The Midnight Market

It was exactly 12:01 a.m. when Jordan’s phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number:

> “Come to Crosswell street . Follow the music. Bring nothing but curiosity.”



At first, Jordan thought it was spam. But the street it mentioned? That was only five blocks away. And the phrase “follow the music” stirred something… a memory—or maybe a dream—of whispers and lights beneath a blood moon.

He threw on a hoodie and slipped out into the night.

The streets were quiet, but as he got closer to Crosswell, he heard it—music. Strange, melodic, haunting. Like lullabies from a forgotten language.

The corner of Crosswell Street flickered with purple lanterns. A rusty gate—one that hadn’t been there yesterday—stood wide open. Beyond it, a cobblestone alley pulsed with light and laughter.

Welcome to The Midnight Market.


---

The air shimmered like magic was leaking through the cracks in reality. Candles floated midair. Tables moved on their own. Creatures in velvet cloaks bartered with humans, animals, and beings Jordan couldn’t begin to describe.

A one-eyed fox sold memory potions.
A girl with hair made of feathers offered dreams bottled in crystal.
A blind old man read people’s regrets from stones that bled ink.

Jordan wandered in a daze until a woman in a black top hat and glowing gloves stepped in front of him.

> “You’re new,” she smiled. “Wanna trade?”



> “Trade what?” Jordan asked.



She raised a deck of cards and fanned them out like wings.

> “Something you don’t even know you have.”



Jordan hesitated—but took a card.

A wind howled. The entire market froze.

The woman’s eyes widened. “That card… is him.”
Jordan turned the card over. It showed a shadowy figure with no face, and the words:
“The Collector.”

A bell rang in the distance. Then another. And another.

Panic spread. Stalls collapsed. Vendors screamed and vanished. Candles blew out. The air turned cold.

> “Run,” she said. “You’ve drawn him. Now he’s coming.”



> “Who?!”



> “The one who owns the market. The one who trades not goods, but souls. You picked his card. That means you’re his next offer.”




---

Jordan ran, the music now reversed—ugly and dark, like a lullaby turned inside-out.

Behind him, shadows crawled, tall and slow. A voice whispered in every puddle and flickering lamp:

> “TRADE ACCEPTED.”



He didn’t know how he found the gate again—but it was closing. He dived through it as something clawed his heel.

Slam.

He was back on his street. Normal. Silent. Empty.

But in his hand was the card.

And every night since, at 12:01 a.m., Jordan’s phone buzzes again.

> “Follow the music. Your next trade awaits.”




---

He’s never gone back.
But one night… he might.

So if you ever hear music on an empty street past midnight—don’t follow it.

Because once you enter the Midnight Market…

You never leave without giving up something.
Sometimes your name.
Sometimes your heart.
Sometimes… you never leave at all.