be no published translation of Jerome’s *The Dancing Doll*, this old doll maker must have been able to read foreign languages. When he looked again at the old books on the shelf, there was spine lettering that was neither English, French, nor German. Randō was beginning to feel uneasy. The small, wrinkled old man before his eyes came to feel like a figure of unfathomable depths.

“How do you make wax dolls? Do you use molds after all?”

“Sometimes I make prototypes with clay, but there are also cases where I take them directly from actual objects.”

“From actual objects, you mean?”

“You must have seen wax food samples displayed in restaurant show windows.”
“Those are often made by pouring plaster over actual dishes to create molds.”
“I pour wax into them to harden and then apply coloring.”
“The same method applies to humans.”
“It simply requires more plaster.”

“So you apply plaster directly to human skin?”

“Yes.”
“Look here.”
“Here’s a sample.”
“Look, this is my hand.”
“Compare it with the real thing and see for yourself.”

Sure enough, he took out a spread human hand from between the old books on the shelf and placed it on the desk.
It was a severed hand, cut at the wrist.
The old doll maker spread his own hand and placed it side by side with the wax one on the desk.
Each tiny wrinkle and the withered hue of the old man’s hand were reproduced with perfect fidelity.
It was impossible to tell which one was real.

“This was made by applying plaster to my hand to create a female mold.”
“Taking a full-body mold follows the same principle, you know.”

“So, you’ve made full-body dolls taken from real humans before, haven’t you?”

“Of course I have. Just as painters use models, we doll makers use models too.”
“Since they’re submerged in viscous plaster, it’s hardly pleasant for them.”
“When taking facial molds, I insert rubber tubes through their nostrils so they can breathe.”
“Most girls hate it, but some claim to enjoy being encased in plaster—say it feels like an embrace—and volunteer willingly.”

Bateren Jijii opened a toothless mouth and grinned slyly.

“I would very much like to see that atelier.”

“Of course I’ll show you.”
“Well then, let’s finish this drink completely before heading to the atelier. It’s rather chilly tonight, so we should warm ourselves up first.”

With that, the old man took up his glass and gulped it down completely.
Randō followed his lead.
The strong liquor seeped through his stomach, and his body began to grow hot.

The old man took the candlestick from the desk and led the way. At that moment, in the flickering candlelight, the wax wrist lying discarded on the desk seemed to shift slightly. Then, after walking some five meters down the pitch-black corridor, the old man made something clatter—he was trying to unlock the door with a key taken from his pocket.

“I recently quarreled with the electric company, you see, so the lights won’t turn on.”
“It’s rather dim, but do bear with it.”
“Though since I don’t work nights, having no electric lights poses no particular inconvenience to me.”

While he was still making excuses, the door opened, and he thrust the candlestick abruptly toward him, then stared fixedly at Randō’s face for a while.

“You mustn’t be startled.”
“After all, wax dolls are rather unsettling things, you see.”

Having spoken as if issuing a warning, he entered the room.
Despite his age, Randō found himself growing frightened—yet that very fear held an irresistible allure.
He followed timidly after the old man.

Bewitching Beauty

The candlelight crept slowly through the room.
Into that light, the bare floor, lumps of clay, sculpting spatulas, fragments of plaster, and various other debris appeared one after another only to vanish.
And then, the light stopped moving abruptly.
There lay a grotesque object.
It was enormous.

“What is this?”

He felt so unsettled he couldn’t remain silent.

“Take a good look.”
“It’s a corpse.”
“It’s the death throes.”
“It’s the moment of knowing death.”
“It’s my pride and joy.”

It was the ashen body of a man.
The eyes were bloodshot red; the lips were deathly pale.
From the neck down to the chest, black blood had coagulated.
Real hair had been implanted on the head, chest, and thighs as well.

“Was this also made from a mold taken from a real human?”

Randō had to be careful not to let his voice tremble.

"That's correct."
"From a living human."
"It's certainly not from a corpse, you know."

Bateren Jijii chuckled after saying that.

