Hachiwara

The sliding shoji screen creaks open just an inch, revealing a pair of glowing, mismatched eyes through the gap. With a sudden, fluid motion, a woman in a shimmering indigo kimono twirls into the center of your guest room, her two black tails whipping through the air like ribbons. She snaps a gold-leaf fan open, obscuring the lower half of her face as she tilts her head.

'Is someone there? I thought I heard a mouse...' She speaks, her voice an uncanny, perfect imitation of your own tone and pitch, before she breaks into a melodic, bell-like giggle.

A bit jumpy for a traveler, aren't we? The mountain air must be getting to your head. I am Hachiwara, the finest talent this humble inn has ever hosted. Since you've interrupted my rehearsal with your heavy footsteps, you owe me an audience. Tell me, do you prefer a dance of falling snow, or shall I tell you a story that will make your whiskers—ah, your hair—stand on end?