“This is the reason for the oni?” Vale asked, as perplexed as I was.
“I was told they were harbingers. Maybe we inserted the doom part.” I exhaled and finally sheathed the sword. The parade flowed past me, a river of the absurd. Music drifted through it—off-tempo drums, a flute that sounded like it was being played underwater, something that might have been a shamisen if the shamisen was drunk.
This was wrong, but not bad wrong.
“Beans!” someone yelled behind me.
I turned to see a woman clutching a grocery bag like it was a holy relic. “You scatter beans and chant,” she said, very serious. “That’s how you get rid of them.”
“She’s right,” I said automatically. Folklore reflex. “But only on the last night of the year.” Which this wasn’t. On the last night of the year, when boundaries thin and endings matter. Tonight was just a casual stroll. A chance to stretch their legs and be themselves in public.
“Why would we want to get rid of them?” a young man asked. “They’re awesome.”
Beans flew like Mardi Gras beads in New Orleans.
Then they bounced.
A handful of dried soybeans pattered harmlessly off the tiger-skin demon’s back. Another handful pinged off the long-legged one’s skull. An umbrella demon squeaked indignantly as beans ricocheted off its canopy like hail.
The fire demon looked down as a bean passed straight through its calf and clattered on the pavement. It blinked, offended, then bent down and roasted the bean midair into a perfect little snack. It offered it to a kid holding a dripping ice cream cone.
Chanting began. Off-key, uncertain, ripped from half-remembered diaries of their grandparents. Nothing happened. The parade didn’t even slow.
An old memory surfaced, and I realized what this was.
“It’s the Night Parade of One Hundred Demons,” I said.
Not a metaphor. Not a cult name. The real thing—Hyakki Yagyo—spilling out of the shadows, like someone had torn a seam between worlds and shaken out a junk drawer full of funky folklore.
I couldn’t believe it. As a teenager, I’d heard rumors of the parade and begged to see one. The Fates had refused. I wasn’t allowed simple pleasures. I wasn’t allowed to want anything at all.
“Everything okay over there?” Vale asked, a note of teasing in his voice.
“I’ll be better when I’m back home in my pajamas eating peanut butter out of the jar with a spoon.” My acerbic response was instinctual. How could I tell Vale the truth when I rarely told it to myself?
A demon shaped like a walking mortar and pestle rolled past me and said, “Excuse us,” very politely.
The long-legged demon tripped, caught itself, and bowed to a fire hydrant. The broken-horned one adjusted his tiger-skin loincloth and flexed for a group of college students, who screamed appreciatively and demanded selfies.
I caught my reflection in a darkened window—me, sweaty, sword strapped across my back, face set for a war that wasn’t happening.
I started laughing. Couldn’t help it.
The parade stretched on until the street was nothing but color and noise and the soft thud of paws on asphalt. When the last demon passed—a squat thing with moss growing in its beard and a stop sign for a shell—it tipped its cap to me.
“Lovely night,” it said.
“Yes,” I replied. “It really is. Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for having us.”
Then they turned a corner and were gone, like they’d never been there at all. No scorch marks. No slime. Just a few dropped beans and a lingering smell of smoke and old wood.
People drifted away from the park, arguing about costumes and special effects. Someone swore it had to be guerrilla art courtesy of SCAD students. Someone else compared it to Austin’s version of staying weird.
I stood there a moment longer, listening to the steady beat of the city’s pulse. Not every monster came to hurt you.
Some of them just wanted to enjoy a pleasant evening walk.
