牛巻
In Mizuho Ward, Nagoya, about two kilometers south west of 英One, lies a small, easily overlooked neighborhood called Ushimaki (牛巻). Today, its streets are edged with modest shops, tightly packed houses, and winding roads that seem to follow no clear plan. Electric wires hang low, and the traffic moves slowly, as if the area itself resists haste.
Centuries ago, however, this same ground was nothing like it is now. Ushimaki stood on low, waterlogged land, where rain did not drain but lingered. Narrow ditches cut through the fields, and shallow canals reflected a dull gray sky. In these heavy fields, oxen dragged wooden plows through thick mud, their hooves sinking deep with every step. Progress was slow, exhausting, and uncertain.
The name Ushimaki—literally “the place where the ox is wrapped”—was not chosen lightly. It speaks of animals caught, halted, and bound by something stronger than muscle or rope. Even after the fields vanished and the water was forced underground, the name remained, carrying with it a quiet warning: this was once a place that did not easily let go. Local elders once said that animals refused to move there at night. An ox would suddenly stop, breathing hard, its eyes fixed on empty air.
The rope would tighten, not by human hands, but as if something unseen were winding itself around the animal. No footprints appeared.
No sound followed—only the smell of wet soil and a cold wind turning in slow circles.
People believed the monster of Ushimaki had no shape.
It was born from the land itself: from drowned fields, forgotten labor, and the fear of sinking into darkness.
It did not attack humans directly. Instead, it waited. It taught a lesson.
Where the ground was unstable, so was life.
This story was told to children for a reason.
Do not walk alone at night. Do not mock the land that feeds you.
Do not believe that danger must always have a face.
Even now, when fog settles low after rain, the streets of Ushimaki feel strangely quiet. Cars slow down.
Dogs stop barking. And for a moment, people remember that some places do not forget what they once were—and what they once took.