Every night, Haru dreamed of fire.
He lifted the corner of the blanket. A creature no larger than a plush toy stared back at him. It had the body of a tapir—stubby legs, a round belly—but its face was a porcelain mask with a single, vertical slit where a mouth should be. Its eyes were two brass coins. baku otouto
“You have eaten forty-seven nightmares,” it said. “You are no longer the dreamer, Akira-kun. You are becoming the baku.” Every night, Haru dreamed of fire
The baku’s slit of a mouth curled into something like a smile. It shuffled across the floor to Haru’s sleeping form, pressed its snout to Haru’s forehead, and inhaled . It had the body of a tapir—stubby legs,
Haru was seventeen, brilliant, and terrifying in the way only older siblings can be. But the truly frightening thing about Haru was not his temper or his sarcasm—it was his dreams.
“You slept well, otouto,” Haru said. “No nightmares?”
The baku tilted its head. “I can. But there is a price. A baku does not destroy. It transmutes. I will take the nightmare into myself. And then…” It paused. “Then someone must dream it in his place.”