The Outcast Hours

by Mahvesh Murad

  Awareness came upon me then, as sudden as sleeper starting awake from a night terror—I had dreamed all this before, just like Caleb, only I had forgotten everything until this very moment. Or perhaps my dream began where his ended? It didn’t much matter, for like the song goes, even awful dreams are good dreams, if you’re doing it right. And besides, we were both awake now, more awake than most people will ever be. Anything that came after was worth the cost, and I gladly surrendered myself to the rushing current of the night.

  I passed Caleb, suppressing the obscene urge to wish him Grüss Gott as I neared the crowded cross he couldn’t bring himself to approach. A part of me shuddered at this coldness, but that section of myself was fading faster than the details of a dream on a busy morning, and would be gone for good the next time I went looking for it. I was dimly aware my shadow had fallen behind as well, turning its attention to Caleb. The rest of the assembly either welcomed me or tried to ward me off, I wasn’t sure which—I wasn’t looking at them.

  I was looking to where the cliff fell away on the far side of the cross, to the distant winking lights of a village far below, like stars sunk in a deep, dark pool. I touched the cross, the wood cold against my clammy fingers, and I saw my eyes had been playing tricks with me again—instead of ending in a sheer drop to the valley floor, the ridge actually continued up, winding its way to a familiar city built into the ivory shoulder of the highest peak in the range. Countless figures moved along that star-cobbled mountain trail. I would miss night hiking with Caleb, but I knew other, older friends waited to welcome me home.

  I didn’t look back.

  Welcome to the Haunted House

  Yukimi Ogawa

  Ichi tries not to stare at the children as they scream, squeak or hide behind the body of their parent, bigger sibling or friend. “Behind them” is no safer than in front of them; Mirror creeps up from behind them all, so that when they turn they still find Ichi’s hollow smile right there.

  Most of the time, it’s the sense of We did it! as she exchanges quick glances with Mirror that gives joy to her, rather than the screams they win.

  She doesn’t know how she knows that this is her job. She remembers waking up in twilight, and the next thing she knew, the master was saying to the curious humans who gathered around them: “Come and experience the extraordinary Haunted House! Monsters, ghosts, every kind of horror you can dream of, and all real! We’ll open at nightfall; come back with all the courage you can pluck up.”

  And she cannot help but get the feeling that she has gone through this before. The children, the adults, their temperature surging and dropping in crazy patterns; their sweat-ridden breaths filling the space. The cooperation, the shared feeling of achievement, with all these trinket monsters that surround her.

  After midnight, when the children have gone to bed and only a few adults dare come into the Haunted House from time to time, the monsters of the House have enough time to chat with each other. “We are looking for our former owners,” Lute says, all considerate, fidgeting with one of its strings to put out a note that’s obviously out of tune. “That’s why we need to see many humans like this. It must be that.”

  “Oh, I hope our former owner does recognize us, though?” One of the Dishes rattles. “Surely we are no longer what we were before we came here—and when was it? Why is it that none of us remembers how or why we ended up here?” Everyone falls silent for a moment, none of them having an answer to offer to that.

  Again, Ichi thinks she’s heard a conversation just like this before—or maybe two. When? Where? And another strange feeling nudges something, somewhere inside her wooden skull. She counts the Dishes, there are three. The number feels wrong, somehow.

  When the nudge in her head feels too much, she goes to see the master. The master looks down at her, in a form roughly passable as human, just in case a guest unexpectedly comes in to talk to them. Under their heavy coat and the large hood, the master is a flock of small feathery things, like starlings, like moths. “Have I forgotten something?” Ichi asks, and even as she says this, comes another nudge: I have asked this question before.

  The master smiles, with eyes and mouth made of down and rachises. “Ichi doll, you are older than others and made of more flexible materials, that should be why you remember better than the others.” The master of the House touches Ichi’s white cheek with their fluttery edges. “Don’t worry, you’ll forget all of this in the morning. You always do.”

