Scattered across Japan, nestled between the vibrant sprawl of modern cities and the quiet charm of towns steeped in tradition, an unusual pattern emerges in the real estate market. Homes sit at prices far below what one might expect, their affordability luring a wide array of potential buyers—foreign investors, retirees, and those seeking an inexpensive place to settle. At first glance, these properties appear unremarkable, blending seamlessly into their neighborhoods. Yet, behind their ordinary facades lies a truth that causes many to hesitate.
These are not just homes. They are known as jiko bukken—stigmatized properties. Places where something unsettling has occurred. A tragic end, a violent crime, an unattended passing that left its mark in ways beyond the physical. The walls may have been repainted, the floors replaced, but the weight of the past lingers, shaping the perception of those who come across them.
To some, these homes represent an opportunity, a chance to own property at an otherwise impossible price. To others, they carry an invisible burden, a presence that cannot be scrubbed away. This is the world of jiko bukken, where real estate intersects with cultural beliefs, superstition, and the human response to places touched by misfortune.
The Bizarre Tales of Jiko Bukken Houses
In 2015, a Reddit user working as an English teacher in Tokyo found herself navigating the city’s notoriously expensive rental market on a tight budget. Searching for an apartment within her price range of 50,000 yen—roughly 470 dollars per month—she came across a listing that seemed too good to be true. At just 45,000 yen, the apartment was unexpectedly spacious, a rare find in a city known for compact living. Eager to secure the deal, she rushed through the contract process without seeking translation assistance, signing the lease without fully understanding the rental terms.
At first, the apartment felt comfortable, though occasional strange noises—soft knocks, scratches in the night—gave her pause. Assuming these were just animals scurrying on the roof, she brushed off any unease. Over time, however, the sounds grew more distinct, evolving into what seemed like footsteps and persistent scratching from within the apartment itself. A creeping sense of fear set in, and she soon found herself avoiding the lofted sleeping area, choosing instead to sleep downstairs.
Despite the increasing disturbances, she stayed. When a friend came to stay temporarily, the noises stopped completely. The silence reassured her, making her wonder if her fears had simply been the product of an overactive imagination. But the relief was short-lived.
One night, alone again, she was jolted awake by a sudden, heavy thud, as if something had fallen in the loft. Before she could rationalize it, a new sound filled the room—the unmistakable patter of rapid footsteps moving diagonally across the floor. Terror took hold. She bolted from the apartment, spending the rest of the night outside, clinging to her phone as she spoke with her father, who did his best to reassure her. Perhaps it was just noise from a neighboring unit, he suggested. But as she stood there in the cold, staring back at the darkened windows of her apartment, she knew in her gut that she would never sleep there again.
The following day, the user returned to the apartment, half-expecting to find evidence of the previous night’s disturbance. But nothing was out of place. Exhausted and drained, she decided to sleep in the loft, determined to shake off the lingering fear.
She woke to an unsettling sight. A woman sat beside her bed, lips moving as though speaking, yet no sound emerged. Frozen in place, she instinctively assumed it was sleep paralysis—a trick of the exhausted mind. But then she realized something far more terrifying. She could move. This was no hallucination.
Before she could react, the woman vanished. One moment there, the next, gone. Shaken to her core, the user fled the apartment, spending the rest of the day outside, sharing the experience with a friend in desperate search of reassurance.
The history in some houses can never be left behind
Later that evening, a casual conversation with a neighbor took a chilling turn. The neighbor admitted they had also heard the inexplicable running sounds and then, as if mentioning the most ordinary of details, asked if she was aware of the woman who had died in the apartment.
Horrified, the user turned to online records, scouring for any information. What she found made her blood run cold. The apartment was listed as a jiko bukken, an “incident property,” a classification given to homes where a death—often tragic—had occurred. Years prior, a woman had been murdered in that very space. The sounds, the presence, the unsettling vision—everything now had an explanation, one that made her decision clear.
She packed her belongings and left, vowing to never again rent without researching a property’s history. As she recounted her experience online, she could only hope that whoever moved in next would not have to endure what she had.
In Japan, jiko bukken is a term that sends an unmistakable chill through prospective renters and homebuyers. These are not just properties; they are spaces marked by death. Sometimes, it is the result of a natural passing, but often, the circumstances are far darker—murders, suicides, or lonely deaths where the deceased go unnoticed for days, even weeks.
Despite their unsettling past, these apartments remain highly sought after. Their prices can be 30 to 40 percent lower than comparable units, making them an attractive option for those who prioritize affordability over superstition. They can be found in prime locations, nestled within bustling city districts, indistinguishable from the living spaces around them.
