What type of story scares you the
most? Perhaps something dark, visceral, rooted in physical danger? Or something subtle,
psychological, with layers of unseen dread? Or maybe something unknowable, inexplicable,
that lifts the veil on reality and exposes the cosmic terrors of the universe? The work of
Japanese horror manga artist Junji Ito exists at the intersection of all our greatest fears.
His tales capture primal anxieties so expertly they can seem truly mysterious. So, what I
want to do today is peel back those layers of mystery, and explore what makes Junji Ito’s
worldbuilding so… darn spooky. And to do that, we’ll need to find our courage and dive
headfirst into this ocean of terrors… Our first specimen from the inky depths of
Junji Ito’s imagination is a fish with strange, spider-like legs. The creature comes from the
story “Gyo” — a narrative famous for being both deeply innovative and utterly unhinged. The tale
begins with a young man named Tadashi enjoying a vacation in Okinawa, Japan. Returning from a scuba
trip, he discovers at his house a strange fish possessing what appear to be metallic legs. There
is no indication of where such a baffling lifeform could have come from, with Tadashi wondering if
it’s an undiscovered species. But this creature is just the beginning... On the beach later that
night, more fish scuttle out of the water on long, spindly limbs — a visual that is equal
parts absurd and unsettling. These fish, however, are merely scouts: the first wave of
an incomprehensible invasion. Across Okinawa, sightings of limbed marine life become
more frequent. On a fishing trawler, a day’s haul turns deadly and attacks the
crew. The entire ocean seems changed into an ecosystem of ravenous terrors, with
no species left unaffected. From there, the narrative escalates at a breakneck pace,
with an army of fish sweeping over the land like a great wave. Species from higher and higher up
the oceanic food chain venture out of the depths, a trend that eventually results in a massive shark
rampaging across the surface. Beyond the obvious horror of a land shark trying to eat you, there’s
an uncomfortable sense of shattered boundaries in this scene — a feeling that you’re seeing
something that simply should not be. Terrors from the sea are a familiar trope, coming with set
expectations as to when the monster can strike, and when characters are safe. But “Gyo” destroys
that barrier of safety, eliminating all places to hide from the creatures of the abyss. The
violent collision of realms creates a tangible helplessness, a certainty of extinction
central to Junji Ito’s style of horror. …There’s another story about dark things emerging
from the depths, one that can help us better understand the madness of Junji Ito’s “Gyo.”
The surreal video game “Death Stranding” is set in the wake of a cataclysm where entities
known as “beached things” entered our world. And though the creatures emerged not from the sea
but from a purgatory-like realm called the Beach, the parallels between the apocalypses of “Death
Stranding” and “Gyo” are illuminating. Both are stories of worlds colliding — of incompatible
environments smashing together with catastrophic consequences. The clashing of worlds can be felt
in designs that merge the mechanical with the biological — the incongruent elements forced
together in a way that seems almost… painful. There’s a sense that the marine life in “Gyo”
and the beached things in “Death Stranding” didn’t ask to be dragged ashore, and are just
as much victims of this collision as humanity. One lesser-known short story of Junji Ito’s,
titled “The Thing That Drifted Ashore,” dives deeper into the horror and tragedy of a lifeform
stranded out of its element — and is the missing puzzle piece in understanding how Ito and “Death
Stranding” fit together. The narrative begins with the corpse of a massive creature washing up on the
shores of the Pacific Ocean. It resembles a mighty serpent, although decompression from rising from
the abyss has turned it into something grotesque. Its body is bloated and rotting, with a head
covered in tumors and parasites. A crowd has come to watch this shipwrecked creature decompose,
among them a boy with a strange connection to the sea who serves as the narrator. For much of his
life, the boy has been tormented with dreams of the deep ocean — cursed with distressing visions
of great fish that swim through the hostile dark. The dreams started following a traumatic trip
to an aquarium, where the boy witnessed deep sea fish his mind wasn’t ready to perceive. In
this regard, the boy and the beached creature have a peculiar connection, with both suffering
from their exposure to the other’s environment. The theme of environmental suffering in “The
Thing That Drifted Ashore” is reminiscent of a real tragic phenomenon. Throughout history,
whales and other marine mammals have been observed beaching themselves, then collapsing
under their own weight. The phenomenon seems to have worsened due to the invention of sonar, and
is known as ‘Cetacean Stranding’ — which, notably, is where “Death Stranding” gets its title from.
On a surface level, the beached things in “Death Stranding” parallel the marooned creatures of
Junji Ito and Earth’s real shores. Yet the human survivors inhabiting the post-apocalyptic world
of the game are also ‘marooned’ in their own way. In the wake of the cataclysmic clash of
realities, Earth has been transformed into an inhospitable land reminiscent of the sea floor.
