Tonight’s story comes from volume five of Mimibukuro, and it is another story about a smallpox-related death. In this case, the victim’s age is not mentioned, although it says he is a young samurai rather than a child. For my painting I decided to paint him as a young man who has come of age, but it could also have been a boy younger than that.

The place where the ghost appears, Shōheibashi, is still around, near the Kanda River in Tokyo. During the time of this ghost story, this area would have been much more overgrown and wild than the bustling metropolitan area it is today, and it would be much more fitting for the spooky atmosphere of a ghost tale.

For this blog, I translated the word for “wandering spirit” in the title into English, because it is one that I haven’t used frequently on this site or on yokai.com, so readers may not be familiar with it. That word is 遊魂 (yūkon), and literally just means wandering spirit.

An Eyewitness Account of a Wandering Spirit

This is a story about a young samurai in the service of the Nakayama family. He was exceptionally bright, and his master was especially fond of him and looked after him with care. However, toward the end of the seventh year of the Kansei era (1795), he contracted smallpox, which was rampant at the time, and died. His master was overcome with grief, and held a lavish funeral for him.

Now, a man who was close friends with Nakayama was passing through Shōheibashi when he suddenly came upon the young samurai. He knew nothing of the boy’s death, so he asked, “Is your master doing well?” The young samurai gave the appropriate greetings, and they parted ways.

However, when the man went to the Nakayama residence and inquired about the young samurai, he was told that the boy had died some time earlier.

The man was astonished and said, “Had I been alone, I might suppose that I had mistaken someone else for him.” But when he asked the servant who had been accompanying him, the servant replied that he remembered the young samurai very well and that there was no mistaking him.

They were both astonished.

Tonight’s story came to Negishi Yasumori from Andō Sōtai, who told him the story a few days back about the mysterious grave with a posthumous Buddhist name already written on it. The theme in both of these stories is similar, so I wonder of he had a particular fondness for this kind of name-related kidan, or if one story happened to job his memory about the other.

The idea of children writing or drawing premonitions of death has become such a trope in Hollywood these days that it can feel stale—but here we can see that this has been a thing for much longer, before Hollywood even existed!

I guess “creepy children” is a universal horror theme that crosses both time and cultures.

A Matter Difficult to Determine as Not Being Supernatural

Among the retainers of Andō Sōtai was a man named Kōemon—I forget his surname. This Kōemon initially had two sons. One of them was, by the age of five or six, exceptionally intelligent, and could read and write and write at a level that was remarkable for a child of his age. This boy died at the age of seven.

Shortly before his death, claiming he had been given a posthumous Buddhist name, he wrote the two characters for “Rōkyū” on several sheets of paper. His parents considered this to be ominous and scolded him, trying to stop him—but he paid them no need and continued to write them.

Since he died shortly after, they sent word to their family temple and made arrangements for the funeral. When the temple assigned the boy a posthumous Buddhist name, however, they bestowed upon him the name Ryōkyū. The family asked the temple priest if he had heard this name from them, the priest replied that he knew not the slightest thing about it.

Everybody sighed in wonder at this strange coincidence, so the story goes.

Tonight’s tale comes from volume four of Mimibukuro and discusses a place called Nitta Daimyōjin, or the tomb of Yoshioki. A Daimyōjin is a powerful god, (dai=great, myōjin=a god who works miracles on earth) and in this case refers to the spirit of Nitta Yoshioka, a samurai of the Nanbokuchō period—a great civil war that took place during the 14th century.

Yoshioka was a great hero, and after his execution his vengeful spirit supposedly hung around and began possessing people. In order to appease his spirit, he was enshrined near his place of death, and that shrine is known as Nitta Daimyōjin. It still stands today, in Ōta Ward, Tokyo.

Negishi attributes this story to “Genzui,” which refers to Akiyama Genzui, aka Akiyama Kakushū, a renowned Edo period physician who was also an acquaintance of Negishi.

I also like how this story ends with Negishi’s very reasonable justification for continuing to maintain shrines like this one!

A Matter in Which It Is Difficult to Say There Was No Divine Curse

This tale was recounted by Genzui.

When he was in his prime, he went out with four or five colleagues to gather herbs. The tomb of Yoshioki, also known as Nitta Daimyōjin, is a place that is now covered in bamboo, and a young novice whom they brought with them began picking herbs there. His colleagues tried to stop the boy, but he paid no attention and continued.

After they returned to their lodging, the novice suddenly began to babble, swearing and shouting things like: “You dare pick the herbs in my domain! How detestable!”

Everyone in the household was greatly alarmed. They returned the herbs to their original place, whereupon the boy returned to normal.

If the wrath of heroes remains frozen and undiminished, perhaps there is reason for future generations to continue revering them as gods?

Tonight’s story is another kidan-style tale with a skeptical title. It’s difficult to say there was no yūrei in this one—because how else do you explain it? And this was not just a rumor that Negishi picked up off the street, it was told to him directly by the man who experienced it.

