It was mid-October.

  Not the beginning and not the end — that stretch of time when autumn no longer hints, but declares itself. The air was dense, cool but not yet cold. The leaves didn’t fall — they surrendered. In this month everything happens halfway: the light shorter, the day quieter, decisions made as if between an inhale and an exhale.

  In October, things begin to break in ways that cannot simply be repaired.

  The technician left without finishing the job.

  He had been wrestling with the pipes for a long time, taking apart and reassembling the same section again and again. Then he straightened up and said he couldn’t go any further without a certain part. Not urgent — but if left as it was, something would function incorrectly. The water would flow wrong. The part had to be purchased. He rummaged through his backpack for a while, found a small crumpled piece of paper, brightened inexplicably at the sight of it, quickly scribbled down the name of the part, and after a brief goodbye disappeared through the front door.

  Not long after, we left as well.

  My friend — my neighbor from directly across the street on our shared Violet Street — went with me. His name was Phil. Out of simple kindness, he sometimes helped me with technical matters, electronics, and other things I understood absolutely nothing about.

  So this time we headed together to the local bazaar to find the missing part with the nearly unpronounceable name. When something in a house remains unfinished, you feel it physically, like an open seam. I carried that sensation with me as we walked.

  Phil, limping slightly but with complete assurance, walked ahead.

  His light hair fluffed up comically in the wind, and from the hood of his jacket dangled a cheerful red tassel made of thread. I hurried behind him, quietly grateful he hadn’t refused to help.

  The bazaar did not appear all at once.

  First came the smell — warm, spiced, with a metallic undertone. Then the hum, in which voices did not quite align with bodies. Only after that did the market itself emerge, like a current you step into even if you never meant to.

  The rows stood unevenly, awnings hung low, fabric brushing against your face. Everything was arranged as if space itself tilted slightly inward, and any straight path gradually lost its direction.

  We wandered into a narrow alley.

  African souvenirs were being sold there: elongated masks, bones, wooden figures, textiles, objects without explanation. The items lay too close together, as if they hadn’t been arranged but simply left. Some of them were warm, though there was barely any sunlight.

  The Black vendor sat motionless.

  He did not beckon or smile. His gaze passed through people as though he traded not in objects, but in whatever each person carried within them.

  I picked up a trinket — a stone toad. It seemed charming to me. I had already imagined how well it would look in my garden. The vendor glanced at my bill and slowly shook his head — he could not accept large notes. It sounded less like refusal and more like a statement of incompatibility.

  At that moment, another man appeared.

  He stepped out of a neighboring shop. He spoke calmly, casually, offering to help — to break the bill. His words did not sound like a favor, but like the natural continuation of events. We exchanged a glance and agreed: we needed smaller bills anyway — we still had to buy that part, and I thought it entirely possible they wouldn’t accept large notes there either. It seemed reasonable. Practical. Almost necessary.

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  We agreed.

  We stepped inside the tent.

  The fabric swallowed sound. The air thickened. Behind the fabric there was a door — real, heavy. We entered. Beyond it was a staircase. Narrow, worn, leading upward.

  We climbed and found ourselves in an empty room.

  It was dark, but fairly spacious. Along the walls stood old furniture — a wardrobe, a table, several mismatched chairs. Everything looked abandoned, like a place long unused but not forgotten. There was almost no light, only a diluted half-gloom.

  And there, already inside that room, he asked for my friend’s wallet.

  I was surprised and looked at Phil.

  Without hesitation, he handed his brown faux-leather wallet to the man.

  The thin, strange man in a dark blue turtleneck began to sort through its contents too carefully and for too long. Phil did not object. They chatted. I stood a little farther away. I didn’t like it. I began to worry. Phil seemed under some influence — simultaneously understanding what was happening and not understanding at all.

  Then, for a fraction of a second, I saw a white glint behind the man’s back, in his hand.

  Perhaps paper.

  Perhaps something that had taken its shape.

  He took something.

  The flash nearly blinded me — and in that same instant I realized we were not alone in the room.

  My eyesight is very poor. I never see details immediately. First — a blur, mass, movement. Then forms. I forced myself to focus, to make the space reveal itself.

  To my left stood an old wooden table with chairs. Behind it I saw two figures.

  One resembled a massive, bloated larva — heavy, overgrown, covered in long spines. Not human in any ordinary sense. Something else. A strange being. The spines tore through its own flesh, and it bled constantly. It suffered silently, as if pain were part of its structure.

  The second figure — perhaps its mother — sat beside it.

  One arm was missing, ending at the elbow. Blood had dried where the limb had once been, and the wound looked fresh. The lower half of her body was full and massive, but the upper half was disturbingly human. Short haircut, curly brown hair. If you didn’t look below, you might think she was an ordinary person.

  Gradually I began to discern others.

  There were many of them. Large and small. Not entirely clear. Some moved constantly between the figures at the table. Their hands were busy with cloths, dishes, food. They carried small blue spheres — perhaps some kind of gelatin — I could not see clearly. Calmly, routinely, without irritation, they wiped the blood from the larva-like being. The blood flowed slowly and without pause. These creatures, with beaks and long tails, approached, wiped, stepped back, and returned. It was not an event. It was order. They did not look at faces, but at wounds — at the places where the body failed itself. Their care was precise and repetitive.

  I looked around, searching for an exit.

  The room was entangled with creeping plants, vines with leaves and flowers. It was a deeply unsettling place. We had to get out.

  I whispered to Phil:

  “Let’s go. Let’s go.”

  The words came automatically, like an alarm signal. I repeated them, louder and louder. He seemed to hear me, glanced at me with a smile, but remained constantly engaged in conversation, pulled in by the man. There was a desire to leave inside him, but it dissolved. He seemed to want to run, yet he was not himself.

  The stranger was charming — so much so that the danger was felt only afterward.

  I was terrified. I looked at Phil.

  He was beside me, yet not with me — as though on the other side of glass. His eyes shone with joy, a wide smile lit his face. It felt as if no one noticed me at all.

  Hypnosis, I thought.

  What is this place? What do they want?

  I wanted to run, but I could not leave Phil there. I had to save him — from what exactly, I didn’t know. I was so frightened I barely understood what I was doing.

  One thing was clear:

  as long as that man held Phil’s attention, leaving would be almost impossible.

  Suddenly I ran toward him, shoved him hard with my body, and simply dragged Phil toward the stairs. He kept looking back at the stranger, but he yielded, and I managed to pull him out onto the street.

  No one chased us.

  No one shouted after us.

  I dragged Phil by the hand all the way home, like a goat on a rope. He walked reluctantly, barely lifting his feet. I was exhausted. I was shaking from terror and from not understanding what had just happened.

  I didn’t know what to do, how to bring him back to himself.

  He did not answer my questions. He just stared into the distance and smiled.

  Horrifying.

  I pulled him into my house and laid him down on the couch.