  Ichi nods, unable to find anything to say to this. Why would she have to worry if she remembers? Why should she forget? She heads back into the chatter of her fellow monsters. Without humans around to scare right now, Lute strums its stupid tune, to the rhythm Cracked Pot and Weaving Loom make. Umbrella pirouettes to this crazy music, opening its canopy to full and bumping into everything around; everything laughs.

  The Dishes trot over to Ichi. “We were saying,” Dish One tings. “If we stand in a line, the drawings on us look like they make up one big picture.” As they demonstrate, Ichi sees the point, too. A landscape done in blue. “But then, don’t you think here, something is missing?” One points at the space between Two and Three. Yes—a pond abruptly ends at the end of Two, and on Three she can only see a rock that might be standing over a pond.

  “Don’t worry,” Ichi says, despite herself. “Everything will be fine in the morning.”

  Dish One stares at her, as Two and Three exchange looks. “Good to hear. Thanks,” One says after a moment, though what it’s thanking her for, it has no idea.

  The Haunted House closes at one, because it’s not safe for humans to be around monsters at the Darkest Hour—two a.m.—even with these trinket monsters. Just when the monsters start to wonder how much time they have left before their own bedtime, right outside the front door to the House, the master appears, without their coat.

  “It’s a moonless night tonight, my little monsters! Let’s have a party!” the master exclaims.

  The monsters cheer, and they all go outside to join it. Even Ichi’s sawdust-filled chest swells with joy. Under the distant stars, her fellow monsters start singing—the songs they don’t know where they learned. And dance: Umbrella its favorite, obtrusive dance, while others get more space and spin around each other. Even Ichi trots around, her steps unsteady on her wooden sandals that make a funny noise.

  And then—

  At the corner of her eye, she sees a strange movement. By the time she fully looks at it, the master is in a form like a huge, black mouth gaping, a ghastly emptiness against the starry sky. While she wonders what that means, a part in their fluttery mass, at the bottom-most edge near the ground, start wriggling out like a tentacle, before the master grabs Umbrella around its torn canopy with that tentacle-like arm, pops Ichi’s little friend into their hollow. And crunches, crunches, crunches.

  Ichi screams as she realizes what just happened, and others look her way and then the master’s way, following her gaze. One by one others start screaming, too, as they see Umbrella’s hands and foot sticking out of the horrible mouth and then disappearing into the blackness. “Umbrella! Umbrella!” The sawdust almost rises to her throat. “Umbrella!”

  The master crunches on a little longer, before their shape curves into a thin crescent, sealing the hollow over Umbrella, making a content, a smiley mouth. “Don’t worry, Ichi. I told you. You all will just forget everything in the morning. Don’t you worry.”

  But she screams on, even as the master melts back to their usual fluttery mass and slithers away. She is somehow aware, though vaguely, that while she screams, other monsters can concentrate on trying to console her, and don’t have to think about something that’s just too horrifying to think.

  By the time Ichi is too tired to scream on, others seem exhausted, too, from trying too hard not to let their thoughts drift in the wrong direction. They all look exhausted, Ichi notes—Mosquito Net looks even more threadbare than usual, Lute is splintered just a little around its neck. Dish Three’s edge
s are slightly ragged, chipped. They all sit in silence. The sky slowly grays; morning is coming.

  Ichi shudders, as something almost irresistible tries to drag her eastward. She looks around, bewildered by her own self, only to find others stand and start walking towards east. As the light gets stronger, so does the urge. And again, something inside her sawdust chest says: she’s been through this before, too.

  It’s like when sleep pulls down your eyelid; it’d be so much easier, if you just let it be. Ichi shudders again, but when the urge is doubled by the exhaustion from a long time of screaming, she lets it carry her. Almost. As the morning gray hits the ground ahead of her, beside her Weaving Loom sways its unbalanced body, and its shoulder hits Ichi’s arm. She yelps and falls sideways.

