Behind the Onokusa house stood a crooked little workshop, built from scavenged wood and stubbornness. Its sliding door creaked like an old throat, and the paper windows bore scars from thrown tools and wild weather. Thomas had claimed it the year he turned six, and no one had argued. It was too cold in winter, too hot in summer, and too filled with chemical smells to be worth repurposing. But to him, it was sacred.
Inside, it was cleaner than his bedroom—in the way a nest might be cleaner than a forest floor. Tables lined the walls, each holding different stages of creature creation: a half-built werewolf body with fake sinew dangling off its ribs, a kaiju foot the size of a stool, and a headless suit that looked suspiciously like a swamp monster sculpted from dyed hemp and shellac.
A large board in the back displayed pinned sketches, blueprints, and monster diagrams. One was labeled "Carnifex Bloom," another "The Dripping Prince." All bore the same crooked signature.
Thomas stood on a stool, adjusting the straps on a display dummy. Widow's Halo, freshly dried, rested atop it. Now that it was finished, he wanted people to see it. Not in some museum—just at the weekend market, same as always. He liked reactions. That was half the joy.
He spent the morning packing masks into crates. Hound King. Bile Seraph. The original Swamp Bloom, now with fixed eye-holes. He even added a few older ones his siblings had outgrown. When he lifted the crate, his arms strained under the weight of resin and rubber. Worth it.
---
The village square on weekends became a shifting mass of stalls, scents, and sound. Vendors hawked fried fish, lacquered toys, scroll paper, and herbs. Kids chased each other under laundry lines while parents argued over the price of miso.
Thomas set up near the edge, beneath a banner he'd made himself: Onokusa Oddities. A little sign read: "Masks for Sale or Trade. Custom Orders Extra."
A few curious passersby slowed, stared, and moved on. That was normal. He didn't care about selling much. He just wanted the conversations. The faces.
"Whoa! Is that the Eyeless Ox again?" came a voice behind him.
Thomas turned. Naruto Uzumaki bounded over, scarf askew and grin too big for his face.
"You fixed the eye sockets! Sweet!"
"Switched to tinted mesh. See-through but creepy," Thomas said, handing the mask to him. Naruto pulled it on without hesitation, snorting.
"Now I'm a haunted farm animal. MooOOoo."
Two other boys came running behind him—Kiba Inuzuka and Shikamaru Nara. Kiba immediately gravitated toward the Wolfjaw Reaper mask.
"This one's new. You making these with actual fangs now?"
"Dog teeth from the butcher. Cleaned and sealed."
"Dude, you're messed up. I love it."
Shikamaru just grunted, eyeing the lineup. "You really spend your weekends doing this?"
"Better than sparring."
"Fair."
Naruto waved toward the dummy bearing Widow's Halo. "That one for sale?"
"No. Not yet."
"Too cool for us?"
"Too special. Needs the right wearer."
Kiba chuckled. "Creepy. You say that like it's cursed."
"It isn't. Probably."
They browsed for a while. Naruto offered an old frog coin purse in trade for a Gremlin mask. Thomas accepted.
By noon, the table was lighter, the crate half-empty. A few people had wandered close, whispered, even asked prices. One man bought a stitched horror mask for his niece, saying she liked scary things. That made Thomas grin.
---
Lunch at home was quieter than usual. His younger siblings were off playing, and only his parents and grandparents remained at the table. His mother set down a tray of cold soba and pickles.
Grandma Onokusa looked over her glasses. "You'll scare off your wife before you even meet her."
Thomas, mid-bite, replied dryly, "Still assuming I want one?"
His grandfather grunted. "He wants an army of monsters instead."
"Better conversation," Thomas muttered.
---
After lunch, he returned to the workshop. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows between the tools. He took out a new head mold, clipped a sheet of parchment to his sketchboard, and began to design something leaner this time. Something parasitic. He imagined masks with hinged mandibles. Maybe a thin, needle-like snout. In his head, it already had a name: The Spine Drinker.
Outside, he could hear laughter as Naruto and Kiba chased each other past the fence, masks still on.
He smiled.
Monday was creeping close. The Academy loomed. But for now, there was still the weekend.
Still time for monsters.