The Tall Woman (Japan – Hachishakusama)

The tranquil rice fields of the Japanese countryside held a stillness that young Hiro usually found peaceful, but that afternoon, the silence felt heavy, like a held breath. While visiting his grandparents’ remote village, Hiro saw something impossible peeking over the top of a thick hedge.

It was a woman’s hat—a wide-brimmed, white straw hat—moving at a height of nearly eight feet.

As she stepped into the clearing, Hiro’s blood turned to slush. She was impossibly tall, her limbs long and spindly like a starved spider's, dressed in a white sundress that billowed even though there was no wind. She didn't walk so much as glide with a jerky, mechanical gait. Then, the sound reached him. It wasn't a voice; it was a deep, guttural vibration that seemed to come from her very bones:

"Po… po… po… po…"

Terrified, Hiro ran to the house. When he described the "Tall Woman," his grandfather’s tea cup shattered on the floor. His grandmother began to sob, clutching her prayer beads. "Hachishakusama," his grandfather whispered, his face ashen. "She has taken a liking to you. If she 'clips' you, you will not see another sunrise."

The elders moved with frantic speed. They sealed Hiro in a guest room, taping talismans over every crack in the door and window. They placed a bowl of salt in each corner and a bucket in the center. "Do not open this door for anyone," his grandfather warned, his eyes wide with terror. "Not until seven o'clock tomorrow morning. No matter what you hear."

Hiro sat in the center of the room, the flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows. Around midnight, the tapping began.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It was high up—higher than any person could reach. Then, a voice came from behind the door. "Hiro, it’s Grandpa. It’s okay now. The woman is gone. Open the door, son, you must be so scared."

Hiro’s heart leaped with relief. He stood up, his hand reaching for the latch. He wanted the warmth of his grandfather’s hug, the safety of the kitchen. But as his fingers brushed the cold metal, he looked at the salt.

The salt in the bowls was turning black. It was bubbling as if being scorched by an invisible flame.

Hiro froze. He leaned his ear against the wood. From the other side of the door, his grandfather’s voice spoke again, but this time, the pitch shifted. The warm, familiar tone warped into a distorted, mechanical croak:

"Po… po… po… po…"

The door handle began to jiggle violently. The wood groaned as if a massive weight were leaning against it. Hiro backed away, tripping over the bucket, as the "voice" of his grandmother, his mother, and then his own voice began to call to him from the hallway, all ending in that rhythmic, soul-crushing click.

He spent the rest of the night huddled in the corner, eyes clamped shut, as the tapping turned into scratching—the sound of long, jagged fingernails digging into the wood, trying to find a way in.

When the sun finally rose at 7:00 AM, the noise vanished. His grandfather opened the door, looking ten years older. Hiro was rushed into a van with tinted windows, surrounded by six monks chanting protectors. As they sped away from the village, Hiro looked out the window.

Standing in the middle of the road, her white dress stained with the black soot of the burnt salt, was Hachishakusama. She wasn't running, but she was keeping pace with the speeding van, her long, pale hand pressed against the glass next to Hiro’s face. Her mouth wasn't moving, but the sound filled the car, vibrating in his very skull:

"Po… po… po… po…"

Hiro escaped that day, but he never returned to the countryside. Even now, in the safety of the city, he never looks at the top of tall hedges, and he never, ever opens the door after midnight.