Umibake is a yōkai known only from monster picture scrolls drawn after the Edo period. It appears among collections of strange beings painted together, without a written tale to explain its origin or deeds.
The Umibake emerges upon the surface of the water. Its body is long and slender like that of a serpent, stretching across the waves as it rises. Though its form is aquatic and elongated, its face and the shape of its hands resemble those of a familiar kind of yōkai often seen in monster scrolls, giving it an oddly human presence despite its inhuman body.
No story tells what Umibake does when it appears, nor why it comes forth from the water. It is simply seen there, floating or rising, a quiet and unsettling shape upon the surface of the sea.
Like many yōkai preserved only in pictures, Umibake remains a vision without explanation—its meaning carried only in its form, suspended between water and imagination.
From the deepest darkness before the world was formed, Abyzou came forth. She rose from the primeval waters, from the abyss that existed before heaven and earth were divided. In that endless sea she was born barren, and from her barrenness grew envy without limit.
Abyzou wandered the world without rest or sleep. She moved silently through night and shadow, drawn to the cries of women in labor and the breath of newborn children. She was said to feel no mercy, for what she desired most had been denied her forever. Because she could not give life, she sought to take it.
When a woman lay ready to give birth, Abyzou would draw near. If she was not driven away, she strangled infants in their cradles, stole them in the night, or brought sickness upon them so that they wasted away. She whispered illness into bodies, closing throats, blinding eyes, twisting minds, and filling flesh with pain. Wherever she passed, suffering followed.
Abyzou did not walk openly among mortals. Her form was half-seen: a greenish, gleaming face framed by writhing, serpent-like hair, while the rest of her body dissolved into darkness. Sometimes she appeared with the scales or tail of a fish or serpent, for she belonged to the ancient waters. She claimed to possess countless names and shapes, changing them constantly so that none might easily command her.
In ancient times, King Solomon encountered her while binding demons to build the Temple. When she was brought before him in chains, she confessed her deeds freely, boasting that she never slept and that each night she sought children to destroy. Solomon ordered her bound by her own hair and displayed before the Temple, so that all might see the demon who preyed upon mothers and infants.
Yet Abyzou could never be destroyed. She could only be driven away.
Thus people learned to defend themselves through sacred names, seals, and charms. Her name was written on amulets, spoken aloud in childbirth, carved into metal and stone. When she was named correctly, she was forced to flee. When the names of her enemies—angels, saints, or divine protectors—were invoked, she recoiled in fury and envy.
In Egypt she was known as Alabasandria. In Byzantium she was Gylou or Gello. In each land she took a new name, but her hunger remained the same. Riders trampled her beneath their horses in sacred images. She was whipped, bound, cursed, and cast out in spells, yet always returned when vigilance failed.
Only one thing could stop her: knowledge of her names. When a woman about to give birth wore an amulet bearing those names, Abyzou was powerless. Forced by oath, she would turn away and retreat to the dark waters from which she had come.
And so Abyzou still wanders the edges of night, driven by envy, searching for life she can never possess—an ancient shadow born from the abyss, feared wherever children are born.
