Tsukumogami

The temple tea kettle that sprouted a tanuki's head, tail and legs—and would not stop boiling.

The family Buddha come loose from a neglected altar, black and glistening, its eyes dangling on their stalks.

A shrine bell grown into a dancing woman—the sound of kagura, finally given a face.

A cart of old love letters, and the woman shaped from the longing that was never sent.

The king of the rubbish heap, who rules every object you decided you were finished with.

The cauldron at Kibitsu Shrine whose hum answers yes or no—and whose silence is the worst answer.

A stack of retired Noh masks that begins, at night, to work through its whole repertoire.

A water jar so old it never runs dry—the rare tsukumogami that rewards a household instead of punishing it.

A century-old mirror that stops reflecting the room and starts showing whatever it pleases.

A mildewed dust cloth that takes flight and wraps itself around a sleeping face.

A worn-out futon that crawls off its shelf at night to strangle whoever sleeps on it.

A forgotten koto that comes alive to sound old melodies no one plays anymore.

A little general armored in cast-off cups and plates who marshals the household crockery.

A discarded biwa lute turned spirit that wanders playing itself and lamenting its neglect.

A split-mouthed paper lantern spirit with a lolling tongue.

A one-eyed, one-legged umbrella come to life—an icon of tool-spirits.