Ghost 『幽霊』
by Edogawa Ranpo
translated by Keegan MacDonald
August 1st, 2025
“That bastard Tsujido–he finally died.”
When his trusted confidant reported this, with a slight air of triumph, Mr. Hirata was more than a little surprised. He had heard, of course, that Tsujido’s illness had long since rendered him bedridden; but even still, he couldn’t believe it. That Tsujido–the man who had ceaselessly shadowed Mr. Hirata, who had made it his life’s mission to take revenge upon him (having decided for himself that Mr. Hirata was his enemy), and who used to say as if it were his catchphrase, “I will not be able to die in peace until I plunge this dagger into that bastard’s gut”–that he had died, and without even accomplishing his life’s mission–Mr. Hirata could hardly believe it.
“Is that really so…” Mr. Hirata gave in response, distracted.
“It’s true, I’m telling you–I witnessed the funeral procession with my own eyes. I even asked around the neighborhood to make sure, and it’s true, alright. It was just him and his son living together, so the boy took the old man’s death pretty hard. The poor kid–he was following alongside the coffin in tears the whole way. Doesn’t take much after his old man. He’s a real weakling, that one.”
Upon hearing all this, Mr. Hirata sank into disappointment. All of it–the high concrete wall encircling his estate, its top lined with jagged shards of glass; the gatehouse on his property rented out to a policeman’s family at a near-charitable lease; the two brawny student boarders he stationed in his home; his self-imposed confinement indoors wherein he was never to venture off the premises–not at night, of course, yet not even in the daylight–unless strictly unavoidable, and even then, never without one of the young men at his side; Every precaution, every careful measure he had taken, was done out of fear of that one man–Tsujido.
Mr. Hirata was a man who had built his great fortune entirely on his own, and in doing so, he had, at times, committed no small number of ruthless deeds. As such, he had amassed quite a multitude of people who harbored deep-rooted grudges against him. Mr. Hirata, however, was not one to be troubled by such matters. And yet, the half-deranged old man Tsujido was the one person whom he had found himself at an utter loss to handle. So, when news reached him of his relentless adversary’s death, he let out a quiet sigh of relief–yet at the same time, he felt strangely deflated, as though the force that had once kept him sharp and braced for battle had suddenly vanished, and in its place came a faint, unexpected loneliness.
The following day, as a matter of verification, Mr. Hirata made his way personally to the neighborhood of Tsujido’s residence and, with quiet discretion, attempted to glean what he could of the situation. Consequently, he was able to confirm that his confidant’s report had not been mistaken. It was then that a sense of peace began to settle over him, and he, who had been absolved from years of strict vigilance at last, soaked in the feeling of a slow, tranquil ease that he hadn’t known in years.
Unaware of the exact cause, the members of his household were more than a little puzzled to see Mr. Hirata–so habitually gloomy–suddenly grow cheerful, even letting slip a laugh, a sound none of them could ever recall having heard leave his lips before. Mr. Hirata’s newfound jovial disposition did not last long, however. Soon, his family would be forced to suffer an even darker morosity from Mr. Hirata, darker than they had ever seen before.
Three days had passed since Tsujido’s funeral, unmarked by even a single event; yet on that fourth morning, something arose. Reclining in his study chair, Mr. Hirata sifted idly through that morning’s post with no particular thought in mind. Among the many envelopes and postcards, he spotted a single letter–the handwriting somewhat disorderly, but unmistakably familiar–and went pale.
“By the time you read this letter, I will already be dead. No doubt you’ll be dancing for joy at the news, won’t you? Feeling relieved, perhaps, thinking, ‘Well, thank God that’s over,’–surely soaking in ease from your so-called victory.
But don’t be so sure. It won’t go the way you think. My body may be dead–but my soul won’t rest until I’ve brought you low. That much, I swear.
True, your absurd precautions worked quite well against the living. I certainly wasn’t able to lift so much as a finger against you, bound hand and foot. But hear me when I say all your wealth can’t save you now–no matter how secure, how formidable a trap you set for me, my spirit can’t be detained; like smoke, I’ll slip straight through.
