Tokyo’s Cursed Samurai: The Legend of Masakado’s Head

In a city where the old and new collide with breathtaking beauty, it’s easy to overlook the small things. Between the glass towers of Tokyo’s Otemachi financial district, nestled amid office blocks and broad avenues, lies a quiet stone monument no larger than a parking space. Surrounded by a low fence and a scattering of trees, it’s a place easily missed by passersby in suits rushing to their next meeting. But those who know its story don’t rush past. They pause. They bow. And some glance nervously over their shoulders.

This is the Masakado Kubizuka—the burial mound of a man whose death should have ended his rebellion, but instead may have given rise to one of Japan’s most enduring curses. For over a thousand years, this seemingly insignificant site has been tied to unexplained accidents, illness, and death. And according to many, the restless spirit of Taira no Masakado is to blame.

Taira no Masakado was a powerful samurai and landholder during the Heian period. In 939 AD, he led a rebellion against the Kyoto-based imperial court, seizing control of the Kanto region and declaring himself the new emperor. It was a treasonous act that shook the nation. The central government responded swiftly, and Masakado was killed in battle just months later. His severed head was taken to Kyoto and put on public display—a grim warning to anyone who might defy the state.

But Masakado’s story didn’t end with his death. According to legend, his head refused to decompose. Locals whispered that his eyes remained wide open, staring at the sky. Then, one night, it vanished. The next day, in what would become modern-day Tokyo, a farmer claimed to have seen a severed head fall from the sky and land near his field. The head was recognised as Masakado’s, and it was buried with haste and fear, lest his angry spirit roam the land.

The place where it was interred became known as the kubizuka—a mound for a severed head. And it has been feared ever since.

Over the centuries, attempts to build on or near the mound have ended in disaster, or so the stories go. After the Great Kanto Earthquake of 1923, Tokyo was in ruins. As the city began the long process of reconstruction, the Ministry of Finance made the fateful decision to level the mound and construct a temporary office complex over it. What followed would solidify the site’s haunted reputation.

Within two years, fourteen individuals who worked at that building died, including the Minister of Finance himself, Seiji Sasaki. Reports cited illnesses, sudden accidents, and inexplicable incidents. One man reportedly fell from scaffolding without warning. Another collapsed at his desk and died the same day. Though the deaths were not officially linked to the site, the frequency and proximity were enough to convince many that Masakado’s spirit had been disturbed.

In 1940, as if to reaffirm the warning, a bolt of lightning struck the Ministry of Finance, sparking a fire that destroyed the new buildings erected near the mound. The symbolism wasn’t lost on locals. The lightning strike occurred almost exactly one thousand years after Masakado’s death.

Following World War II, Allied forces occupied much of Tokyo, and plans were once again drawn up to clear the area. But soon after bulldozers arrived, a construction vehicle overturned and killed the driver on-site. American officials, initially skeptical, began to heed the advice of local staff who warned them not to disturb the kubizuka. The project was halted, and purification rites were performed.

Today, the Otemachi district is a symbol of modern Japan—home to banks, news agencies, and multinational headquarters. Yet ,amid the sleek glass towers and perfectly paved streets, the mound remains. It’s neatly maintained, occasionally decorated with offerings, and visited by workers who pass it on their way to lunch or meetings. Some stop to bow. Others avoid eye contact. Few speak openly about the stories.

Shinto priests continue to perform rites at the site, especially if new construction takes place nearby. Even in an age driven by technology and logic, Masakado’s spirit commands a certain quiet respect. Whether you believe in curses or not, the care taken by locals suggests that they’d rather not take any chances.

Employees in nearby buildings have reported electrical malfunctions, sudden chills, and an eerie sense of being watched. Some have even claimed to see a figure in traditional armour standing silently near the mound at night, only to vanish when approached. A few office workers requested to be moved to different floors when their windows overlooked the site, citing a feeling of overwhelming unease they couldn’t explain.

One account tells of a tech firm that moved into a high-rise adjacent to the kubizuka. Within months, multiple employees had been hospitalised due to migraines and stress-related conditions. A senior executive collapsed during a presentation and was later diagnosed with a mysterious neurological condition. The firm quietly relocated the department, and the incident was never publicly acknowledged.

While most historical rebels in Japan are remembered with scorn, Masakado has evolved into something different—a symbol of resistance against authority, a protector of the Kanto region, and even a local kami (spirit or deity) in some traditions. In Chiba Prefecture, where he was born, there are shrines in his honour. Some see him not as a ghost to be feared, but a misunderstood guardian who became restless after being wronged. Still, the warnings remain: disturb Masakado at your peril.

His mound sits quietly among the office towers, a silent monument to a man who dared to challenge the emperor—and perhaps, even in death, refuses to be defeated. I’ll be in Japan for a few days next week, and I plan to stop by the site myself—to pay my respects, and to see if the air really does feel different when you’re standing that close to a legend.