november 20, 2024
the night market
jonathan lin
Teemo, age nine, wandered into his father’s dimly lit study, the heavy scent of tobacco lingering in the air. “Dad?” His father didn’t move, his broad back hunched over his desk. With the dimness of the room, it was hard to determine whether he was engrossed in his work or simply asleep. “Umm…Dad?” He hesitated, not wanting to disturb him any further, but the gnawing won out. Giving his father’s shoulder a light tap, he said, “Dad, I need to ask you something.”
He grunted before finally turning to face his son, eyes bleary with exhaustion, blinking slowly as he came to. “What is it, bud? Can’t it wait til morning?”
“Mm…” Teemo shifted uncomfortably, clutching at his sides. “I’m hungry.” His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since lunch. “I’m sorry…I knew I should’ve—”
“So what is it you want?” It was clear that he was getting a bit frustrated. “You’re here to tell me that there’s nothing left to eat?”
“Well, there’s chocolate-covered mini pretzels,” he murmured, “but yeah… I was wondering if I could go get something to eat.” His shoulder drooped with defeat; his head hung low.
He sighed, rubbed his temple, stroked his eyebrows, and shut his eyes. “You know I don’t like you going out this late.”
“Well…” The thought of asking his father to accompany him crossed his mind, but he was certain his father wasn’t in the mood. “I’ll…I’ll grab something quick and come straight back.”
His father’s mood hadn’t changed.
“I’ll be careful. I promise. It’s just down the street.”
In no mood to continue arguing, he eyed him warily before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small key. “Alright, but take this in case I’m not there to open the door when you get back.” As his son drew close, he withdrew the key. “Sometimes a warm meal comes with a cold price.”
Teemo nodded.
“Don’t let hunger blind you.”
Taking the key, he said, “Thanks, Dad. I’ll be quick.”
The night air was cool and crisp as Teemo stepped outside, the distant hum of the night market beckoning him. Though he was young, Teemo was familiar with the market; he’d wandered its crowded stalls with his mother regularly before she passed. He always enjoyed the bustle and tantalizing scents. But tonight, the street was eerily quiet, the market strangely distant yet inviting as if something had gone awry.
As he reached the entrance of the market, he noticed something odd. The usual buzz of activity was missing. Stalls that were normally bustling with life stood empty, their wares untouched, decorated by the occasional splatter of dark red. A faint sense of unease crept and settled over him, but his hunger beckoned him forward. What happened? he thought. Wandering through silent aisles, it wasn’t long before he spotted an old food stall he had no recollection of at the end of the street. It was tucked away in a shadowed corner, its wooden sign barely legible under the flickering, dim lights.
Savory Street Bites. A Bite of the Unexpected.
An old woman stood behind the counter, her face hidden by the low brim of her hat. She stirred away at a large pot.
“Are you open?” Teemo asked, trying to sound confident. It was the only stall left that showed any signs of life.
The woman nodded slowly, her movements deliberate.
“Yes, yes. Now what can I get for you, child?” “Umm… Just something small,” Teemo replied, scanning the unfamiliar menu. He glanced at the steaming pot, the rich aroma of broth filling his nostrils. “I’ll have whatever you recommend.”
The woman smiled, revealing her crooked teeth, and turned to prepare the food. Teemo watched as she worked, the woman’s hands moving with a strange grace. Despite the oddity of the situation, Teemo felt a growing anticipation. After what felt like an eternity, the woman turned to ladle a generous portion of soup into a small, chipped bowl. “That’ll be $8.” She handed it to Teemo without another word.
“Thank you,” Teemo said. He paid quickly, eager to satisfy his hunger. Finding a spot on a nearby bench at the edge of the market he sat down feeling as the warmth of the bowl seeped into his hands. The soup was thick and murky with strands of vermicelli noodles coiled around chunks of meat. He dug in, the first bite sending a wave of warmth through his body. But as intoxicating as the smell was, he couldn’t shake his feelings of unrest.