Listen: While I lay in bed trapped by this damned disease, unable to move, I made a vow. If in this life I cannot defeat you, then I will come for you in the next–becoming in death a vengeful spirit, stopping at nothing until I’ve seized you and dragged you to the grave myself. Hundreds of days and nights I’ve lain in this bed, thinking of nothing else. You think death can kill such hatred? Think again.
Be warned: The wrath of the dead is far more terrifying than any power the living possess.”
The handwriting was wild, and aside from the kanji, the entire letter had been written in katakana, making it difficult to read. But it contained, more or less, a message like the one above. It was without doubt a letter Tsujido had written with trembling hand and burning spirit as he lay on his deathbed. And equally as certain, he had entrusted the letter to his son to post after his death.
“What nonsense,” Mr. Hirata had scoffed at the time, tossing the dead man’s threat aside with a dry laugh. “Did he really think I’d tremble in fear at such a childish attempt to scare me? At his age? I see the illness must have addled his brain in the end.”
Yet as the days passed, a vague and inexplicable unease slowly crept into Mr. Hirata’s heart–and try as he might, he could not shake it. Unequipped to guard against such an enemy, unable to predict when he might face risk of an attack or, truly, in what manner his enemy could strike–he was left hopelessly defenseless, a sensation that pricked at his skin until it consumed his thoughts. By day, nightmarish delusions crawled at his heels, and by night, they tormented his mind until they drove away any hope of sleep.
In one haunted corner of Mr. Hirata’s mind roamed Tsujido’s son, whose very existence was enough to gnaw at his insides. “A man of such weak disposition and of character so divergent from Tsujido would hardly be likely to do so,” he thought to himself, “Yet, if, by any chance, he has taken upon himself his father’s dying will and is stalking my every move after all, waiting for the chance to strike–then I’m in serious trouble.” Upon this realization, he summoned at once the man whom he had previously employed to keep an eye on Tsujido, ordering him this time to observe the son.
But the following months slipped away, each without incident, each as unremarkable as the last. True, Mr. Hirata’s tightly wound nerves were slow to be soothed, his insomnia not so easily remedied, yet the wrath of a vengeful spirit he had agonized over never came, nor did he see even the slightest prospect of disturbance from Tsujido’s son. Little by little, even Mr. Hirata, ever cautious and vigilant as he was, began to think all his excessive worry foolish, his anxiety in vain.
That was, however, until one night. In a rare act, Mr. Hirata had shut himself away in his study, alone, tending to some documents. He lived in a residential district in which he was surrounded by many neighboring estates, yet despite the early hours of the evening, the area had gone deathly quiet, blanketed in an eerie silence. Every so often, from somewhere in the distance, there came the sorrowful howl of a dog, echoing in the stillness.
“This has arrived for you.”
Abruptly, the houseboy entered, and upon placing a sealed parcel on the edge of Mr. Hirata’s desk, he left as silently as he’d come.
Mr. Hirata could tell at a glance that the post was a photograph. Ten days prior at a celebration held in honor of a recently established company, the founders had all gathered and taken a photo in commemoration. Being one of the founders himself, Mr. Hirata supposed they must have sent him a copy as well.
Though Mr. Hirata had no particular interest in such things, he had just resolved to take a rest after tiring from his work of the day and promptly tore open the parcel, retrieving the photograph inside for a quick look. He glanced over the photograph for just a moment, yet all at once, as though his hand had brushed against something foul, he flung it down onto his desk. With wild, uneasy eyes, his gaze darted about the room.
After a short while had passed, his hand reached hesitantly back toward the photograph he had cast away. However, once he unfurled the photograph and looked upon it for just a moment, he instantly hurled it from himself once again. Twice, three times he repeated this strange behavior until, finally, he had calmed his nerves enough to gaze fixedly at the image.
It could not be an illusion. He tried rubbing his eyes, even scrubbing at the image, but even still, the baleful shadow did not disappear. A cold shiver slithered up his spine. In a sudden burst, he tore the image to tatters and hurled it into the stove. Staggering upright, unsteady on his feet, he fled from his study.
At last, the thing he had feared had finally come. Tsujido’s vindictive spirit, his unyielding grudge, had begun to manifest.
There, looming behind the clear figures of the seven founders–faint though it was, yet spreading across nearly the entire image–was the unearthly face of Tsujido. And within that shrouded mist of a face lay two black pits for eyes, watching Mr. Hirata with a cold, searing hatred.
