【Japanese Horror 】The Hundred Horror Tales — Episode 8: The Night-Crying Fox | Haunted Kaidan Tales
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Episode 8 – “The Shrine of the Weeping Fox” (Full Text)
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The Hundred Horror Tales –Episode 8: The Shrine of the Weeping Fox
— Ssshh… One of the candles flickered out.
In the silence of the tatami room, only the faint chorus of night insects could be heard.
As the flame dimmed, the air seemed to grow colder.
Seikichi raised his teacup, took a slow sip, and exhaled—a quiet signal that the next tale was about to begin.
“…This here’s a story I often heard from my grandmother when I was a boy,”
he began in his calm, measured tone.
“Long ago, at the northern edge of our village, there stood a small shrine.
It was said to be dedicated to the Fox Spirit—known to the locals as the Shrine of the Night-Crying Fox.”
Sōma furrowed his brow slightly.
“The… Night-Crying Fox?”
“Aye. The old tale goes that if a child cried endlessly at night, the parents could pray there—and the crying would stop right away.
My grandmother said many neighbors relied on that place back then.”
With a nostalgic smile, Seikichi went on, his voice softening.
“But there were rules. You had to visit only at the Hour of the Horse—noon.
After making your wish, you must never look back on your way home.
And one more thing—offer two pieces of fried tofu. Never forget that.”
Aoi tilted her head.
“Why two?”
“That,” Seikichi said quietly, “was said to be for parent and child.
The Fox Spirit had a child of its own, you see.”
A brief hush fell over the room.
“They say that fox had once been a pet, raised by humans.
But one day, while trying to protect its own cub, it was caught in a trap and died.
Since then, its spirit has dwelled in that shrine, watching over crying children.
That’s where the name Night-Crying Fox came from.”
His voice traced the memory like an old, worn path.
“But… at some point, people began to whisper that the shrine had turned cursed.
Instead of easing a child’s cries, it started bringing fevers and sleepless nights.”
Sōma leaned forward slightly.
“So… something once benevolent changed—because of what?”
Seikichi nodded slowly.
“My grandmother said… it was because the Fox Spirit’s own child was taken away.”
He set his teacup down, the sound dull against the tatami.
“And this—this is what she heard herself.
About a family who once prayed at that shrine…
and how, from that very night, everything began to change.”
No one pressed him to go on.
In the dim, wavering light, the legend began to feel less like a tale—
and more like a memory someone had tried to forget.
“…This is something my grandmother herself went through when she was young,”
Seikichi began, his voice calm and deliberate.
“There was a family who lived near her—parents and their little girl, no more than ten.
Her name was Chiyo. She often helped my grandmother out in the fields.”
“One day, that girl started crying every night,” he continued.
“She’d wake up screaming, saying someone was calling her name in her dreams.
During the day she was fine—cheerful even—but as soon as night fell, she’d cry again.”
Aoi’s eyes widened.
“Wait… kids that old can still cry like babies?”
“Aye,” Seikichi nodded. “In the old days, folks used to say that when a child’s spirit weakens, something comes to call them away.
So my grandmother, worried for her, was told by an old woman in the village to go pray at the Fox Shrine.”
Sōma murmured, “That was a time when belief was still woven into daily life, huh?”
“Aye, that it was,” Seikichi said. “The girl’s parents were desperate.
So they went—my grandmother went with them.
It was the end of summer, hot and heavy with the scent of rice fields.”
“The shrine stood where the fields met the woods.
The roof was moss-covered, the posts leaning, but the small offering stand—where people placed fried tofu—was spotless, as if someone still tended it.”
“At exactly noon—the Hour of the Horse—they placed two pieces of tofu, made their wish, and left.
That was the rule. No one must look back.
They did everything right… or so they thought.”
Seikichi’s tone lowered, his next words slow and heavy.
“But on the way home… the girl, Chiyo, turned around.”
Aoi gasped.
“She looked back?”
Miwa quietly reached over, resting a hand on the child’s shoulder.
Seikichi went on.
“Children can’t help their curiosity, you see.
She said she felt someone walking behind her—just for a moment.
So she glanced back, just once.”
He paused.
“That should’ve been all. But that night, the crying started again.
Even worse this time—as if she was trying to tell someone something.”
“She began saying, ‘There’s someone crying outside.’
But the adults heard nothing. They told her it was the wind, or just a bad dream.”
The candle flame quivered faintly.
“At first, no one believed her,” Seikichi said quietly.
“They thought Chiyo was just frightened—seeing things that weren’t there.”
He spoke slowly, each word deliberate.
“But on the third night, her father said he heard it too.