He hesitated, then took another bite. Rich. Almost too rich. The flavor carried with it a texture that was oddly familiar yet unsettling. He tried to identify the taste, but it eluded him and the unassuming visual of noodle soup gave no leads. I’m probably overthinking it, he thought. Just eat up and go home. As he took another bite, a soft thud sounded beside him. Teemo froze, his breath catching in his throat. He turned slowly to find a small, wrapped object lying on the ground. It hadn’t been there before.
“Excuse me? Did someone—” Before he could make out another word, a low murmur reached his ears.
He looked up, dropping his spoon.
A group of people were gathered in the shadows at the edge of the market, their eyes fixed on him. Bowls of the same soup in their hands, they slurped away at the contents with unsettling enthusiasm. One of them caught Teemo’s eye. He grinned to reveal a mouth smeared with the murky broth. Teemo’s breath quickened as he tried to comprehend what was happening. Why are you looking at me? he thought. Stop staring at me. His mind raced as he glanced back at the stall. The old woman was gone, but the pot still simmered, unattended. The dim light from the flickering bulb remained, casting long shadows that twisted in the dark.
It wasn’t long before Teemo felt a presence emerge beside him. He turned sharply, his eyes wide with terror. A tall, lanky man stood, his face hidden beneath a hood.
“May I?” the man croaked.
“Y-yeah!” Teemo replied, startled. He watched as the man reached out to retrieve the fallen object. Inside was a single, perfectly preserved eye. The man held it up, inspecting it with a cold, detached interest before swiftly popping it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste.
“Delicious, isn’t it?”
Teemo felt his stomach churn. “I-I think it’s about time I head home.” Panic surged through him as he turned to flee, but his legs felt heavy as if the ground itself was holding him in place. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. Teemo glanced back at the stall, his eyes widening in horror as he saw the old woman standing behind it once more, her face now fully visible. Hollow, black pits that seemed to swallow the light took the place of her eyes. Her mouth twisted into a grin. Teemo’s breath caught in his throat as the woman raised a bony hand, beckoning him to return.
“Stay, child. There’s always room for another pair of hands.” His eyes were drawn to the dark stains covering her apron—deep red splotches that hinted at the horrors she had been concealing. The apron was speckled with bits of flesh and bone, the remnants of past victims. It was as if each stain told a story. On her wrist lay a dark, oily mark, etched into her skin like a tattoo.
“Stay, child. There’s always room for one more.”
Just as Teemo found the strength to push away and run, he felt something cold and clammy wrap around his wrist. He looked back, and to his horror, he saw the man from before, his mangled hand gripping him tightly, the fingers wet and pale.
“Delicious, isn’t it?” The man’s breath was hot and foul. He could feel the moist particles of saliva against his ear.
“NO!” Teemo articulated forcefully, his words bringing him strength. With a final surge of will, Teemo stumbled forward, tearing himself free from the shadows and breaking free from the hand’s grasp. The bowl clattered to the ground, the remaining soup splattering across the pavement. It was then that he realized what had been in his bowl the entire time—a nailless human finger. That was the texture that didn’t belong.
Breaking into a run, the market around him seemed to shift, the shadows deepening as the lights dimmed. He looked back, expecting to see the horrors chasing after him.
But the trailing signs of life were gone.
The eerie silence that followed sent a chill down his spine, urging him to move. He didn’t dare stay any longer.
The quiet street leading back to his house felt like a lifeline, a safe haven in stark contrast to the horrors he had just escaped, the cool night air washing over him like a wave of relief. But as pleasant as these sensations were, he still couldn’t calm the turmoil inside him. He could still see flickers of the market in the corners of his eye.
With the house finally in view, Teemo fumbled for the key his father had given him, his trembling hands slick with sweat. With a frantic twist, he shoved the door open, darkness looming before him. Without a second thought, he hurled himself inside.
“Dad?” Teemo’s unease grew as he moved through the darkened hallways, the silence pressing in on him. “Dad?” His father’s study’s door was ajar, a faint light spilling out from within. A faint sense of relief washed over him, but it was fleeting. “Dad, I—” The words died on his lips as he stepped into the study. His father was sitting in his chair, just as Teemo had last seen him, but something was wrong. Very wrong.
