There was once an unassuming young woman by the name of Casey Sennet.

As you may have guessed, she is going to die.

The whole affair began on a Sunday evening, when she broke her streak of seclusion to

visit the corner store. Rolled up in a coat and scarf to fend off the vicious November sleet, she

had already locked the door and popped open her umbrella when she saw it. At first glance, her

mind washed over it. Stray dog. No problem. But she took another peek, just in case, and found

herself unable to look away.

The monster stared back.

Its large canine body was normal enough, but the horns curling from behind its ears and

the five-fingered hands on the ends of its four legs were certainly not those of a dog. She could

just make out needle-like teeth crammed at odd angles into its long jaw and signs of decay ratted

in its fur.

They stood there, girl and beast, gazing into one another. Some small voice in her mind

was screaming fortheloveofgodRUNAWAY, but the rest of her remained oddly attracted to the

unearthly thing at the corner of Willow Avenue and Church Street. Moth to the flame, she

stepped closer to the curb, closer to the thing. It cocked its head, ears perking. Casey’s heart

hitched, and her lungs tightened, and her stomach rose toward her throat, so that she knew

something very powerful had just filled her, but she couldn’t apprehend what it was. The

monster drew a step closer, closed its eyes, nodded like it knew. Like it understood.

Then it was gone.

Casey remained rooted to the concrete for some time, gaze fixed on the vacant street

corner. She wanted to feel something, perhaps the tingle of onset insanity or a buzz of panic, but

everything in her remained still. There was a something in the seat of her sentiments crooning,

It’s okay, this is normal, this is normal, and she listened to it. That couldn’t be good. She should

have been freaking out.

2

But she wasn't, because she had seen monsters before. Perhaps even the same one. She

was certain of this more than anything; it was a solid thought, a truth as constant as there is

gravity or I am a woman named Casey Sennet. Yet when she raked her mind for any bit of

information, maybe a picture she'd seen of the creature or a nightmare she’d had before, there

was nothing.

Breathing deep, she crossed the road and began to step around the street sign, seeking

credence and finding none. Not a handprint or a single hair. Nothing. Had she imagined it? No,

she was certain she’d seen it— she just didn’t know exactly what she’d seen.

So she did what any normal person would do: she went to the library to google “dog with

horns sighting.”

Sitting at computer #6 with the scent of moist books heavy in her nose, Casey turned the

monitor toward the wall, away from prying eyes. She had to cock her head to actually see the

screen, sending strands of hair like watery coffee spilling out of her ponytail, but bad hair was

worth the privacy. If she was crazy, the whole library didn’t have to know.

After waiting a moment for her fingers to thaw, she began her search. There were several

results for wolf sightings, a few questionable chat rooms and some online fiction, but after a bit

of scrolling, she found something. The page was plain but fascinating, written by a paranormal

investigator named Zachary Kheft who had been tracking these creatures for some time.

Casey became aware of her pulse in her fingers as she gripped the mouse ever tighter,

eyes widening when she reached the bottom of the page. There it was. It was only a crude

drawing, yet it resonated with her, hit that chord of familiarity. She knew that creature.

Swallowing, she read on to a plea from Kheft to be visited at his address by anyone who had

seen such an animal.

Five minutes later, she was grinding the ignition of her ’91 Nissan with a Google Maps

print-off in one hand, muttering, “This is unreal.”

Once the car finally sputtered to life, she followed the map into a town several minutes

from her own but just as run-down. Apartments loomed with scattered windows lit from within,

and trees reached overhead with limbs stripped naked by the cold. The whole thing made Casey's

gut churn, her partially-numb fingers clinging to the steering wheel as she turned into the

apartment complex indicated by her map.

3

“Alright, 26C, where are you?” A slow cruise through the rows of buildings finally led

her to the apartment in question, which was on the second story. Uttering a curse beneath her

breath, Casey parked, pulled her jacket tighter, and leapt into the sleet. Her journey up the stairs

resulted in a few near-slips on the icy metal, and by the time she reached the top, she was

shaking so hard that she almost couldn’t get her finger on the buzzer.

There was a rush of feet then a squeal of hinges as the door opened a few inches, stopped

by a chain attached to the door frame. In the narrow opening was an overabundance of freckles,

bright red hair and eyes mirroring those of a deer in headlights.

“Zachary Kheft?” Casey ventured.

He shook his head violently. “No, no, I’m Arthur.” His jittering fingers appeared, too-

long nails pressing into the doorframe. “I’ll get Zach, though, you just— just wait.” The door

closed, remaining thus for roughly three seconds before inching back open to reveal Arthur

again. “Do you want to come in?”

