“Ugh, that’s so ten years ago,” a voice pipes up from a broken fan lying in the grass.

“And it sounds foreign,” says the umbrella rolling in the grass.

“No, it’s Japanese! I think.” The scaly blue yokai strokes what must be its chin. “Well, it’s some creation of Japan. Anyway, I look in people’s heads and all I see are big skinless giants running around chasing and eating humans. And Sensu-sama’s right — you used to see it a lot in human dreams; then it went away. I guess it’s making a comeback?”

“Sounds like fun!” the dragon snarls.

The fan feigns a yawn. “Sounds like something we used to do before people got into all this ‘late for a meeting’ and ‘failing a test’ garbage. Come on, those aren’t real nightmares. Whatever happened to getting home before your face gets eaten off? Now that’s something to worry about!”

“Yes!”

“I concur!”

The blue yokai shushes the crowd again. “All right. So are we going with skin?”

“Personally, I wouldn’t mind stopping by a bathhouse or two,” says one blotchy, red demon with an extremely long tongue.

“What’s wrong with scales?” says a catlike yokai. “Because if we’re talking about skin, then it has to be fish for me.”

“Hmmm …” The blue demon looks down at its own body. “I don’t know.”

“No white meat,” says the small dragon demon, twirling its whiskers. “Human all the way. Everyone knows that red meat is much more delicious. Enenra-sama, you hang around humans — wouldn’t you agree?”

“Tobaccooooo …” The cloud of smoke croaks out a smoker’s cough.

The blue yokai groans. “Should’ve guessed. I suppose we’re heading to another snack bar, then?”

“No snaaacks …” the smoke yokai says. “Mmmmeeeeeeth …”

“Yes, yes, we can get some of that, too. Hey, you there!” The blue yokai points to someone at the back of the crowd. “What are you in the mood for?”

Behind the last row of creatures, lying in a large ditch, is the Yokai. She stirs in sleep, then sits upright, awake. She scrambles out of the ditch that has been her bed. The other demons turn around and stare. She looks at their stoic faces, recognizing no one. Her face feels itchy. She wipes her mouth, violently — her sleeves come back sticky and black in the thin veil of moonlight. It appears to be some kind of viscous substance, not unlike congealed blood. “Huh? Wha? What’s happening?”

“Hey, relax. You must have been having a bad dream. A little ironic, but I’m not judging. You hungry?”