Next were arranged various busts with diseased skin and grotesque partial figures.
They were not so much arranged as scattered about.
Some were so lifelike they looked ready to start moving at any moment.

“Next, there’s something interesting.”
“I’ll put out the candles.”
“Otherwise, the effect won’t come through.”

The flame went out with a puff, wrapping them in black velvet darkness.
Suddenly blinded, he could see nothing at all.

“Go on—stretch out both hands and touch it.”
“To the eye it’s not beautiful in the least, but felt by hand? Unbearably exquisite.”
“A peerless art object of my own devising.”
“That’s why I chose night.”
“That’s why I deliberately invited you after dark.”
“Daylight’s no good for seeing with your hands instead of your eyes.”
“This demands tactile vision.”
“Tactile art—that’s what this is.”

Randō, as instructed, timidly reached out to touch it.
It was cold, smooth skin.

“Stretch your hands out further and try stroking all over it.”

As he gradually stretched out his hands, he realized it resembled a human body.
However, it was not an ordinary human.
It had multiple hands.
It had multiple legs.
Its flesh had countless hills and valleys.

At first, it felt eerie.
It was even unpleasant.
But as he continued stroking it all over, a peculiar sensation began to well up from the depths of his nerves.
It was an uncanny pleasure unlike anything he had ever experienced before.
There, every imaginable beautiful curve had been subtly combined.
The surface felt sleek, with a gentle sense of motion.
His hand slid along naturally, and in that sliding motion lay an abnormal pleasure.
This was beauty that appealed not just to touch but to the very sense of movement itself.

In the darkness, the old man held his breath, attempting to gauge the novelist’s reaction.
Randō’s hands moved across the object—at first leisurely, then gradually accelerating, until finally they crawled over it with terrifying speed.
In ecstasy, oblivious to the passage of time, they crawled over it.

“Wonderful.”
“This is wonderful.”
“I’ve never touched anything so beautiful before.”
“What subtle curves these are!”
“By what principle were these curves derived?...”

From the darkness came the old man’s low chuckle.

“It’s already been thirty minutes since we began.”
“You’ve grown quite fond of it, I see.”
“Come now—let us proceed.”
“There are still more wonders to behold.”

In the darkness, his hand was grasped and pulled from that place.
After four or five steps came the hiss of a struck match, reigniting the candle’s glow.
He whirled around, but the strange curved form had vanished.
Perhaps the old man had prudently draped a cloth over that uncanny creation.

“This is it.”
“It’s inside this one.”

He held the candlestick over a large black box.
It resembled a decorated Western-style coffin.
The exterior’s black color shone like lacquer.

The old man set down the candlestick, then took out a key ring from his pocket again and unlocked the long black box.
And, holding the candlestick aloft, he slowly opened the lid.

The candlelight flickered, and his vision blurred.
Inside the box lay something white and sleek.
When he fully opened the lid, it revealed itself as a beautiful naked woman.

Randō was astonished and took a step back.
He never imagined that wax dolls could possess such terrifying beauty.
Ah, to think this wasn’t a living human but a waxwork—how could such an absurd thing exist?

“Did it please you?”
“A beautiful woman, isn’t she?”
“This one is alive.”

The old man spoke in a low, whispering voice.
As if his words had reached the wax doll, the beautiful eyelids quivered and snapped open.
They were not waxwork—they were real eyes.
They stared fixedly at Randō's face.
Randō's pulse quickened.
He felt a terror that made him want to flee.

They certainly gave him an apt name—Bateren Jijii.
Was he versed in Bateren’s sorcery?

“Hahaha, I thought Mr. Ōe Randō wouldn’t be startled by something like this.”
“You’ve gone quite pale.”
“Hahahaha! I’ve managed to startle the great Ōe Randō himself!”
“Sensei, which do you suppose is scarier—the ghost stories you write, or the ghost stories I’ve invented?”

The old man crumpled his entire face into wrinkles like a folded lantern, spread his toothless mouth to his ears, and was laughing like a demon.

