Talking made all the difference. It tapped into the depths of human nature, turning on the lights, so to speak, in a way that few things ever could.

“I just want to talk,” was what I told him, and it was the truth.

And so we talked, and, slowly, Kreston began to warm. We talked for a while. I asked him about what most upset him about being dead, and about what he felt and what he thought would help. And then, out of the blue—having not forgotten that he knew what a kemonomimi was—I did something he couldn’t have expected.

“What’s your favorite manga?”

“Are you serious?” He stared at me like I was nuts.

“In case you wanted to know, mine’s Catamander Brave,” I said, pointedly.

For me, as a kid, adults who took games, manga, and animé as seriously as I did were like mythical creatures. They thrilled and terrified in equal measure. People like Mr. Himichi or the CEO of Monimega were the stuff of legend, not just larger than life, but seemingly from some other world entirely.

Then as now, I think the generation gap hit the youth far harder than it did us old farts—or, in my case, an on-my-way-to-becoming-an-old-fart.

Kreston looked at me as if I’d just casually suggested biting off his head.

“If you aren’t comfortable sharing your favorite—or, if you don’t have one—I’ll happily blab about Catamander to you.” I smiled in self-deprecation. “I mean, I already do it with my wife.”

Closing his eyes, Kreston sat up, leaned his head back against the wall and let out the groan of ultimate prepubescence. “Dude… that’s so cringe.”

“C’mon.” I nudged him. “Tell Dr. Howle your favorite manga. I promise not to be too judgmental.”

The boy lifted his head.

“My favorite is Masks of Truth.”

I nodded enthusiastically. “Nice…”

By the Angel, think of how horribly embarrassed Jules would be if she knew we were having this conversation.

I stepped back into the patient’s room, holding onto Second Me’s contentment like a blanket on a cold night.

The doctor snapped at me as I entered. “There you are!”

He asked me to administer it, and I did.

—Fudge!

“—No,” the doctor yelled, “I said, 12 CCs!”

“I’m sorry!” I apologized profusely, trying to bow as best I could, only to drop the syringe in the process.

Gah! “I’m sorry!”

I just hoped my inner geek would fare better.

I guess that’s my cue?

You can feel the stress, too. So focus on something less stressful!

I didn’t need to ask myself twice.

Masks of Truth was another Himichi masterwork. Among Himichi aficionados such as myself, Masks was generally considered to be his darkest opus, thanks to its tone and—particularly—its subject matter: death, regret, and kaokui-oni—the “face-stealing demons” of Munine folklore.

The mangaka joked that he’d written Masks to show the world the unique terrors of a Munine childhood.

To this day, I didn’t know if he was being facetious.

Whereas Lassedicy had steamrolled over nearly all pre-existing traditions of Trenton folklore, the ancient animist beliefs of Munine culture had found a welcoming home in the diverse strands of Daiist belief. Spirits, demons, and things that went bump in the night populated every corner of the Munine imagination, to the point that it became a legitimate mental health issue, particularly for children. The problem was so severe that the MSSI (Muni Seishin-Igakukai, a.k.a. the Munine Psychiatric Association) had a special newsletter⁠ (Seishun to Minwa (StM); Youth and Folktales.) solely dedicated to keeping tabs on the most notable up-and-coming urban legends about the supernatural, to help child psychiatrists better inform themselves about what might be tormenting their young patients. This also made StM into the gold-standard chronicle of the latest creepypastas to come from the Far West.

Of all the horrors listed in StM’s annals, there were few that were as deeply unsettling and unforgettably, existentially terrifying as kaokui-oni. Other demons were more reasonable: haunted smartphones that crawled into your chest, drained your blood, and made you a vampire; evil fish-men that ripped the bones from your body and swallowed them whole—but not the kaokui-oni. A kaokui-oni ate its victim’s very identity, killing them by peeling their souls off their bodies and trapping them in masks. By wearing the masks, the kaokui-oni would be nourished by the victim’s soul, and, in the process, they could assume the form of their victim, inserting themselves into the victim’s life, so as to find their next meal, while also having fun tormenting the friends and family of the deceased.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“Why that story?” I asked.

The main character of Masks of Truth was a young kaokui-oni named Chain. His struggle? He didn’t want to be a kaokui-oni. He hated having to kill people in order to live. It didn’t matter whether it was mortals or monsters, he hated the thought of an existence defined by the trail of bodies left in his wake. He wanted to chart his own path.

And then, one day—as it tends to do—opportunity came a-knocking. Chain crossed paths with a kitsune named Kurama; the spirit-fox was dying from a mortal wound. Kurama begs Chain to take his identity, to avenge him, and protect the ones he loves. And so begins the tale of a demon who didn’t want to be a demon; a demon who tries to find happiness and meaning by taking on the identities of the regretful dead, in the hopes of bringing them peace.

It was not a happy tale.

Fudge!

Pale faced, I staggered out of the room, away from the sound of the dead man’s sputtering ECG. My arm twitched. The sound of squeaking wheels drew my attention. Nurses were transporting out of the room the corpse of the patient I’d just been trying to save. Gurnsbee was his name; emphasis on the was. I’d managed to glance over his chart on my colleague’s console. Gurnsbee had entered the hospital two days prior, complaining that his right nipple itched. It had looked a little inflamed at first, but then had begun to ulcerate as Gurnsbee developed stomach pains. The cough didn’t begin until after the hyphae had begun their march beneath his chest. And now he was dead.