Though the prospect of entering a stranger’s house was a little more than unwise, Casey

was losing the feeling in her outer extremities, and if worse came to worst there was a can of

mace in her purse… “Yes,” she said, trying to produce an assuring smile but succeeding only in

a shiver. It was too late to second-guess this, anyway.

“Okay then, just—” He disappeared momentarily, the chain slid free and the door opened

fully to reveal a man of some twenty years, slight-bodied and much shorter than Casey. “Your

feet, wipe them please?”

“Sure, of course.” Casey shuffled her feet against the threshold as she bowed into the

gloriously warm room. Arthur shut the door behind her, assuming a nervous fidgeting with his

hands.

“Well, I’ll get Zach now, if that’s alright.”

“Right! Go ahead, I’ll wait.” This time she was able to smile, and Arthur responded in

kind, albeit lopsidedly.

“He hasn’t had a girl over in a long time,” Arthur observed.

Awkward. In an unsuccessful attempt to conjure a response, Casey opened and closed her

mouth a few times like a fish. Seeming to recognize his blunder, Arthur cleared his throat,

peeped, “Right,” and vanished through a door beside him.

4

In his absence, Casey stole a gander at the interior of the apartment. It was, for lack of a

more eloquent term, a bachelor pad, complete with a half-eaten sandwich in a paper towel on the

arm of a beaten-in sofa. Less-standard was the large gash in the wall above said sofa. Okay.

Strange. Perhaps they—

“Can I help you?”

Casey spun. A man stood before her, much taller and sturdier than Arthur, defined by

dark skin, snarls of yellowish, unkempt hair, and a stubble-roughened jaw with bit of a goatee.

Overall, he had the appearance of a crazed jungle animal. “Is this about those payments at The

Oaks?” he continued, something foreign— maybe African?— apparent in his baritone. “Because

obviously, I’ve moved out. I don’t want to have to write another letter—”

“No, no,” Casey said. “I’m actually here because...” She fidgeted with the strap of her

purse, face growing increasingly hot. “I, um, read your internet page. I think I have an infestation

of those animals.”

Zachary Kheft stared at her for a moment before his face fell flat. “What did you see?”

“It was just like the picture on the site—”

“No.” Zachary stepped forward into her space, and Casey breathed a little faster. “Tell

me exactly. Size, color, features. Everything you can remember.”

A moment of hesitation passed before Casey described the creature, depicting its horns

with two devil-like fingers curled by her head and its unsettling hands with a wriggle of her own.

“And it had these teeth, so many teeth— maybe it was just a stray dog, but I swear, I really

thought it was more than that. It was big, maybe like a wolf hound or something. It was far away,

but it was— I don’t know. Lightly colored, I guess. Maybe white.”

Zach stared at her and his eyes widened with something akin to obsession. He had cat’s

eyes, hazel and a tad wild. Casey didn’t like them at all. “How many?” he asked.

“Just— just one, actually.”

“That’s not much of an infestation.”

Her stomach jumped. Had she really called it that? “You’re right. I don’t know why I said

—”

“It’s always like that, though. You see one and you feel like you’ve seen them before,

like you’ve seen them everywhere, yeah?”

5

“Well... yes, actually.” Pins and needles nibbled at her heart, made her spine tighten.

“What are these things? Do you know?”

“I do.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Zachary Kheft was silent. Casey felt an

explosion impending between her ears. “Well, what are they?” she asked finally.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, made an inarticulate sound, and clenched his teeth.

With a curl of his lip, he said, “Tell me your name.”

Her head cocked a bit, eyebrows raising. “What?”

“Your name. What is it?”

Casey stepped back, trying to find the doorknob without breaking eye contact. “Casey

Sennet. I don’t see what this has to do with—”

And then he was nearly toe-to-toe with her, all intensity and energy and just a smidgen of

terror, and his voice was low and quick. “Know how you feel like they’ve infested?”

“Uh—”

“They have. Don’t go back home. Find someplace to stay, and if you see them again,

move someplace else. Avoid them as much as you possibly can. You can’t run forever, but you

can buy yourself time.” Then he reached behind himself and Casey’s hand plunged into her

purse, going for the mace. When he produced a pistol and held it out as if offering it to her,

however, she could only stare.

“What?” She was lost to adrenalin, breath coming so quick that it scrambled her thinking.

“No— I don’t want that.” She pushed the gun away and retreated, going tense when the

doorknob small of her back. “Look, I know I’m here asking for answers, but what you’re saying

doesn’t make any sense. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Kheft frowned and the gun vanished behind him. “They want you, Casey. They’re going

to come for you.”

She grasped the knob behind her. “Who, those— those animals?”