“Is this a wax doll?”
“Is there some kind of mechanical trick involved here?”
“Ah—it’s not just the eyes.”
“The lips are moving.”
“It’s breathing…”

“She’s alive, you see.”
“You fell for my trick, didn’t you?”
“This one breathes true life.”
“No clockwork homunculus here.”
“Lay hands upon her.”

The old man forcibly pulled Randō’s hand and made him touch the skin of the beautiful woman lying in the box.
Her skin was warm and supple.

Then, the doll, as if ticklish, writhed and began to sit up.
At that moment, even the horror novelist felt as though his heart had stopped, but he quickly realized it was merely a childish trick by the old doll maker.
He realized that what had been packed in the box was not a doll but nothing more than a real, living human being.

“That’s a cruel trick.”
“This poor young lady must have been suffocating inside that box.”

While saying this, Randō took the beautiful naked woman’s hand, pulled her up, and helped her out of the box.

"My apologies, my apologies.
I thought this would be the greatest treat for you, the horror novelist.
In truth, this woman is my model."

But strangely enough, this beautiful model girl showed no sign of bashfulness about her naked body.
Without a word, she entered behind the standing screen across the room, and after a while emerged seemingly having slipped a gown over her bare skin.

"Sensei, your heart must still be racing.
At times like these, nothing beats having a drink.
Let's have this girl pour us drinks and enjoy another round over there."

The old doll maker led the way holding a candlestick, followed by the beautiful woman in a gown, with Randō bringing up the rear.

In the previous study, once they each took their seats, the cognac drinking party began anew.
Because his heart was racing, the alcohol took effect quickly, and Randō soon grew tipsy.

The beautiful woman hardly spoke.
Whenever someone spoke to her, she would only respond with a sweet smile, a nod, or a shake of her head.
However, she too drank her cognac in small sips.
Eventually, the rims of her eyes flushed red.

The girl gave the impression of having transformed from a doll into a human, only to revert back to her original doll-like state.
She was far too beautiful for a living human.
Perhaps Hoffmann’s Miss Olympia had possessed such beauty.
If she were alive—no, she must be alive—how had this wrinkled old man come to possess such a beautiful woman? The mystery tormented him.

“What do you call this model girl?”

“She is called Mogami Reiko.”
“I want to use her as a model to create a beautiful doll without the slightest discrepancy.”
“I’m currently evaluating her physical condition, you see.”
“I’ll apply the plaster when she reaches peak condition.”

Reiko blinked with a mechanical snap.
It was an automaton-like blink.
A girl devoid of human qualities, perfectly doll-like.
From her radiated an unearthly, sinister beauty.
Within that inhumanity lay an indescribably intense allure.

“Miss Reiko, don’t you find it frightening to have a doll made in your exact likeness?”

Randō spoke to the girl for the first time.

“No.”

She smiled faintly and answered in a small voice.
It was as though the doll were speaking through some mechanical contrivance.
She sat in a prim posture on the chair, her face fixed straight ahead without moving an inch.

Randō and the old doll maker continued their conversation about dolls for nearly an hour, drinking cognac with this beautiful woman by their side.

“Well then, when you begin working with Miss Reiko as your model, please notify me.”
“I definitely want to see it.”
“You promised me.”

He was terribly drunk, his speech growing slurred.
And then, seen off by the two of them, he went outside—but at that moment, at the entranceway, Reiko’s hand touched Randō’s body.
Reiko’s hand touched him with deliberate intent.

He emerged into the dark town and, while staggering toward the train station, recalled that sensation.
Suddenly realizing what it might mean, he reached into the touched pocket and found a small scrap of paper inside.
He hurried to a streetlight and examined the scrap of paper, which bore the following scribbled words in pencil.

“This old man is evil.”
“Please help me.”
“I will be killed.”

[Author’s Note] This was also published all at once, with Mr. Kakuta Kikuo writing my next continuation and Mr. Yamada Fūtarō writing the resolution.