  Her white, wooden hand pops out of the socket at the end of her fabric arm and skittles away, back into the House through the open door. Someone careless must have forgotten to close it behind. A little light-headed, Ichi goes back into the House, after her hand. She wishes Lantern was still here, to help her find the hand by casting its weirdly wobbly ghost-flame. It’s really dark inside. The master doesn’t allow any kind of light inside the House, except for Lantern. The master hates lights, their body with too many surfaces, too exposed.

  The master.

  She feels the unpleasant taste of sawdust surging up to her throat again. Umbrella. Did that just happen? Or was she dreaming? Is she dreaming?

  Disheveled, Ichi looks around, and finds something small and white glimmer in a corner, behind a fake tombstone. She stretches, but it’s a little out of reach, and she wishes she had Umbrella to help her here with its long shaft. It’s always willing to help. Was. Somewhere, around the back of her torso, she hears a thread snap. No. There is no Umbrella.

  She coaxes her robe into a kind of rope, and manages to catch the hand with it. She’ll have to ask Sewing Kit to help mend her where the snapping just happened, and also strengthen the hand-socket.

  Her hand back in place, she straightens her robe and looks back at the door. The sun is almost up. “Hurry Ichi!” she hears Dishes call her in chorus. Why should she, though? And where to?

  She trots back towards the door—

  —But before she reaches it, she sees the burst of morning light over the horizon. The door is closed—she’d shut it, just out of habit—and she peers out through the glass pane on the upper side of the door. Dish Three looks back at her.

  And the sun sweeps her fellow monsters off the surface of the earth.

  No, that’s not exactly what happens. The bodies of the monsters, all the trinkets, are still there on the ground, but she can feel that their souls have evaporated out of them. They stand there in their mid-movements: walking, running or about to leap into the air. Three is still looking her way with its hollow eyes.

  Ichi is unable to move. Not even a twitch of her hand.

  The dirty pane on the door protects her from the first light, but after a half hour or so the sun starts scathing her black hair and eyes, so she slumps away into the dimness behind the fake tomb. She doesn’t know how long she’s stayed there. When she looks up for no reason, she sees the sun has inclined into the west, from the color of the sky visible through the pane on the door. She crawls up, peers out. Three is still looking her way, seeing nothing.

  Ichi slowly opens the door and walks to her unmoving fellow monsters. The sun goes down, completely, behind the hill. She is about to poke Lantern’s accordion face when she hears a sound. Reflexively she faces east and freezes.

  The House’s master comes gliding over the ground, all wings and feathers. With their numerous terminals the master picks up the trinkets one by one. Ichi wants to scream—is the master going to do the same to all others, after Umbrella? But the master only tucks her into their fuzzy body, where she settles among the others.

  Upon reaching Dish Three, though, the master stops. And looks at Three and then at the closed door of the House. Frowns a little.

  Ichi holds her breath inside their downy body.

  Then the master shakes their own mass a little and collects Three, too. From the back door they reenter the House, into the master’s own quarter. There, the master places the monsters’ bodies on the floor, and flutters their body like a small night over each monster at a time, rustling out their own strange feather language.

  Something soft like butterfly scales fall silently on the monster over which the master hovers. And the monster stirs awake.

  Ichi tries her best to look hollow like she does in humans’ presence, while she watches other monsters. When her turn comes, the powdery stuff feel all tickling and tingly that she has trouble staying calm, but she fakes coming half-awake just the way others do.

  “Okay, all. Come awake!”

  At the master’s words everyone yawns and stretches. Ichi does the same. When Dish Three leaps onto its feet opposite her, the master looks at it.

  “How do you feel?” the master asks it.

  Three blinks its twinkling small eyes at the master. “What? I don’t know!”

  “Okay.” The master nods. “Now everyone, help me prepare for our guests.”

