© Matthew L. Jones

There exists a place that never was, between what is and what isn’t. An emerald glade of bearded oaks where the Hidden Folk come to trade.

Tonight is a New Moon—Market Night—and the Folk are gathering.

Some blow in like autumn leaves, on a swirl of dragonfly and bat wings. Others crawl up from beneath, following worm trails through the dark and dank.

Everything on offer at The Lost Market is stolen from the world of Mortals—things that seem to vanish when people need them most. The more desperate the situation, the more precious the item. The more tragic the loss, the higher its value.

Mr. Obsidian, an Imp of highest standing among even the lowest circles, shoulders past a coven of Hobgoblins rummaging a chest of petty annoyances—lost eyeglasses and car keys—and through an auction of Gnomes bidding on misplaced Christmas lists, forgotten wedding invitations, and other things steeped in lingering grudges and dripping with regret.

After browsing mindlessly for a while, Mr. Obsidian finds his prize at a greedy-eyed Goblin’s shop.

“Was its loss felt?” Obsidian inquires, lightly tapping the item with hooked claws. “Is it still missed?”

“Very much,” the Goblin grins.

Convinced, Mr. Obsidian tosses the Goblin a pouch of assorted gold rings, chains, and other Mortal adornments. He’d even added a few gold teeth to sweeten the pot.

“Does this bring us to square?” Obsidian asks, well aware that he’d overpaid. He didn’t feel like haggling today. Especially with a Goblin.

“Yessss.” The Goblin hisses, clearly annoyed at having to accept the initial offer.

Later that night, as Mr. Obsidian creeps into the human child’s room and under its bed with his purchase tucked tightly under one leathery wing, he knows what he plans to do next would repulse even his vilest Imp Brethren. It was an unthinkable, unspeakable act—and none of them must ever know. Setting all repercussions aside, Mr. Obsidian deposits his treasure among the dust and crumbs beneath the child’s bed. After positioning it just right, he dissolves through the floorboards and waits in a crawl space until dawn…when the screaming begins.

“Oh my GOD!!” a child shrills from the room above him. “No! NO it can’t be!”

The unseen imp smiles sharply, his claws clattering in anticipation.

“What?!” A panicked adult from another part of the house.

Mr. Obsidian was an Ancient Imp whose needs had changed over time. Become more refined, he liked to think. And the taste of Mortal sorrow and loss was no longer enough for him. Quite the opposite, actually.

“I found it!”

“Where?” The adult voice grew closer with each thumping footstep.

“Under the bed!”

“I thought you said you looked there?”

“I did, like a million times. You did, too! Look again now. I didn’t touch it, I swear!”

Mr. Obsidian hears the groan and crack of an adult Mortal kneeling to the floor.

“You’re right, kiddo. I never thought we’d never see that thing again.”

“Me too! It’s a miracle!!”

He especially loved when they called it a “miracle.”

If that made him a bad Imp, then so be it.