Rakugo

The night was dark, the moon hidden behind overcast clouds, and the air was unusually still. Not even a gentle breeze rustled the leaves overhead, the long stalks of bamboo remained statuesque in place, perfectly setting the unsettling mood for the night Hattori had in store. Lighting the paper lanterns one by one, Hattori lit up a path amongst the winding maze to the communal centre where his preparations were just about complete. Tatami mats and cushions lined the floor, circling a steady bonfire that was well tended by Hattori's companions. Bright and blazing, but not overly so to make an already warm night unbearable. Tojo brewed sake vessels, water and a variety of freshly caught seafood was on display. All neatly lined up on a bamboo table, more than enough to go around till everyone was full and sated. A pleasant night all around, if Hattori had his way. And he would.

This night would come as no surprise to anyone, he'd passed on word of his intentions and made it clear that all of Tojo was free to attend. It was not mandatory and he would not blame anyone for keeping to themselves, but he imagined a few would show their faces. Even if only to pass the time with stories, to reminisce and hear tales they'd never heard before. He'd never been one to enforce social times but this felt...good, like the start of a pleasant tradition. Something good and important to keep alive, to spread the word lest the stories be forgotten back home.

Hattori had more than a few up his sleeve. As his clan mates trickled in like a steady stream, familiar faces settling in beside the fire, Hattori too made himself comfortable. He sat amongst the others, not up on a pedestal or throne, just atop a mat with his front legs splayed forward and his hindlimbs tucked into himself. At ease and eager to start, though not before taking a sip or two of sake. Perhaps he'd have some sushi after, sample some of Kuroo's hard work.

But first. Hattori cleared his throat, the glow of his eyes dimmed by the sources of light scattered around. But from between the trees the shadows still crept in, even the distance hiss of the ocean waves seemed like whispers one couldn't make out no matter how hard you strained.  

He didn't believe in gods, but ghosts and yokai? Maybe. It was hard to completely rule them out after the things he'd seen and done in the Long Night. To do otherwise would have been foolish, needlessly stubborn.

"I will tell you a story of the Ghost of Okiku." He began, speaking loud and clear. More than enough to carry over the background conversations, without drowning everything else out. Without making this just about him.  "Long ago, before Iga was even a word there was a samurai named Tessan Aoyama. Proud and arrogant, this man was used to getting whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. He did not care for the word no. One day a new maid was brought into service at his manor, named Okiku. It was her duty to clean her master's precious ten plates, to count them and ensure they were always in place. Perfectly ordered, one to ten. " He raised his paw and swept it horizontally, as though motioning to the plates ordered neatly in a line. "One night the lord of the manor approached Okiku and demanded she become his mistress, that he would not take no for an answer. An unsettling feeling fell into the pit of Okiku's stomach but she denied him all the same and to her surprise, Aoyama let her return to her chambers without a single complaint. Perhaps he had learned his lesson, realised he couldn't always get his way? " He scanned the crowd, wondering what they'd think would happen next. He took another sip of his sake and continued, sombre but with a glint in his eyes.

"The next morning Okiku went to count the plates. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine." He didn't need to state the obvious, everyone listening would recall there was a missing plate. That something was terribly wrong. "She counted them again in a panic, again and again. The lord of the manor stormed in, Aoyama in a fiery rage accused her of stealing one of his precious plates and demanded that she return it this very instant. She could not and they both knew it and so she was dragged outside, kicking and screaming, begging for mercy when in her heart she knew there was none."

There were children about and this part was quiet morbid. Oh well.

"The samurais men threw her down the estate's well. A deep and dark pit, where she thrashed and cried...till she drowned. Cursing the Samurai's name with her very last breath, Okiku climbed out of the well the very following night. Crying and sobbing, her words choked with water as she counted. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Each and every night from then on out, she would count and wail. Loud enough to keep the whole estate awake, to have them cowering in terror in their very beds. If Okiku could no longer live in peace, then neither would Aoyama. Never again. The samurai lost his mind to the wailing and unable to go one more night without sleep he cast himself into the well too. Surely the curse would come to an end, the spirt sated. " He shook his head." When the plates were acquired by a new samurai he felt a nagging urge to count them. One to nine. And late at night as he huddled up in his bed...he heard a distant wailing, a woman beside herself as she counted from one to nine. Over and over again."

He raised his head, finally finished. What stories would the others have to tell? He perked his ears forward, wondering who would speak next.