  When the human guests have come and gone, and the monsters have some time among themselves, the conversation about why they are traveling, or why they are here in the first place, springs up from nowhere in particular.

  “I think a woman looked at me as though she knew me!” Mirror clinks. “And Ichi! A girl looked at you in a strange way! She must be your former owner!”

  “Yes!” agreed Sewing Kit, going through Ichi’s seams. “I saw that, too! You must go say hi to that girl, Ichi!”

  Ichi only smiles. The conversation chatters on, but now nothing about it has that sheen of hope it used to have, to Ichi.

  They don’t remember. When the master does that resurrecting, re-souling, whatever it does—and it does that every night, probably—none of the monsters remember a thing. Even that horrifying image of their fellow monster’s body crunched, crunched and crunched.

  You’ll forget all of this in the morning. You always do.

  Every morning after that, Ichi escapes the evaporation. Thankfully, it is not like the master eats one of them every night—if they do, the Haunted House will be empty soon. Still. She feels the weight of the memory now pressing heavily into her: sawdust inside her chest is damp and cloggy, and her wooden face, hands and feet are scratched all over; her hair feels dry, unkempt strands gone wild here and there. Her fellow monsters seem unchanged, untroubled, since that last moonless night.

  One night there is an addition of Parasol to the House. Parasol is brightly colored, and its canopy is not torn like Umbrella’s. Ichi tries to determine if the soul in Parasol is the same one as Umbrella, concentrates on its conversation with others. But the mere effort makes a strand of her hair come off.

  Parasol is not Umbrella.

  Maybe the evaporating, and going through the ritual of the master’s re-souling and, forgetting everything along the way, is just something necessary for the monsters to keep being what they are. Without memories that dampen them, the fear that weigh them down.

  Ichi looks up, as the master comes in to the monsters’ side of the House, just before opening up for the humans. “Ichi,” the master says, their voice somewhere between perturbed foliage and shrieking starling flock. “You look ill.”

  Ichi cannot answer this.

  “Well. I have news that may cheer you up, Ichi,” the master says, buzzing a little around the edges. Excited. “Last night a human child misplaced something on the way back to town from here. It’s a doll.” Ichi stares at the master. “Not quite like you, but you can play sisters, perhaps. The mismatch might give the guests a more terrifying image.”

  And then a fear is too much in her chest that every joint of her body cracks, as she realizes: it’s a moonless night again, tonight.

  “Are you cold, Ichi doll?”

  She looks up and meets Mosquito Net’s eye, as it dangles from the beam
just above her. It did this—the dangling—when the human children were still only recovering from the shock of being between Ichi and her reflection on Mirror, and their frantic movement pleased the monsters quite a bit. And Ichi realizes she’s been shaking, amidst those cheerful fellow monsters. They have no idea. How can she tell them why she is shaking so hard? How can she share this horrible truth with her fellows, when she knows knowing it will only hurt them?

  Ichi looks around and finds everybody looking at her, worried. They have no idea. She feels the distance expand, that unfillable gap between herself and everything around her. Back when she kept almost no memory, she was just like them. Now, a horrible thought tightens her chest: what if they don’t even believe it when she tells them?

  But if she goes tonight, the master will just keep on consuming her trinket friends, and there will be no end to all of this.

  She looks around, and takes a deep breath.

  Night deepens, and a little after midnight the master closes the gate. “Anything wrong, my dear monsters?” the master asks. “Some of the humans said you came too close to them. You never did that before, did you?” The monsters say nothing, because of course, there has never been a before for them. The master is probably too excited, because… “Well. Since it’s a moonless night, let’s just forget everything, and dance, dance and dance!”

  The monsters cheer. They all go out into the night, following the master, who has left their protective coat behind in their quarter. The monsters loosely circle around the master as they go spreading over the ground in front of the House. Ichi comes out last, taking the space between the master and the House, on the other side of her fellow monsters.