Smallpox was one of the most deadly and feared diseases around the world before it was eradicated, and this was certainly no different in Edo period Japan. It was generally considered a rite of passage; that is how inevitable it was. You were going to get it at some point, and you would either live or die. People prayed to gods not to escape or avoid infection, but for the disease to pass lightly and without severe long-term effects. Yet plenty of people did die, many of them children, and there are lots of tales about supernatural events related to smallpox.

A Matter in Which It Is Difficult to Say There Was No Yūrei

A certain man named Kurihara, who used to come to my house, lived in Kohinata and regularly visited the home of a nearby hatamoto. He was particularly close to the family and was permitted to go into the inner chambers. The hatamoto had a son who was five years old. The boy was utterly adorable, and Kurihara doted on him and would bring him gifts whenever he visited.

When he had not visited for a while, a message arrived from that residence saying that he should by all means come that evening.

Kurihara entered through the front gate and walked down the hallway. The little boy came out as usual, tugged at Kurihara’s sleeve, and led him toward the back of the house. In the inner chambers, folding screens had been set up and there was a solemn, subdued atmosphere. Thinking that someone might be ill, Kurihara passed through calmly.

Just then, the master of the house came out and told him, “My son whom you adored so much has died of smallpox.”

Kurihara was not merely surprised; he told me himself that he was so scared that the hairs on his body stood on end.

Tonight’s story refers to a Lord Nanryō (南陵) (Nanryō-in being how he was referred to posthumously) of Kii Province, however Mimibukuro writes his name incorrectly. It should be Nanryū (南龍)—this being the Buddhist name of Tokugawa Yorinobu. I decided to leave it uncorrected, and just explain the error here.

The other name, Andō Sōtai, refers to Andō Goemon Koretoshi, another shogunate administrator who was a friend and a colleague of Negishi Yasumori. His name frequently turns up in Mimibukuro. After the Great Fire of An’ei 4 (1775), he aided the victims of the disaster by distributing food and funds. However, this was done without permission, and as a result he was made to commit seppuku in 1782. There is still a small monument to him in Saitama City.

A Matter About Which It Is Difficult to Determine That There Was Not a Past Life

Before the death of Lord Nanryō-in of Kii Province, he left instructions that, should he die, he was to be buried at a place called Okanoyama. This place was said to be near Wakayama Castle.

Upon his death, they began digging a grave at the site; however, after digging down one jō (about 3.03 meters), they discovered a stone burial chamber. Inside of this burial chamber were a bowl and a staff, and nothing else. On the cap of the burial chamber, the two characters for “Nanryō” were clearly inscribed.

Since the posthumous Buddhist name that had been proposed by his family temple before his death was “Nanryō-in,” people at the time marveled at how well everything fit together.

This story is still passed down in Kii Province today, according to Andō Sōtai.

The title of tonight’s tale is similar to last night’s, and I like it very much. It doesn’t say definitively that there was a ghost, or there wasn’t a ghost—just that it is difficult to establish that there was not one. A beautiful example of logical reasoning from over 200 years ago.

This matter-of-fact, skeptical attitude is one of my favorite things about Japanese folklore, and one that appears frequently in Mimibukuro. It seems to be a common feature in stories recorded by samurai who, like Negishi, served in roles related to administration and government. Many of the tales in my most recent book, Echizen-Wakasa Kidan (co-authored with Nagano Eishun), were recorded by samurai in government positions and who treat incidents with a similar level of skepticism. It’s just my guess, but I suspect that taking such tales of ghosts and yokai seriously would have been incompatible with holding an administrative job under the shogunate.

A Matter in Which It Is Difficult to Establish There Was No Yūrei

In the early summer of the second year of the Tenmei era (1782), the daughter of a merchant family living just outside of Atarashibashi in Asakusa had been placed by her parents into a relationship with a man—either another townsperson or perhaps a samurai. She lived in his household as a concubine and she bore him a child.

After the delivery, she fell ill with a blood disorder, and the child was sent to be fostered at a nearby townhouse that was not particularly well-off. The woman never recovered, and before very long she died.

One night, the woman appeared at the gateway of the home where her child was being fostered and bowed her head. The foster family was putting the child to bed at the time, but seeing the woman, they welcomed her and held up the child for her to see.

“Oh my, look how plump and healthy he has grown,” she said, taking the child in her arms and cuddling him.

“It is such a pity to have to leave such a lovely child behind,” she said.

The foster parents grew suspicious and thought to themselves, “We had heard this woman was gravely ill—how strange this is…”

But it was already time to light the lamps, and people’s faces were growing difficult to make out clearly. So they lit a lamp, and when they did, the woman returned the child, said her goodbyes, and left.

The following day, a message arrived from the woman’s family informing them that she had died of her illness the previous night.

A physician named Tawara from the same town came and explained that this was a poignant example of deep affection and lingering attachment, and the difficulty of severing the bond between mother and child.