Kota remembers the first time the kids in the village mentioned the monster on the mountain. He was eight, and only just starting to venture out of the Pussycat's compound in an attempt to meet people his own age. He remembered thinking the kids were dumb as they tried to one-up each other with stories of a monster they'd surely never seen before.
"He's got fangs as long as my arms!"
"And one big eye. Like a cyclops."
"My older brother said that people disappear up there. The monster eats them!"
Kota is fifteen now, and he still doesn't believe in monsters—at least not in the mythical sense. He doesn't care about ghosts, or a cyclops, or witches that can turn a person to stone. Real monsters hurt people because they want to, not because they can. Real monsters are entirely human, and rarely give themselves away with just a glance—they're rarely as ugly on the outside as they are inside.
Kota tries to remember that now. He tells himself over and over again that there's nothing to fear. The Pussycats do this once a week, and none of them have ever been attacked. That's hard to believe when he passes the third hand painted sign on the path. They all say some variation of keep out or turn back now. Fear spikes in Kotas gut, but he's no coward, and his aunt would never send him somewhere dangerous. He finally comes to a gate with one final warning. Danger.
It's just groceries. Drop them off, and go, he thinks as he stops just outside the fence.
The house beyond the fence doesn't look dangerous. It looks well-kept, if modest and rustic. The gate sticks and creaks so loudly when he pushes it open, he thinks that it most likely hasn't seen use in a very long time. Something about that makes him sad, that old melancholy feeling that used to plague him constantly resurfaces. Kota knows what it's like to be lonely—even loneliness that's self-imposed can hurt.
He approaches the house—there's smoke coming from the chimney, and lantern light coming from the windows. He knows someone lives here. Among the unkempt grass of the lawn—if you could call it that—are small, intricately carved statues. He trips over a squirrel, and lands on a rabbit, chipping off the ear. Kota feels the slightest bit of guilt when he looks in the rabbit's flat, stone eyes. He picks it and it's missing ear up and finds it to be much heavier than he anticipated. He passes by more statues, careful not to jostle them now. The closer he gets to the house the more numerous and varied the statues become—an assortment of deer, dogs, cats, and many, many birds. He can see now that all the windows in the house were open to take in the late August evening. It isn't nearly cool enough yet for that, in Kota's opinion, but to each their own. There's a stone kitten keeping watch over the porch, sitting silently on the railing, and Kota deposits the heavy, broken rabbit next to the cat. They both look so lifelike despite their grey visages.
"Hello?" Kota is starting to wonder why he's here, bothering some person who clearly wants to be alone. The only answer from inside the house is what sounds like shattering ceramic.
"Hello?" He calls again, drawing the last syllable out.
"Go away! C-can't you read the signs?"
The voice sounds terrified, as if Kota was the one who was supposed to be dangerous. He can't see the man from where he stands, just outside the rickety screen door of the cottage. It's sweltering hot out, but the heat coming from inside is far worse. The back of Kota's neck pricks with sweat.
"Mandalay sent me. I've got your groceries," he says, rustling the paper bags in his hand for emphasis.
"Leave it. You were supposed to leave it at the gate."
"That's a pretty crappy thank you." Kota, now slightly annoyed with this mysterious cryptid, pushed open the screen door with his foot.
"You've got perishables in here. It's too hot out to leave at the gate." Kota walks further into the house, his steps punctuated by the creaking wood beneath his sneakers. The house is uncomfortably hot, but somehow welcoming. Every inch of the walls is covered in photos, a smattering of sceneries and sunsets, people, and unremarkable objects like books or coffee mugs— in one photo there's a set of Russian nesting dolls.
There's another clatter from what he assumes is the kitchen. He stands in the doorway with the grocery bags. In front of him, there's a man hunched over a basin. His back is to him, but he can see the edges of a dish towel pressed to his face.
"Stop! I'm dangerous."
"You don't look half as dangerous as all the kids in the village say."
"Looks can be deceiving."
"They told me you had stone skin. And snakes in your hair with poisonous fangs. Even if you did, I've seen gnarlier mutations."
On the contrary, the man looks healthy. His arms are tanned and freckled with lean muscle. He looks the way a mountain-side recluse living in a log cabin ought to look. Like a capable lumberjack, or something. His hair is green and curly, and it runs down past his shoulders. If Kota squints, he can see how some people might mistake them for snakes.
"Please, leave the bags and go." The man doesn't turn around. He just hunches further, curling in on himself as if he's trying to hide.
"Did you make those statues outside?" Kota takes a few tentative steps forward and puts the bags on a table in the middle of the kitchen. The man sighs into the dish towel.
"In a manner of speaking," he says, sounding world weary.
"Cryptic. You gonna say thank you? I lugged these bags all the way up that trail."
"If I say it, will you go?" The man stands stiffly, determined not to move while Kota is around.
"You know, I'm not the most polite kid around, so if I'm telling you your attitude is shitty, that's saying a lot."
The man huffs a laugh. It's light and airy, even caught in the dish towel.
"What?" Kota snapped, the last of his patience hanging by a thread.
"You remind me of someone."
"Someone awesome, I hope."
"Yes, someone very awesome." Kota can't be sure, but he thinks the man's voice breaks once or twice. Kota feels the slightest bit uncomfortable. This has to be the oddest moment of his life.
"Do you want me to help you sweep that up?" Kota gestured to the broken ceramic on the floor—the remnants of a bowl, he thinks—and then he stops gesturing because the man hasn't looked in his direction once. He wonders why. Why is he clutching that dirty towel to his face like his life depends on it?
"No, thank you."
"What's with the towel?" Kota blurts out. The man tenses, and whispers so low that Kota can barely hear it over the fire in the corner of the kitchen.
"I'm a monster."
Koda grimaces, not liking the feeling of guilt and pity twisting in his gut. He's not good at emotions. Especially not other people's emotions. He blurts out the only reassuring thing that pops in his head.
"I've seen real monsters in action. You don't seem like a monster to me." When the man says nothing, Kota turns to leave. Before he's out the screen door, he says, "The Pussycats are gone for the next two weeks. I'm bringing your groceries again on Friday."
"You can leave them on the porch."
"Not a chance."