“By the way,” says the fourth woman, “the word you’re looking for is ‘massacre,’ dear. A group of mukade is called a massacre.”

The climb is long and steep. The women head up a dark path with only moonlight to guide their way. The Yokai is grateful that two of them are holding her hands, because there is no way she would be able to see on her own. It is a mystery that they themselves can see where they are going.

The trees clear, exposing the grounds of an old, modest house. Its front door slides open and shuts behind the group. The inside is lit with lanterns and filled with the scent of burning incense. The corridors are a labyrinth of balsam wood and tatami floors, and there is a display of ancient samurai armour in every corner and swords above the rice-paper doors, which have gorgeous silk screens with landscapes sewn into them.

“Wow,” the Yokai says. “What is this, a museum?”

The women laugh. “You could call it that!” the first replies with a kimono sleeve over her mouth. “It’s been around long enough.”

“Not much of a museum, though,” says the second, the one holding the Yokai’s right hand. “Look! Everything’s covered in dust. Neglected. Like he finally got sick of pining over all these lost relics of his old life and if he ignores them long enough, they’ll get so dusty they’ll disappear from sight.”

“Hey, now, don’t talk like that. At the time, he was only human!” the third woman spits the word out, as if it leaves a wretched taste in her mouth.

The fourth one pretends to pout. “Dear me. Are you really going to slight the one allowing us a chance to dine on such a rare, exotic dish in his home tonight?”

“Hmm.” If the Yokai had a hand free, she would stroke her chin in thought. She is not quite sure about whom they are talking, but they are so friendly she does not want to say anything that will offend them or spoil their good mood. “Well, whoever he is, he doesn’t sound like such a bad guy.”

Her comment makes the women laugh even louder and harder. “Once upon a time,” the third one begins to sing, “there was an evil, sadistic rounin who dedicated his life to warring, wine, and women, rather than die with honour and keep his teacher’s legacy alive. Rumour has it he was even the one responsible for his teacher’s death. Can you imagine that! Anyway, eventually his awful, wanton ways caught up with him. He was tried and executed, but, story of all our lives, it didn’t take. What a way to go. Oh, relax, dear. He has come to terms with his new existence — for the most part.”