Souvenir from Hell

The market was a carnival of shadows and cinnamon, and Mei felt like the main character in a travel blog she'd always wanted to write. She moved between stalls with her hands in her pockets so she wouldn't buy everything she saw. When she stopped, it was because a wooden mask stared back at her from a table covered in velvet. The mask was carved from dark wood, its eyes hollow, its mouth slightly open as if mid-story.

The vendor, Salvador, didn't speak until she lifted it. "That one stays," he said, and his Spanish was clipped. Mei smiled and told him she loved it. She had spent weeks in Oaxaca looking for something real, something that wasn't mass-produced. Salvador raised the price until she had to count her cash, but he still seemed relieved when the mask left his stall, as if he had been waiting for someone to take it away. He crossed himself when she turned, and Mei mistook it for a blessing.

Back at The Courtyard Lantern, Bea squealed in approval. "It's gorgeous," she said, but her eyes lingered on the hollow sockets. Mei hung the mask on the bedpost above her pillow, a talisman of the night market. She posted a photo with the caption, "Oaxaca magic." @HostelReaper commented with two words: "You brought it home." She thought it was a fan account, the kind that shows up after hashtags, and she double-tapped it because it felt like a blessing too.

The first night, the air cooled so fast that Mei pulled on a hoodie. The second night, she woke with her mouth dry and her chest heavy, as if someone were sitting on it. She thought of the stories she'd heard about sleep paralysis and told herself the shadow in the corner was a trick of the moonlight. The third night, she heard the mask hit the floor. It wasn't loud, not a crash, but the sound of a careful decision.

Mei opened her eyes and saw it leaning against her bed, turned to face her, closer than it should have been. She couldn't move. The room smelled like wet earth. She felt a breath that wasn't hers, cold on her cheek. In the dark, the mask's mouth looked wider, as if it were trying to inhale her words. She tried to pray. The words wouldn't come. The pressure on her chest increased until her ribs felt like they would fold inward.

Bea woke to a hush in the room, the kind that makes you hold your own breath. Mei lay on her back, eyes open, the mask back on the bedpost, tilted slightly as if it had been adjusted by a careful hand. Bea touched Mei's shoulder and flinched at the cold. She called for Rico, who burst in with a flashlight and a tired expression, as if another guest had gotten sick from mezcal. He saw Mei, saw the mask, and looked away.

The police called it a heart failure in her sleep. The hostel called it bad luck. Bea called it a warning. Salvador found a note on his stall in the morning, a simple line in English: "You brought it home." He looked around the market but saw no one. In the reviews, someone asked if The Courtyard Lantern was safe after the rumors about the cult in Book #26. @HostelReaper replied, "Souvenirs come with strings."