Mr. Hirata was so wholly possessed by fear that he wrenched the covers over his head like a child terrorized by nightmares, trembling uncontrollably through the night. But morning came, and in the grandeur of the sun, some of the night’s terror had faded, and Mr. Hirata was able to regain somewhat of his spirit.
“There’s no way something so ridiculous could’ve possibly happened. Something was wrong with my eyes last night.”
Determined to believe in this declaration, he walked himself back up to his study, now flooded with the blazing light of the morning sun. Unfortunately, the photograph had burned up completely in the fire, leaving behind no traces–but as evidence that last night wasn’t a dream, there on the desk, lying exactly where he’d left it, was the wrapping paper in which the photo had been sent.
Yet upon further reflection, he found that the whole affair was alarming either way. If in the photograph Tsujido’s face truly had been captured, then, considering that cursed letter he had received all those months back–what horror he had awaiting him! It was not unthinkable that there were forces in this world beyond the bounds of logic. Yet conversely, if in fact there was nothing to be found in the photo, and Tsujido’s face had only appeared to Mr. Hirata’s eyes, all the more terrified he’d be–fearing that his mind had begun to unravel as he succumbed to Tsujido’s curse at last.
For two or three days, Mr. Hirata thought of nothing else, all along his mind seized upon that photograph.
But if, perhaps, there had been some mistake–if Tsujido had by some chance had his photograph taken at the same studio, and the two negatives had been double exposed and printed together onto this photo…Even while thinking such a ridiculous thought, still he took the trouble to dispatch a messenger to the studio to investigate. But of course, such an oversight could not have happened, he was assured, nor could the studio find any record of a person named Tsujido in their ledger.
Since then, one week had passed. Having been told of an incoming call from a manager at one of his affiliate companies, Mr. Hirata mindlessly picked up the phone from his desk. But when he held the receiver up to his ear, a strange laugh came from the other end.
“HAHAHAHAHAHA…”
The voice sounded distant, far away—but no sooner had that thought formed than the laughter became deafeningly loud, as if pressed right up against his ear. Yet no matter how many times Mr. Hirata called out to the other line, they only kept laughing.
“Hello? This is you, Mr. XX, isn’t it?”
A sudden fit of rage rose up in Mr. Hirata, and just as he screamed those words into the phone, the other voice grew quieter and quieter—“Heh, heh, heh…”–and faded away into the distance. And in its place, all that could be heard was the shrill voice of the operator, repeating “number, number, number.”
Mr. Hirata abruptly slammed the receiver down, and for a while he stood staring at one spot, unmoving, unblinking. As he did so, an indescribable fear began to well up from the depths of his heart…That laughter…he had unmistakably heard it before…Wasn’t this the laugh of Tsujido himself?
Mr. Hirata’s insomnia grew progressively worse. There were many times when, just as he had seemed to finally fall asleep, he would startle awake with fearful screams. The members of his household had grown increasingly concerned by his odd behavior and urged him to be seen by a doctor. Mr. Hirata desperately wished he could cling to somebody, just as a child would cling to their mother in fear–to confide completely in someone about all the horror he had witnessed for so long; if only he could. But of course, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do so. Instead, brushing it off with a casual, “It’s nothing–just a bit of nervous exhaustion,” he put on a brave front before his family and refused even to see a doctor.
Several more days passed. One day, there was a meeting for all the shareholders in the company of which Mr. Hirata was the executive, and he would be expected to speak for a short time at the assembly. During the last six months, the company’s performance had shown unprecedented success, and as no particular issues had arisen during that time, the occasion called for nothing more than a perfunctory report. He stood before nearly a hundred assembled shareholders, and, being long since accustomed to such duties, proceeded with his speech in a manner and tone that bore the ease and polish of second nature.
However, continuing with his speech for a while, naturally during that time, his gaze roved over the faces of the shareholders in the audience, but something strange suddenly entered into his field of vision. When he noticed it, he stopped his speech unthinkingly, pausing so long to the point that the audience began to look doubtful, and throughout the room stood silence.
There, behind all the many shareholders, a face that was unmistakably the deceased Tsujido. It stared unflinchingly, intently at Mr. Hirata.