Like marine life on dry land, humans suffer in this new environment, their bodies not built for
such an ecosystem… In the latter half of “The Thing That Drifted Ashore,” the onlookers notice
something inside the creature’s stomach. Through a layer of transparent skin, human beings stare
back at the crowd. Cutting the creature open, the onlookers are shocked to discover the people
are still alive. The survivors of a boat accident from seven years prior, they somehow became
zombie-like parasites living in the intestines of the leviathan after being swallowed. Like
the boy traumatized by the aquarium, the years of staring into the abyss through the creature’s
transparent skin caused them to lose their minds. There are some things humans are not meant
to witness. Things our mind cannot fathom, that defy all reason. The crowd in “The Thing”
attempt to rationalize the unknown creature, theorizing how it might have moved through the
depths — yet are ultimately unable to understand it. Likewise, multiple explanations for the limbed
fish are put forward in “Gyo,” from a military experiment gone wrong to a natural phenomenon,
but none seems quite right. A central element of what makes Junji Ito’s horror worldbuilding
so effective is how much he withholds from the reader. Without a clear sense of how a threat
functions, your rational mind goes blank, letting you experience terrors on
a primal level. In some respects, the creator of “Death Stranding,” Hideo Kojima,
takes the opposite approach, as his game has hours upon hours dedicated to explaining how its
universe works. And side note: Junji Ito himself actually makes a cameo in one of these expository
sequences, making his influence on the game more evident. But Junji Ito’s own horror rarely grants
the comfort of an explanation. Like staring into the depths of the sea, reading his work can feel
like gazing at something truly unfathomable... And perhaps no story wields the terror of the
inexplicable better “The Enigma of Amigara Fault.” The setup is deceptively simple: an
earthquake reveals a several kilometer long fault, and upon the rockface, foreboding holes shaped
like the silhouettes of humans become visible. People from across the nation are drawn to the
unfathomable sight after seeing it on the news. Each of the thousands of holes appears to extend
endlessly into the dark of the mountain. There’s no indication as to where they came from. They
simply are. And then, things get stranger. People in the crowd start to realize that certain holes
are shaped exactly like them. And one by one, they are overcome with a compulsion to enter
their holes, disappearing into the suffocating depths. There’s an unbearable sense of
claustrophobia this story can instill, making it impossible not to imagine what it would
be like to be stuck within the holes yourself, unable to move. Beyond this physical terror,
there’s real psychological dread in the way people can’t escape the impulse to trap themselves, their
agency slipping away as the inexplicable need becomes all-consuming. It’s really grim stuff.
And maybe… kind of funny? For as disturbing as the situation can be, there’s an absurdity to the
concept that can at times feel almost comedic. This humor is present in the margins of a lot of
Junji Ito’s work, and can at first be difficult to reconcile with the disturbing subject matter. But
understanding how absurdity and fear intertwine is central to appreciating why these stories are so
affecting — and to do that, we have to talk about “House.” [Sounds of Chaos] Directed by Nobuhiko
Obayashi, “House” is… a lot. A psychedelic blend of horror and comedy, the film involves a
group of friends visiting the mansion of an old woman in the remote countryside. This seemingly
standard plot soon derails into total insanity as common household objects attack the group, the
effects designed to look fake as possible. A piano eats someone, another character has a fight with
sentient futon cushions and loses, one person gets teleported inside an evil clock. It can seem like
nonsense, and a lot of it is — but like the works of Junji Ito, there’s a method to the madness. The
silliness makes the rare moments of genuine terror more visceral and unexpected. Because you’re
never sure what kind of scene you’ll get next, it’s hard to relax. Compared to Ito’s horror, this
film definitely leans harder into absurdity, to the point where it can outright break your brain.
There’s a scene where a pair of disembodied legs kick a cat painting, which destroys the spirit of
a cat, because the cat’s soul was in the painting, or it was the painting, but then the cat was
also a part of the lady who owns the house, so she’s destroyed, but then it turns out, not
really. Do not ask me what is happening because sound like they were written by a child… they
were. Obayashi used story ideas from his young daughter, as he believed the irrational thoughts
of a child would help the movie frighten people on a more intrinsic level. Yes, much of “House” is
absurd — but ultimately, all absurdity means is a lack of reason, and if you can’t reason
with something, you aren’t safe from it. At the end of “The Enigma of Amigara Fault,” every
main character succumbs to the need to enter the hole they were made for. Months later, a research
team discovers the fault extends to the other side of the mountain — but the holes are no longer
the same shape. And from the darkness, something horrifically twisted is creeping slowly closer.
…And that’s the last glimpse you get. You’re left with no explanations. No resolution. Just the
terrifying, bewildering absurdity of it all. …If there’s a culmination to Junji Ito’s work,
an ultimate merger of fear and absurdity, I’d say it’s probably a little story
titled “Uzumaki.” I say ‘little’ story, but “Uzumaki” is one of the longest Ito ever
wrote, and in my opinion, ultimately the most unsettling. The narrative is centered on a city
plagued by a mysterious, supernatural curse that takes the form of… spirals. Yes, spirals. Every
scare in the story links back in some way or another to this simple pattern. And if that sounds
too strange to be frightening… well, wait and see. The spirals start small. A man becomes obsessed
with the whirl of a snail’s shell, staring at it for hours. Tiny whirlpools appear in the city’s
water supply. But soon, people’s bodies begin to horribly contort into the spiral shape. The
pattern spreads like a disease, with everything in the city becoming infected. Buildings loop
back onto each other like a swirling labyrinth. Plants grow in endless, dizzying twirls. Even
the sky itself becomes a horrible spiral, the clouds becoming a dark omen of the city’s fate.