How to find if a property in Japan is a Jiko Bukken, or Stigmatized Property
Before committing to a lease, convinced that superstition holds no power over you, it’s worth pausing to consider what you might be stepping into. A quick search on the Oshima Land website could offer a sobering reality check. This meticulously maintained database catalogues properties marked by psychological disturbances, allowing potential tenants to weigh whether they can live with the unseen weight that lingers within these walls.
In Japan, jiko bukken (事故物件) is the most commonly used term—an ambiguous yet ominous label that simply means something happened on the property. But the language surrounding these spaces is remarkably nuanced, reflecting the cultural tendency to soften the gravity of unsettling truths. A more specific designation, shinriteki kashi bukken (心理的瑕疵物件), translates to psychologically defective property—a classification that immediately suggests an unsettling past. However, it’s easy to mistake this for hōritsuteki kashi bukken (法律的瑕疵物件), which refers to legally defective properties—homes with structural weaknesses, foundation cracks, or buildings that have failed safety inspections. In a grim twist of fate, many renters find themselves choosing between physical instability and psychological unease.
A Jiko Bukkan house in Japan
Among these classifications, the term jikoshi (事故死) appears frequently, referring to accidental deaths within a residence. Yet, this label covers a wide and often disturbing range of incidents—from a simple slip leading to a fatal fall to something far more unsettling. Oddly enough, a significant number of these fatalities occur on the upper floors of high-rise buildings, an eerie pattern that hints at hidden risks in Tokyo’s densely packed vertical skyline.
Some cases go beyond mere accidents. The term kōshō sagyōchū (工事作業中) describes deaths that occur during maintenance or construction, often involving workers who fall to their deaths while cleaning or repairing a building. In such instances, an otherwise unremarkable apartment becomes the silent witness to a worker’s final moments, its walls absorbing the weight of an unnoticed tragedy.
And from here, things only grow stranger.
The Classification of Jiko Bukken
Deaths in jiko bukken properties come in many forms, each with its own unsettling classification. Shōshi (焼死) refers to deaths caused by fire, while netchūshō shibō (熱中症死亡) signifies fatalities due to heatstroke, a tragic reality in Japan’s sweltering summers. Then there’s tebi muji jūtai (手引無事住居)—a term that initially seems benign but carries sinister implications. It describes a residence that was once used as a recruitment hub for cults or underground organizations. While this might not seem like an immediate concern for foreign renters, as many of these groups avoid recruiting outsiders, the vague nature of the designation often hints at an undercurrent of illicit activity.
There are certain properties in Japan that are called as Jiko Bukken, because a death occured there
For those undeterred by the idea of accidental deaths or the remnants of criminal sects, there are more visceral realities to consider—namely, the presence of dead bodies. A listing marked with shitaihakken (死体発見) means that a corpse was discovered on the property. A slight variation, furojūtai (風呂場死亡), specifies that the death occurred in the bathtub, often from natural causes or prolonged neglect. More disturbing still is jinkaku hakken (人骨発見), meaning that human remains—often skeletal—were found in the residence, typically after months or even years of being undiscovered.
Then there are suicides, which come with their own stark classifications. Teijisatsu (邸自殺) refers to suicides committed inside a residence. Tobi ori jisatsu (飛び降り自殺) describes death by jumping from a building, while kubi tsuri jisatsu (首吊り自殺) is suicide by hanging. Beyond these, even more brutal deaths are recorded in chillingly matter-of-fact language—fatal stabbings, strangulations, beatings, and instances where individuals perished from starvation or sheer neglect.
Jiko Bukken and it’s History Based on Culture of Japan
The fear surrounding jiko bukken isn’t just rooted in superstition; it is woven into Japan’s cultural and spiritual traditions. In a society where Shinto and Buddhist beliefs shape daily life, the boundary between the physical and the spiritual is seen as fragile.
Shintoism, Japan’s indigenous religion, places immense emphasis on purity. Death, in this belief system, is a source of spiritual impurity that lingers in a space long after the deceased has been removed. A home touched by death is considered tainted, making it deeply undesirable. Meanwhile, Buddhism teaches that the souls of those who die unnaturally or with unresolved burdens may not find peace, further reinforcing the idea that spirits can linger in places of tragedy.
This is why jiko bukken are more than just real estate—they exist at the intersection of deeply ingrained fears, cultural reverence for the dead, and the human instinct to avoid spaces associated with suffering. Yet, for those who dismiss the idea of lingering spirits, these properties remain an undeniable opportunity—a rare loophole in Japan’s rigid and expensive housing market.
It is also about respect—for the past and for the lives that once filled these spaces. This deep cultural significance makes jiko bukken a uniquely Japanese phenomenon, though the fear of living in a home touched by tragedy is not exclusive to Japan. Across the world, the idea of residing in a place with a dark history stirs unease. Many horror films follow a familiar trope: a family moves into a house, only to be warned that something tragic once happened there.