“The aforementioned conditions are…”
Mr. Hirata seemed to regain his composure and raised his voice even higher, trying to continue with his speech. However, no matter how lively he affected, he couldn’t divert his eyes from that sinister face. He gradually became more flustered, and at that point, his speech became incoherent and rambling. When it did, that face that was unmistakably Tsujido, as if reveling in Mr. Hirata’s disconcertment, flashed a sudden, thin smile.
Mr. Hirata could hardly recall how he brought the speech to an end, stumbling through it as if in a trance. He lightly bowed and dashed from the table and, unconcerned in the least with the suspicious looks he received from people, ran towards the exit and searched for the proprietor of that face that had frightened him. However, no matter how much he searched, that face could not be found.
Just to be certain, Mr. Hirata returned once more to the front of the room, and moving close to where he had originally been positioned, looked out at the crowd of shareholders again, meticulously reexamining each face one by one. Yet even so, he could not locate even one person who might resemble Tsujido.
The grand hall where the meeting took place was located in a building in which people could come and go as they pleased, and depending on how one thought of it, it was not altogether unlikely that an individual quite similar in appearance to Tsujido could have been an audience member, nor that they just as well could have left the room during Mr. Hirata’s search. But could a face whose features mimicked so exactly those of another truly exist in the world? No matter how he tried to rationalize it, Mr. Hirata could not escape the sense that this was somehow tied to that dreaded curse Tsujido had invoked on his deathbed.
Since then, Mr. Hirata had seen that same eerie face again and again. One time, it was in the corridor of a theater; another, in a quiet park after dusk; yet still another, on the bustling streets of a distant city he visited. And even, once, before the gate of his own residence. In this last instance, Mr. Hirata had very nearly collapsed. It had been late one evening, and Mr. Hirata was returning from somewhere, his car just about to enter through the gate. A shadow had slid from within the gate, then, and passed by the car–but when they passed each other, it happened in the space of a single breath.
In an instant, the face was there–staring in through the window.
This time, there was no mistaking who this face was: Tsujido. Mr. Hirata arrived at the entrance, and upon hearing the voices of the houseboy and the maid who had come to greet him, he managed to regain his composure–though just barely–and ordered his driver to go investigate. When he searched, however, the shadow was no longer there.
“Could it be, perhaps, that Tsujido is alive?” Mr. Hirata began to wonder, finding himself at a loss. “And this is all a performance he’s staging to torment me?”
However, according to reports from his trusted confidant, who had been tasked with keeping Tsujido’s son under constant surveillance, there had been nothing to arouse suspicion in the slightest. If Tsujido were in fact alive, one would expect that in all this time, he would have gone to meet his son at least once–but no such trace existed. Yet perhaps the strangest point of all–how could a living person possibly know his every move so precisely? Mr. Hirata was, as a rule, a secretive man, and even when going out, he would often keep his destination to himself—not only from the servants, but even from his own family. This would mean that in order for that face to constantly appear wherever he went, someone would have to perpetually monitor the gate of his home, tailing his car each time he set out. But the area around his house was a quiet, desolate one–had there been another car following, he would surely have noticed. Besides, there wasn’t even a nearby office where one could easily hire a car. That said–how much more unreasonable would it be to suppose that someone could have followed him on foot? No matter how he thought about it, there was but one conclusion to draw–this had to be the curse of a vengeful spirit.
“Or, perhaps, I’ve let my mind run away with me…”
But even supposing that it was just an illusion–that his judgment had simply led his thinking astray, the fear still remained. His mind was in agony, winding back and forth in endless torment. He was at an utter loss as to what was real and what was simply his mind playing tricks on him.
Yet, amidst all his mental turmoil–suddenly a single, brilliant idea flashed in his mind.
“There’s one way to know for certain–how could I not have realized it before?”
Mr. Hirata eagerly made his way to his study, and taking up his brush, he addressed a letter to the town hall of Tsujido’s birthplace in which he assumed Tsujido’s son’s name, requesting an official copy of their family registry. If in the records of their family registry Tsujido were listed as still living, that would put an end to all of this. Mr. Hirata prayed that it would be so.
