The incessant tick-tock of the grandfather clock in Elias’s hallway was the only sound accompanying his late-night ritual. He was a creature of the dark hours, flourishing when the rest of the world slumbered. Tonight, like most nights, he was hunting for something, though he couldn’t quite name what. A book maybe? A strange ingredient for an even stranger recipe he’d concocted in his head? Elias was, putting it mildly, a collector of the peculiar.
The clock struck twelve, its deep chime echoing oddly loud in the quiet house. Elias, halfway through microwaving a questionable-looking leftover curry, paused. There was a shift in the air, a sudden hush that wasn't the usual peaceful quiet of his neighborhood. He peered through the window, and almost choked on his poorly reheated supper.
Where his neighbor’s overly-manicured lawn should have been, was… a street. Not just any street. This one was cobbled, lit by flickering lanterns that cast dancing shadows, and lined with stalls overflowing with bizarre and bewildering wares. The air hummed with an energy that prickled his skin, and the scent of exotic spices and something akin to burnt sugar filled his nostrils. It was, unequivocally, a midnight market.
Elias, forgetting his curry and the fact that he was still wearing mismatched socks, flung open his front door. The threshold hadn't changed, his porch was just as it always was, but stepping past it put him squarely into the bustling marketplace. It was as if the world had simply decided to remodel itself for a few hours.
The shops were a riot of the fantastical. A stall overflowing with shimmering vials labeled with cryptic symbols stood next to one displaying cages filled with miniature dragons, their scales glinting like amethysts. A turbaned vendor with eyes that seemed to swallow light offered 'Thoughts of a Thousand Kings' bound in velvet and clasped with obsidian, while across the way, a gnome with a perpetually twitching nose sold gloves that could apparently make you invisible, or so he claimed.
Elias, utterly captivated, moved deeper into the market. He first stopped at the 'Whispers of the Wind' stall, drawn in by the sound of gentle chimes tinkling without any apparent breeze. A woman with hair like spun moonlight offered him a small, intricately carved wooden flute, promising it could call forth gentle breezes to cool even the hottest heart. He haggled for a few minutes, the back-and-forth feeling strangely familiar despite the otherworldly setting, and eventually paid a handful of old coins he’d found in his sock drawer (don’t ask).
The flute sang beautifully when he blew into it, a light, airy melody that did indeed bring a cool breeze. It was lovely, until he realized all the hair on his left arm now grew at an exponential rate, reaching lengths of nearly three inches, a veritable forest of fine golden strands. It looked like he was cultivating a tiny, very odd, wheat field on his lower arm. He muttered, “Well, that’s just… great.” clearly less impressed than his inner collector probably should have been.
He moved on to another shop, a rather dishevelled looking cart laden with what looked like star charts. The vendor, a man with mismatched socks (Elias felt an immediate kinship), offered a 'Map to the Lost City of Azmarath' for a seemingly reasonable sum of… the ability to only speak in rhyming couplets for the next twenty-four hours. Elias, never one to back down from a challenge, agreed.
The map was beautiful, parchment aged and detailed with constellations he'd never seen. But then, he started speaking. "I took the map, with glee, you see, now rhyming is all there is for me!" He couldn't help but feel like an utter fool. He tried to ask the vendor if he could reverse the effect, but all that came out were more nonsensical rhymes. The vendor just chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
And this, Elias realized with a slow, growing sense of dread, was the twist. The bad bad twist. It wasn’t just about buying magical items, it was about the unintended, usually ridiculous, consequences that came along for the ride.
He stumbled into a 'Potion Provisions' shop next, hoping to find something to reverse his involuntary poetry. He eyed a bottle glowing with a soft amber light. The label read ‘Elixir of Perfect Pitch,’ and the small, wiry woman behind the counter announced it would allow him to sing like an angel, she just needed a… piece of his shadow. Elias, naturally cautious now, asked about more details. The woman merely smiled, revealing teeth that were possibly just a bit too pointy for comfort. He decided, with more deliberation than before, that his shadow was staying put.
The market continued to unfold in this bizarre way. A pair of boots that allowed him to walk on water also caused him to uncontrollably break into interpretive dance every five steps, leading to a rather humiliating performance in front of the 'Enchanted Trinkets' stall. A pair of spectacles that allowed him to see the true nature of things also caused him to see everyone’s most embarrassing childhood moments, resulting in a lot of suppressed giggles he couldn’t quite explain to bewildered shopkeepers.
As the sky began to lighten in the east, the market started to shimmer, the lanterns dimming, the vibrant energy receding. Elias, now covered in golden arm hair, speaking in rhyme, and having witnessed enough childhood trauma to last a lifetime, knew the market was fading away.
He stumbled back to his front door, his pockets full of strange, cursed treasures. He watched as the cobbled street disappeared, swallowed once more by his neighbor’s manicured lawn. He was left standing on his porch, the first rays of sunlight touching his face, feeling a mix of bewilderment and a strange sort of glee.
He'd certainly found something tonight, something far stranger and more chaotic than he ever could have imagined. He knew one thing for certain, though: he'd be back. He just hoped he’d be better prepared for the inevitable, ridiculously awful, twist next time. After all, what good was a collection without a little bit of utter madness thrown in? And who knows, maybe he'd even find a potion to get rid of the golden forest sprouting on his arm, or at least a good rhyme for it.
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