His father’s head was slumped forward, resting on the desk, and the once steady rise and fall of his shoulders was absent. Teemo’s breath hitched as he approached, his heart pounding in his chest.
“Dad?” His voice was barely a whisper now, trembling with fear.
When he reached out to touch his father’s shoulder, the body slumped to the side with a sickening thud. Teemo staggered back, his breath catching in his throat as his father’s mutilated form came into full view. His father had been brutally gutted, his chest cavity torn open, leaving a grotesque, gaping wound where his organs had been savagely removed. His eyes were gone, ripped from their sockets, leaving behind two dark, hollow voids that stared back at Teemo with a haunting emptiness. Blood had spilled across the desk, pooling around his father’s lifeless form, and scrawled across the surface of the desk in smeared, jagged, barely legible letters—a single word that clawed at Teemo’s sanity.
DELICIOUS.
Struggling to process the horror before him, he stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet.
“No… No, this—this can’t be real,” he attempted, his voice trembling. But the smell of blood and the eerie silence of the house told him otherwise. The grotesque eye from the market flashed in his mind, followed by the memory of the soup’s sickeningly rich flavor. The taste lingered in his mouth, turning his stomach.
A wave of nausea overtook him. Teemo doubled over, retching violently as the realization of what he had consumed clawed at his insides. He coughed, spitting out the remnants of the foul meal, but the taste wouldn’t leave him. It clung to his tongue, unrelentingly. For a moment, the walls seemed to warp.
Gripping the key tightly, Teemo turned and bolted out of the room. He raced through the darkened hallways, the oppressive silence bearing down on him as if the house itself was swallowing him whole. GET OUT! GET AWAY!, his mind screamed, but his feet slowed as he reached the front door.
For a moment he hesitated, the key in his hand heavy with the weight it now carried. His father’s voice echoed faintly in his mind, but the words now twisted: “Sometimes a warm meal comes with a cold price.”
The price of hunger had been paid in blood.
With a shudder, Teemo jammed open the finicky lock, threw open the door, and burst out into the night. The distant hum of the night market was gone and the streets that had once felt so familiar now felt foreign, like a place he no longer belonged. He watched as the shadows of the structures around him seemed to stretch and writhe as if they were watching him, awaiting his next move.
And then, in the silence, he heard it—a soft, wet sound. Teemo’s breath caught in his throat as he slowly turned to face the source.
There, emerging from the shadows of the night market’s entrance was the tall, lanky man from before. His hood still obscured his face, but the grotesque smile was unmistakable. And in his hands, he held something.
Another eye.
Teemo’s stomach lurched. The eye glistened, reflecting the faint light, and as the man drew closer, Teemo could see his own terrified reflection within it. The underside of his wrist burned.
“Delicious, isn’t it?” the man repeated, his voice a low, guttural whisper.
Teemo watched as a dark, oily mark etched into his skin like a tattoo pulsed faintly. He hadn’t noticed it before. Aughhhh.
The burn grew as the man approached.
“Delicious, isn’t it?” the man continued.
“Y-you…” The memories of the market flashed through his mind as a jolt of adrenaline shot through his system, snapping him out of his paralysis. “You’ll—” Unable to bear the growing burning sensation any longer, Teemo turned and fled, running as fast as his legs would carry him, the image of the eye replaying in his mind. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to get away.
Away from it all.
But no matter how far or fast he ran, the shadows seemed to follow in step, creeping closer as they whispered in the dark, carrying the torment of his thoughts on their cold breath.
He’s gone…because of you… You’ll never be free… You’ll never forget… You’ll never be free… You’ll never… The chilling words wound around his mind like a vice, tightening with each step he took and every desperate breath he drew.
Finally reaching the end of an alleyway, he hid, pressing his back against the cold brick wall. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
The man was nowhere to be seen.