After several days had passed, a copy of the family registry had arrived from the town hall. But to Mr. Hirata’s dismay, Tsujido’s name had been stricken through with a red cross, and recorded very clearly in the upper column were the date and time of his death, along with the date that notice of his death had been received. What little room for doubt he had was now gone.
“Has something been the matter? Have you not been feeling well, perhaps?”
Everyone who encountered Mr. Hirata would ask him something of this sort, worry clear on their faces. Even Mr. Hirata himself felt as if he had aged years overnight. In only one or two months, it seemed to him as though countless strands of white had wound their way through his hair.
“Wouldn’t it be good to take a little time away–a retreat, perhaps, to recover your strength?”
Knowing that any attempt at urging him to see a doctor would prove fruitless, his family encouraged him instead to go for a change of scenery, hoping that fresh air would improve his condition. Even Mr. Hirata felt he couldn’t relax in his own home–never feeling safe there ever since encountering that face before his gate. So, having already begun to feel he might need time away from the estate, he accepted their suggestion and decided to rest for a while by the warm seaside.
Mr. Hirata busied himself with preparations for his trip–sending a postcard ahead to his usual inn to reserve a room, arranging any items he would need while away, selecting an attendant to accompany him. All such planning occupied his mind, and for the first time in a long time, he was in bright spirits. Though it was, to some extent, an affected cheerfulness, he was gleeful as a young man setting out on an excursion.
Once he arrived at the seaside, his mood had lightened completely, just as he had anticipated. The bright, sunny scenery was to his liking, as was the simple and honest nature of the townspeople, their disposition quite pleasing to him. He found his hotel room to be comfortable as well, and though he was by the sea, the town was less known for its beaches and was rather renowned for its hot spring resorts. He spent his days soaking in the hot springs and taking walks along the warm, balmy shore.
It seemed that the face that had brought him so much anxiety would never appear at such a cheerful, sunny place. Even when walking alone along the empty beach now, Mr. Hirata no longer felt that sense of unease.
One day, Mr. Hirata walked a little farther than he had gone before. As he meandered along absentmindedly, he suddenly realized that dusk was creeping up on him. There wasn’t a soul in sight on the wide beach around him, just the whispering crash of the waves as they broke on the shore–yet they reverberated eerily, as if they were the echoes of a bad omen–warning him of something sinister to come.
He turned on his heel and rushed back toward the inn. But there was now quite a distance between him and the hotel. At this rate, darkness might fall completely before he even made it halfway. Step after panicked step, he hastened forward, dripping with sweat.
The sound of his own footsteps sounded as if someone were following behind him, and he found himself whipping around in alarm. The dim shadows cast by the pine trees, too, unnerved him, as if something was lurking beneath them.
After a while on his path, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure on the far side of a small sand dune ahead. Upon seeing another person, Mr. Hirata felt somewhat reassured. If he hastened over to that side of the dune and talked with that person, he figured this strange feeling would go away. So he quickened his pace and drew closer to the figure.
Once he got closer to the figure, he saw what looked like an old man facing the other way, sitting motionless, crouching.
“Ah–”
When Mr. Hirata saw that, a crushed, strangled scream emitted from his throat. He instantly began to run. Despite his many years, he tore off running like a panicked schoolboy in a sprint–madly, wildly, trying desperately to get away.
The face that turned around–the one he convinced himself could never reach him here–was Tsujido.
“Look out!”
When Mr. Hirata, running blindly, tripped over something and crashed to the ground, a young man hurried over to him.
“Are you alright, sir? Ah–it looks like you’ve injured yourself.”
Mr. Hirata’s nail had completely torn itself from the nail bed, and he lay there groaning in pain. The young man took a clean handkerchief from within his sleeves and deftly dressed Mr. Hirata’s wound. Once he did so, he saw that Mr. Hirata, so weakened by utter terror and pain, could barely take even a single step, and so the young man led him back to the inn, almost carrying him as he did.
Mr. Hirata worried that he might become bedridden, but to his surprise, he awoke the next morning feeling rather well and was able to even leave his bed. Though the pain in his foot kept him from being able to walk about, he was able to eat as usual.