One of the most discussed elements of “Uzumaki” is how helpless the main characters are in the
face of such a cosmic, incomprehensible threat. Like the shape itself, there’s an inevitability
to the spirals — a sense from the beginning that things will only get worse and worse. The story
conveys a level of powerlessness very few pieces of media have achieved. [Music] If “Uzumaki” has a
companion, another narrative experience that makes you feel similarly insignificant in the face of
unknowable dangers, I’d argue it’s the indie game “World of Horror.” Created by Polish developer
Pawel Kozminski, the point and click adventure is all about making the player feel as defenseless
as possible. In the story, you solve mysteries in a city afflicted by enigmatic entities known
as the old gods. The plot and aesthetics are explicitly inspired by the work of Junji Ito, and
playthroughs really can feel like you’re living through one of his stories. You’re constantly on
the backfoot, trying to manage your character’s dwindling sanity and stamina as you experience a
never-ending parade of nightmares in a randomly generated order. It’s not really a game that
you win so much as a game that you… undergo. Play for long enough, and some form of dark fate
is virtually inevitable. I don’t think it’s much of a spoiler to say that “Uzumaki” has a similar
ending. As is the case across Junji Ito’s stories, there’s no winning against something so irrational
it’s impossible to understand. In the final chapter, there’s some explanation as to where the
spirals come from, but it’s so vague it functions less like an answer and more like another
question — another layer in an infinite mystery. Balancing ambiguity and irrationality with genuine
fear is a tricky thing. Junji Ito pushes these concepts near their breaking point in “Hellstar
Remina,” an absolutely bonkers narrative about a planet that appears in Earth’s solar system
out of blue. What at first seems like a passing celestial object turns out to be something else
entirely, as the planet opens a single giant eye and beholds the Earth. Ito’s reoccurring theme of
humanity’s insignificance is perhaps at its most extreme in these panels, with Earth rendered
a meaningless speck in a cruel cosmos. All attempts by humans to understand the interstellar
visitor end in disaster, and mass hysteria grips the entire population. And from there, well,
let’s just say that the rogue planet turns out to have a rather large appetite. It’s some truly
out-there media, to the point where it might be too much for some people. But Junji Ito’s
content is meant to be ‘out-there’ — meant to be so surreal and at times even ludicrous that
you can’t anticipate what happens next. One of Junji Ito’s more lighthearted works is his “Cat
Diary” — an autobiographical story about getting over his fear of his wife’s cats. And while
nothing disturbing happens in the actual plot, the art is still so comically unsettling —
with the ordinary cats portrayed like they’re cosmic terrors. To me, this is Ito reminding us
that the absurdity of his horror is a feature, not a bug — an essential part of what makes his
work so consistently unpredictable. Junji Ito’s stories are an exercise in tonal contradictions,
which is likely why his work is so hard to adapt. Despite many attempts, most translations of his
narratives to other mediums feel like they’re missing something. Even something as simple as
adding color to his illustrations can throw off his delicate balance of ambiguity. That’s why one
of my favorite adaptations is probably “Mold,” an episode from a recent Netflix anthology that
keeps things in black and white. The original short story tells the tale of someone returning
to an old house only to find a nauseating mold has taken over the foundations. The lack of color
is a huge part of what makes the art so effective, as it’s difficult to tell what the mold really
is. The episode’s choice to keep the color drained from each scene preserves that uncertainty, that
creeping sense that something else is going on in the house. The visuals work so well, I honestly
wonder if all adaptations of Junji Ito shouldn’t stick to black and white. Adult Swim has been
working on a pen and ink adaptation of “Uzumaki” for a long, long time, and I sincerely hope it’s
as good as early footage makes it seem. For the dream of a perfect adaptation that recaptures
everything that makes Junji Ito’s art so special is difficult to let go of. But ultimately, Junji
Ito’s work is irreplaceable for a reason. The artist has been quoted as saying that he’ll spend
multiple days refining a single panel, making sure the image perfectly captures the terror of what
he’s trying to convey. And you can feel that in every line — that relentless attention to detail
that makes his art so rewarding to revisit and analyze. Yet at the same time, his stories often
don’t take themselves too seriously, reminding us that absurdity is just as much a part of life as
bodily horror. In the end, like a pair of severed legs kicking a cat painting, Junji Ito’s art
is a deeply original blend of fear, silliness, ambiguity and irrationality — as difficult to
summarize as it is to duplicate. As always, thanks for watching. If you enjoyed this entry, please
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on all things Curious. See you in the next video.