A crying sound—coming from the front door.
He slid it open, just a little… and saw it.”
Seikichi paused, his eyes narrowing.
“A white shape, passing slowly in front of the house.
About the size of a fox.
But he said he’d never seen anything like it in his life.”
Aoi’s voice trembled.
“Then… it really was the Fox Spirit?”
“Maybe so,” Seikichi murmured. “Or maybe… it came to take someone back.”
The air in the room seemed to grow heavier.
“After that night, Chiyo stopped crying,” he continued.
“But something changed. She wouldn’t look anyone in the eye.
Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t smile. Wouldn’t speak.
Like an empty shell, my grandmother said.”
Sōma whispered,
“You mean… she was replaced?”
“No one dared say that out loud,” Seikichi replied softly.
“But my grandmother knew.
That wasn’t Chiyo anymore.”
He let out a long breath.
“At night, she’d just sit there, in the corner of the room, staring at something.
No one else could see what it was.”
One night, my grandmother spoke to her.
‘Chiyo, are you all right?’
Chiyo didn’t turn around.
‘…That child was so lonely,’ she said.
‘She cried and cried, but no one ever noticed…’
“It was Chiyo’s voice,” Seikichi said, his own lowering, “but it didn’t sound like her.
It sounded like someone else was speaking through her.”
‘Who are you talking about?’ my grandmother asked.
‘Who’s “that child”?’
‘…The one who was with me. The one by the shrine.
She’s been crying there… all this time.’
Seikichi fell silent for a moment.
“After that, Chiyo fell into a fever.
Three days and nights, she burned and tossed in her sleep.
And she said she saw something… in her dreams.”
“A white fox, carrying a tiny cub in its mouth,
walking on and on, into the dark.”
“But the little one wasn’t moving anymore.
Its eyes were closed. It just swayed in the fox’s jaws.”
He shook his head gently.
“After that, Chiyo never spoke of it again.
Her fever broke, but she was never the same.
My grandmother always said—‘If only that girl hadn’t looked back that day…’”
Regret lingered in his voice, quiet and heavy.
Then Sōma finally asked,
“…That shrine—does it still exist?”
Seikichi didn’t answer.
He only lifted his cup and took a slow sip of tea.
The silence that followed was all the answer they needed.
“…That shrine, you see,” Seikichi said softly,
“was washed away long ago—by a heavy rain.”
“A landslide took the slope of the forest with it.
The little shrine tumbled straight down into the valley.
It was a forgotten place by then—no one cared much.
But after that… strange things began to happen.”
Sōma leaned forward a little.
“Children in the village began crying again,” Seikichi continued.
“Babies who wouldn’t stop all night,
children waking from nightmares, screaming in their sleep…
No matter how the parents tried to calm them, the crying wouldn’t end.”
He narrowed his eyes, voice lowering to a near whisper.
“It was as if… something that had lost its home
was wandering from house to house,
looking for a place to rest.”
The air in the room seemed to grow colder.
“Chiyo heard about it,” he said quietly,
“and she only said one thing.”
‘Maybe… that child is still crying somewhere.’
“And the next morning, she was gone.
Didn’t tell a soul. Just left the village.”
Seikichi looked down at his hands.
“My grandmother never found out where she went.
But sometimes, even years later, she’d say this—
‘Maybe Chiyo just walked toward the crying…
so that child wouldn’t be alone anymore.’”
“…But before my grandmother passed away,” Seikichi said softly,
“she told me one last thing.”
He took a sip from his teacup, letting the faint sound fill the silence.
“She said she once saw something… late one night on the farm road.
A woman in a white kimono, walking alone, holding a small bundle in her arms.
She was smiling—like she was whispering to someone only she could see.”
He paused, his gaze distant.
“And at her feet,” he said quietly, “there was a small white shadow… following beside her.”
No one spoke.
Only the flicker of the candle marked the passing of time.
“My grandmother always said,” Seikichi murmured,
‘Chiyo must still be full of regret.’
“She couldn’t bear that she hadn’t heard that child’s cries back then.
And maybe that’s why… she’s still searching for them.
So that no one will ever be left behind again.”
He rose slowly and leaned toward one of the candles.
“…That’s all I have to tell.”
He blew gently.
The flame wavered—
and went out with a quiet fsshh.
Two candles remained.
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The Hundred Horror Tales is an original Japanese horror anthology inspired by the tradition of Hyaku Monogatari.
Five storytellers gather around flickering candles to share chilling tales—urban legends, ghost stories, folklore, daily fears, and real encounters.
Can you endure until the last flame goes out?
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• Twitter: @KaidanTales
• YouTube: @HK_Tales
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