Just as Mr. Hirata had finished his breakfast, the young man who had cared for him the day before came by to pay a visit. As it turned out, he too was staying in the same inn. What began as polite words of concern and gratitude soon gave way to friendly conversation. Mr. Hirata, grateful and in need of company at such a time, found himself speaking with unusual liveliness.
When Mr. Hirata’s servant had left the table, the young man, as though he had been waiting for that moment, adjusted his posture slightly and spoke:
“To tell the truth, I’ve been watching you with a certain interest ever since you came here…Something seems to be troubling you. I wondered if, perhaps, you’d be willing to share it with me?”
Mr. Hirata was quite taken aback. What on earth could his young man, whom he had only just met, possibly know? Regardless, wasn’t this a rather rude question? He had never, not once, spoken to another person regarding Tsujido’s vengeful ghost. After all, it wasn’t as if he could share such a foolish tale so carelessly—the shame it would bring! Needless to say, he certainly was not going to confide in this young man about the truth of the matter.
Yet as they exchanged words for some time–what a mysterious gift for conversation he had!–as if by some sort of magic, the young man effortlessly loosened the tongue of even the notoriously tight-lipped Mr. Hirata. A single slip of the tongue from Mr. Hirata became the loose end of a thread that, with one tug, unraveled everything. Had the other person been an ordinary man, Mr. Hirata would have easily parried any intrusion, guarding his secrets close. But not with this young man. With uncanny mastery, he drew out every last thread of the story. Perhaps it was because this was the very morning after the terrifying incident–but the more Mr. Hirata tried to divert the conversation, the deeper he fell into the snare–as if he had lost all will of his own. And in the end, Mr. Hirata had been drained of every detail about the vengeful spirit of Tsujido–every incident laid bare until there was nothing left to tell.
Once he had heard all he wanted to hear, the young man then–no less skillfully than when he had drawn out the confession–gracefully steered the conversation back to light small talk. And by the time he apologized for overstaying and left the room, Mr. Hirata not only felt no discomfort about having been coaxed into confiding everything, but even found the young man somehow reassuring.
The next ten days passed without any particular incident. Though Mr. Hirata had already grown weary of this place, the wound on his foot still ached terribly. So, rather than force his return to Tokyo, he decided to prolong his stay at the lively inn, which he supposed, to some extent, was more comfortable than his own lonely estate. In part, it was the young man he’d recently come to know–an unexpectedly compelling conversationalist–who, in his own way, helped anchor Hirata in that place a little longer.
That young man came to visit Mr. Hirata once again today. Then, suddenly, with a strange smile, he said this:
“You’re free to go wherever you like now. The ghost won’t be appearing anymore.”
For an instant, Mr. Hirata faltered, unsure of what the words meant. In his stunned expression was a flicker of discomfort–the kind felt when someone touches a nerve.
“I understand my sudden words must have startled you, but I assure you, this is no joke. The ghost has already been captured. Please, take a look for yourself.”
The young man unfolded a telegram he had been holding in one hand and held it out to Mr. Hirata. Within the letter was inscribed the following message.
“According to the official record, this is the record of the instructions and measures personally declared all at once by the individual.”
“This has come from a friend of mine in Tokyo,” the young man explained. “And this phrase, ‘declared all at once’ means that Tsujido’s ghost–no, not his ghost but the living Tsujido himself–made a confession.”
In that fleeting instant, before he had so much as a moment to think, Mr. Hirata could do nothing but gaze, dumbfounded, from the young man’s face to the telegram and back again.
“To tell you the truth, I’m the sort of man who lives in search of things like this. It’s my pastime, you see, to pursue hidden events and strange occurrences in every corner of the world; to unravel the truth of them all.”
The young man, smiling pleasantly, offered his explanation as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Some days ago, after you shared with me your own ghost story, that peculiar habit of mine stirred within me, and I wondered whether there wasn’t some hidden trick behind it all. From what I can see, you do not appear to be the sort of gentleman with nerves so delicate as to conjure a ghost into existence. And further, you may not have noticed, but doesn’t it seem as though there are limitations as to where this ghost can appear? Indeed, when looking at all the places to which it has followed you, it would truly seem as though there was nowhere you could go where it could not appear as it pleased. But upon further reflection, you’ll notice that it almost always appears outside. Even considering the cases in which your encounters were indoors, like the corridor of a theater, or inside an assembly hall—all such instances were limited to spaces where anyone could freely come and go. If it were truly a ghost, why should it struggle to reveal itself anywhere other than the outdoors? You would think a real ghost would appear in your own home as well, would you not? But indeed, the encounter at your home–not including the photograph and the telephone call–was just as well in a location where anyone is free to come and go: namely the gates before your home, where he revealed his face to you for only a moment. Does that not strike you as being slightly at odds with the nature of a ghost? I have given this matter quite a bit of thought, you see. It was somewhat troublesome and took quite a bit of time, but I’ve finally managed to capture your ghost alive.”