Teemo’s legs gave out as he sank to the ground, his mind reeling. This can’t be real, he thought. I need to wake up. He felt a tear threaten to leave his eye. Please let this be a nightmare… His vision blurred as tears welled up, one slipping free, tracing a warm path down his cheek. Someone! Anyone! Please tell me this isn’t real… I just—I just want…to be okay again… His resolve shattered, and he started to sob. Is—is that really so wrong?
His hands trembled as he clutched his arm. As the reality of his situation set in, something strange began to happen.
The alleyway, the walls, and even the air around him seemed to flicker like a television screen losing signal. The mark flared up, sending a searing pain through his arm. When he opened his eyes, he wasn’t in the alleyway anymore.
“Ah, you’re back,” an old woman crooned, her voice dripping with a sickly sweetness. She stirred a pot, a familiar, pungent aroma filling the air. “Did you enjoy your meal, child?”
Teemo’s heart stopped. “What… What’s happening?” he stammered, backing away from the stall. “I was just—no, I was home. I saw—” His voice broke as he tried to make sense of the nightmare around him.
The old woman chuckled, a low, menacing sound that sent chills down Teemo’s spine. “What do you mean? You’ve always been here, child. You never left!”
Teemo shook his head, panic rising in his chest. “No. That’s not true! I—I went home! I saw my dad! I saw…” His words faltered as he recalled his father’s hollow eyes, the blood, and the words scrawled in crimson. He felt a certain rage fill his chest. “Why did my dad have to die?” As much as his relationship with his father had taken a hit after his mother’s passing, he’d loved the man.
The old woman’s smile widened, her crooked teeth gleaming in the dim light. “I didn’t do anything, child. You did.”
Teemo’s blood ran cold. “What are you talking about? I didn’t—”
Before he could finish his sentence, the old woman held up a small, bloodstained mirror to his face.
Teemo gasped in horror. His eyes were hollow, empty sockets like his father’s.
“No. No. No! This can’t be real!” he wailed. Teemo dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as he touched his face. But the sensation was wrong. His skin felt different, rough, like old leather. He looked down at his hands, but they were no longer his own. The skin was wrinkled, the nails yellowed and cracked. His clothes, too, were different—tattered rags instead of the familiar outfit he’d left the house in.
And then he saw the pot—the bubbling, steaming pot from which the old woman had served him his meal. She held out a ladle to him, the same one she had used before, but this time, something was different.
Floating at the surface of the pot was an eye that bore a striking resemblance to his father’s—etched with the familiar wisdom and weariness of life’s trials. It was unmistakable, even in death: a dead man’s eye, vacant, glassy, and stripped of the warmth and animation that once defined his father’s gaze.
Huh… It was as if the light had been permanently extinguished.
“Why don’t you have another bite, child?” the old woman crooned, her voice mocking. “You’ve already tasted the market’s delights. It’s only fair you join the feast.”
That’s— Teemo tried to scream, but no sound came out. His body moved of its own accord, reaching for the ladle, even as his mind screamed for him to stop. He could feel the heat of the soup searing his skin, the nauseating stench turning his stomach, clawing at his insides, but he was too powerless to stop. The ladle dipped into the pot as it lifted the eye out, dripping with the murky broth.
“Eat up, child,” the old woman whispered, her voice echoing in his mind. “Now that’s a good boy.”
As Teemo brought the ladle to his mouth, he noticed the exact same mark on the old woman’s wrist begin to fade, and the last thing he saw was his own reflection—his terrified, hollow-eyed reflection in the eye.
And then, he took a bite.
- - -
Teemo’s eyes snapped open. He was standing in the night market, behind the counter of a food stall. His hands were stirring a large pot, the ladle moving with a strange familiarity. He looked down at himself, seeing the tattered rags, the wrinkled skin, the long, crooked fingers. He tried to scream, but his voice was gone—replaced by a low, croaking sound.
“Are you open?” a young woman asked, her voice shaking.
Teemo’s heart sank as he tried to respond, to warn her, but all that escaped his lips was a rasping croak. He nodded slowly, his movements deliberate, trapped within the nightmare of his own making. “Yes, yes. Now what can I get for you… child?”