I feel a lot like Chain,” Kreston said, smiling sadly—and then, not smiling at all. “I only really knew what I didn’t want to be. Seeing Chain find his place in the Sun really meant a lot to me. Besides,” the boy mustered a grin, “Chain can turn into so many different things. That’s awesome!”

Once again, Kreston’s elation was short-lived. Kreston turned morose; his face became like an overcast sky. “Sometimes, I like to imagine what it would be like if I had Chain’s powers, and I could just make myself into somebody else.”

“Why?” I asked.

Concerned, Andalon leaned forward. Her ears and tail drooped as she looked over my lap at Kreston. “What’s wrong, Kres-Kres?”

“I…” He shook his head. “I don’t really like myself that much. I don’t like being me. Well,” he gulped. “I used to. I wasn’t very good at anything. Mom gets worried I spend too much time reading manga. I…” He looked up at the ceiling. “I’m not good at school. I’m not that smart. It’s hard for me. It’s just…” Shaking his head, the boy lowered his gaze. “She and Dad fight so much. I just put on headphones and then get out my console and play games or watch animé. Mom’s always worried about me. I don’t think I’ll grow up right.” His lips quivered. “And now, I never will.”

I couldn’t help but eavesdrop on myself as I walked to my next patient.

To think: the ghost of a boy fretting over a future that was no longer his to live; it was heartbreaking.

Masks of Truth.

Kreston’s mention of Masks planted another idea in my head.

Andalon had said we need to make stuff to make the ghosts happy.

Focusing, I drew from my memory of Masks’ animé adaptation. Kreston and Andalon gasped as the old, wall-mounted TV screen from Dad’s house appeared in front of me. The LCD screen displayed a scene from the animé, frozen in pause. I spent a moment pondering how to do what I wanted to do next before I decided to let my intuition guide me and follow along with the dream-logic of my hyperphantasies.

I reached into the screen. My fingers passed through the LCD screen like it was a pool of water, only to feel space and air on the other side. Then, clasping my hand around my prize—the mask in Chain’s hand—I pulled my arm out of the fantasy I’d projected upon the world.

And the mask came with it: Kurama’s Mask, the first of Chain’s collection.

Andalon, Kreston, and I stared at it, not quite believing our eyes. The mask was a simple thing: just two colors, yellow and black.

Just like Rale’s baseball bat.

The yellow mask’s shallow snout rose to a peak over the wearer’s mouth. The tip of the fox’s nose was dabbed in black. Slender fox ears stuck up and out from the mask on the upper left and right. Their tips were black, just like the nose.

“Is that…?”

I nodded. “It is what it is.”

“How is this possible?” Kreston asked.

“I’ve asked that very same question,” I said. I smirked a little. “I haven’t been getting the best answers.”

He reached out. “Can I take it?”

I nodded.

My reasoning: if Kreston didn’t like living in his own skin, perhaps he might enjoy being someone else for a while.

Also, since he was already dead, I was pretty sure I didn’t need to worry that this might make him into a furry.

Andalon crawled forward and sat up on her knees. Her ears and tail twitched as she watched Kreston with great interest.

I handed the mask to Kreston, and he put it on.

The change came quickly.

The mask’s lacquered yellow surface spread across his body like so much kudzu. It bound him, wrapping around and around.

And then it squeezed.

Non-existent bones cracked as the yellow wrappings pressed Kreston into a new form. He shrank in some ways, and grew in others. And the mask became real. Fur bristled up from the wrappings. Black-tipped ears thickened and flicked as they lost their lacquered sheen. Hands and feet tightened into paws, and nine slender tails sprouted behind him, idly flicking their black tips in the air.

Andalon gawked. “Wowwww…” she whispered.

The spirit-fox Kreston had become examined himself, exuberant and disbelieving. He raised his head, staring at me with his deep, russet eyes. Then, yelping in excitement, he scampered off, running along the corridor’s walls, phasing through everything in his way.

That…

I stopped in my tracks.

That was magical.

Maybe, if he can see the beauty of existing, he’ll be able to face his pain.

If being a guardian of the afterlife meant giving people the satisfaction of the pleasures life had denied them, this new responsibility of mine was gonna be a lot less of a hassle than I’d initially thought it would be, even if it did make me a little…

Please don’t say it, I urged myself, despite secretly wanting me to do the exact opposite

…scatterbrained.

That there was a grade-A Dad-joke. Jules would have been livid.

Would I ever see her again? Or Rayph? Or—

“Uh, Mr. Genneths?”

We both turned.

Once again, Andalon was standing in the hallway—and, once again, she wasn’t alone.

A new ghost.

She held the hand of a middle-aged man dressed in business casual. It looked like he’d just come out of a clothes dryer. His collar and tie were undone. His hair was in disarray. His eyes were anxious and bloodshot.

Who is this? I though-asked.

Andalon gave me a nervous look.

Andalon?

She shook her head. “They’re coming, Mr. Genneth. A lot of them.”

The man blinked, as if someone had pointed at him and pressed Play. He stared at me, wide-eyed.

“Did… did you just turn that boy into a fox? Is this some kind of dream?”

Oh fudge.

Oh fudge.