Even after hearing the explanation, Mr. Hirata couldn’t quite believe it. He too had once suspected that Tsujido might be alive, and even went so far as to obtain a copy of the family registry. But he had been disappointed. And yet–how on earth could this young man, with such ease, manage to trace the true identity of the ghost?
“Oh, it was nothing. In truth, it was actually a rather simple trick. In fact, perhaps the reason it escaped your notice was precisely because the method was too simple. Still, that seemingly solemn funeral would have deceived anyone, not just you. After all, it’s not as though this is some foreign detective novel–who would have imagined that such an elaborate performance would be staged in the heart of Tokyo? Not to mention the perseverance Tsujido demonstrated in abstaining from any contact with his son–this was of crucial importance. As is the case with many crimes, the key to deceiving someone relies on the stifling of one’s own emotions, indeed reversing in oneself any mannerisms in line with ordinary human thinking. It is, however, the very nature of human beings to judge the hearts of others in accordance with their own, expecting that they might act from a similar place of reason, and as a result, they seldom realize once they have fundamentally misjudged a person. There is also the fact that the ghost’s appearances, too, had been orchestrated quite cleverly. As you yourself expressed the other day, being shadowed from place to place, followed wherever you go–this would unsettle anyone. And yet, to crown it all–the family registry. All the props were in place, wouldn’t you say?”
“Precisely. If Tsujido were truly alive, there are still too many details that don’t sit well with me–the first being the photograph. But, even supposing that my eyes simply deceived me, there’s also the fact that he knew my whereabouts, as you just stated, and then there’s the family registry. You can’t honestly believe there to be some sort of mistake in an official family registry, can you?”
Unwittingly drawn into the young man’s story, Mr. Hirata asked the question, almost in spite of himself.
“I have considered these three points as well. There must be a way for these seemingly contradictory facts to be made logical, right? And, ultimately, I detected what it was that connected these three apparently different matters–the commonality. Oh, it was quite a simple thing, really. But in solving this whole affair, it’s extraordinarily significant. That is, it has everything to do with the postal matter. The photograph had to be delivered by someone, of course, as did the family registry. And as for the destination of your outings–this was surely communicated through correspondence, was it not? Hahaha, yes, it seems you understand now. Tsujido has been working as the delivery man at the post office in your neighborhood.
“Of course, he would probably have been in disguise. How extraordinary that he has evaded recognition for so long. Every postal matter that came for you, and indeed, every post that you sent–they were all undoubtedly seen by him. There is no other way. If one were to apply steam to a sealed envelope, it could be opened without a trace–and I am certain that is the manner in which he must have tampered with the photograph and registry copy. Naturally, he would know upon reading through your various letters the places to which you would be traveling, and so, whether he was off-duty or had to fabricate some excuse to miss a day at work, he would circle ahead of you to your destination, assuming the role of the ghost.”
“But–while I suppose it’s not altogether impossible that the photograph could have been altered with sufficient effort, as for the family registry–could it really have been forged on such short notice?”
“It wasn’t a forgery. Simply imitating the handwriting of the government official and writing over the form would be enough. On official registry paper, erasing existing entries would surely be difficult, but adding to it certainly isn’t impossible. Even documents from the most meticulous government offices aren’t immune to the occasional oversight. It may be strange to say, but family registries hold no real power to prove whether someone is alive. It wouldn’t work for the head of the household, but for any other family member, by simply drawing a red line over their name and appending a notice of their death in the upper column–even a living person can be officially recorded as dead. Most people, when handed an official government document, are in the habit of placing complete, even blind, faith in it, and therefore seldom notice that something might be amiss. The day that I asked you for Tsujido’s hometown address, I wrote to his registered domicile and requested they send another copy of the family register. And when I looked at what had arrived, it was just as I had thought. Here it is.”
