In the serene yet shadowed countryside of ancient Japan, where whispers of the supernatural danced with the wind, there lived a woman named Akiko. Her beauty was unparalleled, a face that seemed painted by the gods themselves. Her delicate features, framed by long, silken black hair, drew admiration from all who beheld her. Yet, in the quiet spaces of her life, Akiko felt the weight of her beauty—a fragile gift that demanded perfection and evoked jealousy as much as awe. Among her many admirers was Haruto, a samurai renowned for his valor and discipline.
Struck by her beauty, Haruto won Akiko’s hand in marriage. Their union was celebrated as a perfect match: the noble warrior and the village’s most enchanting woman. Yet, beneath the surface of their shared life, cracks began to form. Haruto’s love, once tender and protective, grew possessive and stifling. The sight of her beauty, cherished by others, fueled his insecurities. Over time, insidious whispers began to circulate through the village. Envious eyes, hidden behind polite smiles, whispered accusations of Akiko’s infidelity. The rumors were baseless, but Haruto, already consumed by jealousy, let them take root in his mind. Each whisper became a thorn, pricking at his heart, twisting his love into a venomous obsession. One fateful evening, Haruto returned home early, the soft glow of a lantern casting flickering shadows in their quiet home. He found Akiko sitting before a polished bronze mirror, her long hair cascading over her shoulders as she combed it. The sight, which had once filled him with pride, now kindled his rage. The reflection of her beauty mocked him, igniting every insecurity and fear. “Do you think your beauty can hide your lies?” Haruto’s voice, low and cold, sliced through the stillness. Startled, Akiko turned to face him, her wide eyes reflecting her confusion. “Haruto, I swear to you, I have done nothing wrong.” But Haruto, blinded by the poison of doubt, would not listen. In a flash of steel and fury, he drew his katana. The blade sang through the air, leaving a jagged, bloody wound across her once-perfect face, stretching from the corner of her mouth to her ear. “Who will look at you now?” he spat, his voice trembling with a twisted mix of triumph and despair. He turned and left, leaving Akiko crumpled on the floor, her screams echoing into the night. Her beauty, once her greatest gift, had become her undoing. Alone and bleeding, Akiko’s spirit shattered. The pain of betrayal, the anguish of her disfigurement, and the cruel loss of her identity consumed her. When she finally succumbed to her injuries, her torment did not end. Instead, it transformed her. In death, Akiko became the Slit-Mouthed Woman, a vengeful spirit fueled by the anguish of her earthly life. Her once-beautiful face, now a grotesque mockery of her former self, was hidden behind a white surgical mask. Her presence brought a chill to the air, her figure shrouded in a long, flowing coat, and her hands gripping sharp scissors—an echo of the violence that had claimed her. It is said that she roams the streets under the cover of night, seeking to confront others with the question that had haunted her life: “Am I beautiful?” If the answer is “No,” her wrath is swift—she slays her victim with her scissors. If the answer is “Yes,” she removes her mask, revealing the horrifying gash that distorts her face, and asks again, “How about now?” Those who answer “Yes” a second time are mutilated, their mouths slashed to mirror her own. Those who say “No” are met with the same fate. Only a few legends speak of escape: distracting her with candies she once loved or confusing her with ambiguous answers, such as, “You’re average.” One misty night, a young scholar named Kenji ventured into the forest, drawn by curiosity about the legend of The Slit-Mouthed Woman. He carried no weapons, only a sharp mind and a heart steeped in empathy. As the fog thickened, he heard the soft shuffle of footsteps behind him. “Am I beautiful?” a gentle yet eerie voice asked. Kenji turned slowly, his eyes meeting the figure of a woman shrouded in a long coat, her face hidden behind a white mask. The air grew heavy, the silence oppressive. Instead of fear, Kenji felt a profound sadness emanating from her. “Beauty,” Kenji began, his voice steady and calm, “is more than what is seen. It is found in resilience, in the strength to endure pain, and in the kindness, we show despite it.” The figure paused, her masked face tilting as if caught off guard. Kenji continued; his tone gentle but unwavering. “Your pain is written in your question. What happened to you was cruel, but it does not define you. Who you are is far more than what others see.” For a moment, there was only silence. Then, with trembling hands, she removed her mask, revealing the ghastly wound. “How about now?” she whispered, her voice cracking with sorrow. Kenji did not flinch. He met her gaze, seeing not a monster, but a broken soul. “You are more than your scars,” he said softly. “They tell a story of suffering, but they do not diminish your worth.” A single tear slipped down her disfigured cheek. For the first time in centuries, The Slit-Mouthed Woman felt something other than rage: she felt seen, not for her beauty or her scars, but for her pain and humanity. With a sigh that carried the weight of her torment, she vanished into the mist, leaving only the faint scent of cherry blossoms behind. Kenji stood in silence, the forest once again still. He carried her story with him, sharing it not as a tale of horror, but as a lesson about the destructive power of jealousy and the healing strength of compassion. The legend of The Slit-Mouthed Woman persists, a reminder that beauty is fleeting, but empathy endures. And in the face of darkness, understanding can illuminate even the most desolate of paths.