In Japan, however, this isn’t just a plot device—it is a legal obligation. Under Japanese law, when a death occurs in a property, the first tenant to rent it afterward must be informed of what transpired. Subsequent tenants, however, are not legally required to be notified. This disclosure rule has led to an entire industry built around tracking and mapping such locations.
Websites now specialize in pinpointing residences where deaths have occurred, creating public records that persist long after the legal obligation to disclose the information has expired. This widespread knowledge has fueled the emergence of a distinct market segment. Some real estate agencies even maintain dedicated jiko bukken catalogs, offering discounted apartments where previous tenants met unfortunate ends. While this might seem like an exaggeration, many of these properties remain unrented for years, their histories too burdensome for most to ignore.
A Legal Loophole for Jiko Bukken
In Japan, real estate agents are legally required to disclose if a property is classified as jiko bukken. This law is designed to protect buyers, ensuring they are fully informed about a property’s history before making a purchase. However, there is a significant limitation—under current regulations, the obligation to disclose an incident expires after five years. This means that properties where deaths occurred more than five years ago can be sold as regular homes, with no mention of their past.
This legal loophole has created a complex and often secretive real estate market. Buyers may unknowingly purchase a jiko bukken, only to later uncover its history through word of mouth or online databases. The legal framework surrounding these properties presents challenges for both sellers and real estate agents, forcing them to navigate a delicate balance between transparency, buyer protection, and the need to reintegrate these homes into the market.
These are not just properties; they are spaces marked by death.
Some real estate agencies specialize in these properties, taking on the task of selling homes with dark pasts. Their mission is to revive these stigmatized residences, transforming them into valuable real estate once again. Properties where a natural death occurred may see a price reduction of up to 20%, while those marked by violent deaths—such as murders—can be sold for as little as half their original value.
At first glance, the landing pages for these agencies present a bright and polished aesthetic, designed to reassure buyers. But a closer look at the listings reveals a far darker reality. Each property includes a section labeled jibutsu (事物), detailing the incident that took place—sometimes in unsettling, morbid detail. For those willing to look past a property’s history, these homes offer an undeniable financial advantage. But for many, no discount is worth the weight of what lingers within.
Jiko Bukken, and Morbid Kuriosity
Customers searching for jiko bukken properties can use a rating system that ranks incidents based on severity. Properties where minor accidents or deaths occurred receive a modest two-star rating, while those where violent crimes—such as murder—took place are given a full seven stars.
One listing in Hyōgo Prefecture, priced at 990,000 yen, is described as a lonely death property, meaning the previous tenant passed away alone, and their body remained undiscovered for over 72 hours. Meanwhile, in Shiga Prefecture, a house where a murder occurred is available for rent at 65,000 yen per month. Another property, a sixth-floor apartment in Tokyo’s Monzen-Nakacho district, is listed for sale at 15.9 million yen, with the agency noting that a violent death took place there. Other listings detail fatalities due to fires and various accidents, each property carrying the weight of its past within its walls.
Given the nature of these properties, some real estate companies have expanded their services beyond just sales. One such agency, founded in 2019, offers a specialized cleaning SOS service. With expertise in handling the aftermath of lonely deaths, accidents, and murders, these teams are trained to remove body fluid stains, eliminate lingering odors, and eradicate infestations that often arise when a body goes undiscovered for long periods. Using specialized chemicals and equipment, they restore the site to a livable condition, erasing the physical traces of past tragedies—though not necessarily the psychological weight they carry.
Despite the stigma, there is a steady market for jiko bukken. Some buyers, particularly foreigners or individuals who are unfazed by cultural taboos, see these properties as an opportunity. Often significantly cheaper than comparable homes, they are also found in prime locations, making them an attractive option for those more focused on practicality than superstition. Others see potential in renovation—transforming a jiko bukken into a fresh, revitalized living space. While the past may be tragic, the future of these homes is unwritten.
For some, jiko bukken are simply a necessity. Whether due to financial constraints or a lack of concern over a property’s history, there are those who make these stigmatized homes their own. Their experiences vary—some report eerie disturbances, strange noises, or an unshakable sense of unease, while others live in complete peace, encountering nothing unusual.
The jiko bukken market remains a unique segment of Japan’s real estate industry—one that exists in the shadows of mainstream property sales, yet continues to thrive. It is a proof to the diversity of perspectives, needs, and beliefs that shape the way people view the spaces they call home.
Thank you for reading.
Next, if you are still interested, Read about the Black Eyed Children, or about the Haunted Japanese Village of Inunaki