As he said this, he withdrew from his pocket a copy of a family registry and placed it before Mr. Hirata. In the column for the head of the household was Tsujido’s son, and there, inscribed beneath it–the name of Tsujido himself. He had already retired from his position before he had staged his own death. Upon inspection, there was no red line drawn through his name, and aside from the notice of his retirement written in the upper column, there was no such record indicating his death.
And thus it was that the name of the amateur detective, Akechi Kogorō, came to be inscribed in the social register of the businessman Mr. Hirata.
Translator’s Note
Since the start of his story “Ghost” (“Yuurei”), Edogawa Ranpo lined each page with vengeful spirits, curses from beyond the grave, and hauntings that slowly drove our protagonist Mr. Hirata mad—prepping his audience’s minds for what seemed to be a classic ghost tale. Then entered a mysterious stranger whose penchant for solving mysteries drove his peculiar interest in Mr. Hirata, compelling him to uncover the haunting as nothing more than an elaborate scheme of revenge. It isn’t until the very last sentence, of course, that we discover this man to be none other than Ranpo’s famous detective, Akechi Kogorō, who first debuted in another short story written the same year. The appearance of this character, who would go on to inspire decades of content for Ranpo in his other series “Boy Detectives Club,” suddenly transfigured “Ghost” into a horror-mystery work of fiction, a blend of genres for which Ranpo would become known. As this story introduces itself under the guise of horror, only to wrench readers back into reality with the sound explanations of a detective novel, “Ghost” is unbound by the rules of a single genre, finding its place in the category of slipstream literature.
“Ghost” (“Yuurei”) was originally published in Shin Seinen in 1925.
Sources
Ishikawa, Takumi. “Edogawa Ranpo’s World of Mystery and Terror.” Nippon.com, 28 Oct. 2021, https://www.nippon.com/en/japan-topics/g01199/
“Edogawa Ranpo.” The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction, edited by John Clute et al., updated 2 Feb. 2026, https://sf-encyclopedia.com/entry/edogawa_ranpo
“Edogawa Ranpo.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edogawa_Ranpo. Accessed 13 Mar. 2026.
About the Author
Edogawa Ranpo harbored a fascination for the strange and the macabre, an interest that spilled into pages and pages of bizarre fiction, ranging from detective stories to tales of horror. He began his literary career in 1923 with his first mystery “The Two-Sen Copper Coin,” after spending his previous years following the works of authors like Egar Allan Poe—who inspired his penname—as well as Arthur Conan Doyle. As Western literary genres were introduced to Japan, so too were scientific theories like Freudianism—the ideas of which were evident in his writing. While unraveling seemingly unsolvable mysteries in his stories, Ranpo often wove the realities of the twisted, often perverse side of human nature into his characters in stories like “The Human Chair” (1925) and “The Case of the Murder on D-hill” (1925). The former features a man who hides himself in a chair so he can feel the bodies of those who unwittingly sit on top of him, while the latter follows a detective as he solves the murder of a woman involved in a seemingly sadomasochistic relationship. Such themes earned his works the title of “ero guro nansensu,” a genre of fiction meaning “erotic grotesque nonsense.” His enduring legacy, however, comes from his longest-running character, a detective named Akechi Kogorō —the first iconic Japanese fictional detective. He was first introduced in “The Case of the Murder on D-hill” (1925) and would be featured for decades in a number of different stories—most famously a series called “Boy Detectives Club” in which he and his young sidekick Kobayashi Yoshio solved crimes together. This character garnered widespread popularity in Japan, and Ranpo eventually founded and served as the first president of the Detective Authors club—later renamed Mystery Writers of Japan—to encourage young writers to carry on the mystery genre in Japan. To this day, Edogawa Ranpo is widely recognized as the father of Japanese mystery.
About the Translator
Keegan MacDonald is a recent graduate of the MS in Applied Languages and Intercultural Studies with a concentration in Japanese. Her studies in Japanese, Chinese, and Spanish have shaped her interests in translation, linguistics, and the societal impact of literature.