The Bean Washer Story
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Have you ever walked past a dark mountain river at midnight and heard a sound that didn't belong? A rhythmic, scraping noise, like someone furiously washing dry beans against a woven bamboo basket. They say if you stop to listen, a raspy voice will whisper, 'Shall I wash my beans, or catch a human to eat?' Do not look toward the water. If you do, the river will claim you before you even see the washer's face.
It was the deep middle of autumn, during the Edo period, when the mountain air of the Chubu region turned sharp and unforgiving. Kenji, a weary merchant, was making the long trek back to his village. His sandals slapped rhythmically against the dirt path, but the journey had taken longer than expected. The sun had long since dipped below the jagged peaks, plunging the ancient pine forest into absolute blackness. His only source of comfort was the dim, flickering orange glow of his paper lantern. The path he walked hugged the edge of a deep, fast-flowing mountain river. The water was black as ink, churning violently against the unseen rocks below. Kenji pulled his thick cotton cloak tighter around his shoulders, shivering as the cold mist rolled off the water's surface. He knew the stories of these woods, the warnings passed down by the village elders to never travel the river road after dusk. But the comfort of his warm hearth pushed him forward. All was normal, save for the howling wind and the aggressive rush of the river, establishing a lonely but ordinary night in the harsh Japanese wilderness.
About a mile from his village, the wind abruptly died down. The sudden silence in the forest was heavy, almost suffocating. Even the insects had stopped chirping. As Kenji walked, a new sound began to filter through the ambient rushing of the river. It was faint at first, easily mistaken for pebbles grinding in the current. Shoki... shoki... shoki. Kenji paused. He held his breath. The sound continued, steady and deliberate, like hard seeds being aggressively scrubbed inside a dry bamboo sieve. It wasn't natural. It had a purposeful rhythm. He took a hesitant step forward, and the sound seemed to shift, echoing from a different bend in the river. Then, a voice pierced the freezing air. It was a wet, guttural croak, carrying over the water with unnatural clarity. 'Shall I wash my red beans... or shall I catch a human and devour them? Shoki... shoki... shoki.' The blood drained from Kenji's face. The nursery rhymes of his childhood slammed into his mind. Azukiarai. The unseen bean washer of the deep currents. The air around him suddenly felt paralyzingly cold, and a sickening feeling of dread settled in the pit of his stomach.
Kenji knew the rules. Every child in the valley knew the rules: keep your eyes on the path and walk away. But the scraping sound grew louder, more frantic. Shoki! Shoki! Shoki! It felt as though it was right below him, just over the steep embankment. An overwhelming, unnatural curiosity seized his mind. What did it look like? Was there really a monster down there, washing beans in the dead of night? His rational mind screamed at him to run, but his body moved on its own. He slowly lowered his lantern and crept toward the edge of the embankment, peering into the inky blackness. The mist parted slightly. For a split second, he thought he saw the silhouette of a grotesque, bald head and a massive, toothy grin reflecting the moonlight. In that exact moment, the ground beneath his feet vanished. It didn't crumble; it simply turned as slick as oil. An invisible, tremendous weight seized his ankles. Kenji didn't even have time to scream. He pitched forward, plunging headfirst down the steep bank and crashing violently into the freezing, turbulent river.
The shock of the icy water knocked the breath from his lungs. He thrashed blindly in the dark, his heavy clothes dragging him under. By sheer luck, the current threw him against a shallow sandbank further downstream. Gasping for air, freezing, and battered, Kenji dragged himself out of the water. As he lay shivering in the mud, staring up at the moon, he realized something terrifying. The night was completely silent. The rushing of the river was gone. The chilling voice was gone. Most importantly, the rhythmic scraping of the beans had vanished. He survived the night, but the encounter left him forever changed. Was the creature real, or was it the river itself playing a cruel trick on a weary traveler's mind? If the Azukiarai is merely an illusion, what force actually pulled him into the freezing depths? The answer lies hidden in the murky waters of Japanese folklore, waiting for the next curious traveler to listen a little too closely.