The legend of the Hachishaku-sama, or "Eight-Foot Woman," is one of the most chilling tales to emerge from modern Japanese urban folklore. The story describes a towering figure, about eight feet tall (roughly 2.4 meters), dressed in a flowing white dress and wearing a wide-brimmed white hat. Her haunting presence is accompanied by a strange mechanical-sounding voice, repeating a deep "bo-bo" sound. The legend says she preys on young males, especially boys, luring them into her grasp, and those who encounter her are doomed to die within days.
Some believe the Hachishaku-sama legend was inspired by Western urban myths like Slenderman, reimagined for a Japanese context. However, the tale has deepened in Japan over the years, blending elements of ancient folklore and modern fear. In some depictions, she is portrayed as a creature who has existed since the Jōmon period, an ancient deity or entity once worshiped by early humans to ward off disasters. But as modern times encroached, she became a malevolent force, indifferent to humanity and driven only by her instincts.
My own encounter with the Hachishaku-sama is something I will never forget. It happened years ago when I visited my grandfather's countryside home. The house was a typical rural Japanese farmhouse, a two-hour drive from the city. I'd loved going there as a kid, enjoying the peaceful surroundings and the warm hospitality of my grandparents. After I learned to ride a motorbike, I started visiting on my own during school holidays, much to my grandparents' delight. But one visit, in the summer of my final year of high school, changed everything.
That day, I rode my bike to my grandfather's house, arriving late in the afternoon. Despite the chilly weather, sunlight poured into the wooden hallway, making it feel cozy. I sat by the window, enjoying the warmth, when I heard an unusual sound: "bo-bo." It wasn't mechanical, like the hum of an engine—it sounded almost human. Puzzled, I looked out toward the garden.
There, I saw a hat. A white hat was moving along the top of the garden fence, not placed on it but as if someone extremely tall was walking behind it. Slowly, the hat came into view through a gap in the fence, revealing a woman dressed in a white gown. The fence was over two meters high, so I realized whoever was wearing the hat must be unnaturally tall. I froze in surprise, watching as she continued to walk until she disappeared from sight. The sound—"bo-bo"—faded with her.
Shaking off the encounter as a trick of the light or some unusually tall passerby, I went back inside. Later, while drinking tea with my grandparents, I casually mentioned what I'd seen. Their reactions stunned me. My grandfather immediately stiffened, his face turning pale. He peppered me with questions: "When did you see her? Where? How tall did she seem compared to the fence?"
After I answered, he said nothing, instead walking quickly out of the house to make a phone call. My grandmother, visibly trembling, finally spoke. "You may have been targeted by Hachishaku-sama. Don't worry. Your grandfather will take care of it."
I had no idea what she was talking about, so she explained. According to local lore, Hachishaku-sama is an ancient, dangerous entity confined to this area. She appears as a towering woman, her eerie "bo-bo" laughter marking her presence. Her appearance varies slightly depending on the person—some see her as a widow in mourning clothes, others as a middle-aged farmwoman or an elderly lady in a kimono. But her extraordinary height and the mechanical sound she makes are constants.
She is said to enchant her victims, usually young males, with her laugh or presence. Once marked, the victim rarely escapes. The last reported encounter had been fifteen years prior, and the victim hadn't survived. My grandmother told me that the village had specific safeguards to limit Hachishaku-sama's movements, including small Jizō statues placed at key points around the area. These statues acted as barriers, confining her within the village limits.
My grandfather returned shortly, announcing that I wouldn't be going home that day. He'd called a priest—"K-Sensei"—who would perform rituals to protect me. That evening, K-Sensei arrived, a diminutive but commanding elderly woman carrying a small box of talismans. She handed me a protective charm and told me not to let it leave my side. She and my grandfather then headed upstairs, locking themselves in a room to prepare.
Meanwhile, my grandmother refused to leave my side, even following me to the bathroom and insisting the door stay slightly ajar. I finally realized how serious the situation was. Later, I was instructed to stay in a specific upstairs room for the night. The windows were sealed with newspaper, each corner of the room contained a bowl of salt, and a small wooden shrine with a Buddha statue sat in the center. "You must stay in this room until morning," my grandfather warned. "No matter what you hear, do not open the door. Not for anyone."
K-Sensei added, "If you feel scared, hold the charm and pray before the Buddha. But whatever you do, don't leave."
With that, they left me alone. I sat in the room, clutching the charm as the hours dragged by. Around midnight, I awoke to a strange tapping sound. At first, I thought it was the wind rattling the windows, but the sound was too deliberate, like fingers softly rapping against the glass. Then came the voice—my grandfather's voice—calling my name from outside.
"Come out. It's okay now," the voice said.
I froze, remembering the warning. It sounded exactly like him, but deep down, I knew it wasn't. The tapping grew louder, and the voice became more insistent. "What's wrong? It's me. Open the door."
Terrified, I squeezed the charm and prayed, ignoring the voice. That's when the "bo-bo" sound returned, louder and closer than before. I dared not look but imagined her towering figure outside the window, reaching for me. The tapping turned into pounding, and the sound of her laughter echoed through the room. I prayed harder, tears streaming down my face, until, finally, everything stopped. Exhausted, I passed out.
When I woke, the room was silent. The salt bowls in the corners had turned black. Checking my watch, I saw it was past seven in the morning—the time my grandfather said I could leave. Opening the door cautiously, I found him and K-Sensei waiting outside, relief written all over their faces.
"Thank goodness," my grandmother cried, embracing me. Outside, I saw several men loading into a van, their faces grim. My grandfather explained they had ensured Hachishaku-sama was driven back to her confines. They had taken extraordinary measures to protect me, even involving distant relatives to confuse her trail.
Before I left, my grandfather made me promise never to return to the village. I haven't gone back since. Years later, when my grandfather passed away, I wasn't allowed to attend the funeral—another precaution against Hachishaku-sama. To this day, I can't shake the memory of that night or the chilling sound of her laughter. Even now, I carry the charm K-Sensei gave me, a reminder of how close I came to becoming her prey.