“No. The monsters.”

Her nails dug into the grooves of the doorknob. “Look, I don’t know why you’re going to

so much trouble to scare me, but—”

6

“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to warn you.” He drew the gun again, held it out

in the palm of his hand. “I’ve been hearing about you. I know what you’re about to get into, and

it’s not pretty. At least take this.”

“I’m leaving now.” She gave what she hoped was a firm nod, opened the door, and

rushed outside.

Zachary Kheft came to the door, watching with his forehead drawn into wrinkles as she

backed away from the apartment. “I’m sorry for what they’re going to do to you, Casey,” he

called. “Really sorry.”

Casey turned and rushed down the stairs, slipping and sliding but more willing to face the

ice than the man who still watched her go. When she reached her car, she cast herself into the

seat and gunned the engine, praying the stupid thing would start faster than usual. When it did,

she threw it in gear and peeled off.

Her stomach quivered for the rest of the day.

A month passed, and Casey did not move out.

Given the amount of blood and sweat it would take to get out of her lease agreement and

the fact that the only place she had to go was back to her parents’, it didn’t seem worth it—

especially as she began to convince herself that she hadn't seen anything strange at all on the

corner of Willow and Church. But as every fleeting shadow started to resemble a monster and

the creak of the shifting foundation sounded like death on the prowl, she wondered if Zachary

Kheft had the right idea. Paranoia made sleep elude her, and the creeping night hours gave way

to increasingly unpleasant workdays.

“My name? I’m Casey, ma’am… Yes, thank you, too. Thanks for your purchase. Have a

happy Halloween! What? No— of course not. I apologize. I didn’t mean— no, ma’am, I’m

certainly not saying… Oh, yes, I’m sure there’s all kinds of evil going on tonight. I would never

imply— Candy? Yes, I suppose it is a problem… Yes, obesity is an epidemic, but I didn’t—

What? Oh. Um, the sale is already closed. I’d have to transfer you to customer service if you

want to make a return, but— Or you can hang up on me. Thanks, thanks so much for that.”

7

Casey’s forehead dropped to her desk, her headset following shortly with a clatter. Every

day she allowed to slip through her fingers in a call center made the ideas of bankruptcy and

homelessness seem a little less unwelcoming. Food was a pleasant and necessary part of life,

however, and she wasn’t willing to give up her ever-blossoming friendship with Chef Boyardee

to go live in a cardboard box with an empty stomach just yet.

“The Man getting you down, Casey dear?”

“Oh.” Casey turned her head to gaze up at the woman beside her, right temple still glued to

the desk of her half-cubicle. “Hey, Margaret.”

Margaret was an older woman with two grey braids, one over either shoulder. Casey had

never seen her without her braids, probably because they were one of the many aspects of

Maggie’s ongoing campaign against “The Man,” and the war he’d started in Vietnam that had

taken her son from her years ago. The war which was, according to Margaret, still going on in

secret.

“I’ve hardly sold a thing tonight, and I'm so out of it that I just went and told my one sale to

have a Happy Halloween. She started lecturing me on evil spirits then tried to make a return…”

Casey paused to sigh. “I'm just no good tonight. Thank God it’s quitting time.”

“Don’t blame yourself, dearie. You just go home and rest. Things will get better when the

government pulls out of ‘Nam and they give my boy back to me. The economy will be fixed in

an instant, you know, and you’ll find a better job.” The woman pushed her thick glasses up on

her nose and examined her schedule.

“Alright, Maggie. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“No, you won’t.” Maggie batted Casey’s arm with her schedule. “It’s your birthday

tomorrow, dearie! Stay home and make that herbal tea I gave you— stuff’s mighty strong, you

know.”

Casey had no sooner registered the suspicious comment about the herbal tea than the full

meaning of Maggie’s words hit her: tomorrow was her birthday.

She had forgotten.

“Oh, but I’m sure you’re having a party.” The old woman’s braids leapt as she nodded in

the affirmative. “Tell me all about it when you get back, won’t you? And don’t stay in bars past

midnight. That’s where they abduct all the new recruits.”

Casey put a hand to her temple. “That— that can’t be right.”

8

“It’s true! They told us the girl down in HR got transferred, but she really—”

“No, not that.” Casey waved a dismissive hand, ignoring Maggie’s conspiracy talk purely

out of habit. “What’s tomorrow?”

“November 1st, of course. I never forget a birthday. But dearie— did you forget?”

“Well… yeah. I did.” There was no use lying. The woman may have had a few screws

loose, but she was suspicious enough to smell a lie from six miles away.

Breathing a low tsk tsk, Maggie removed her glasses with a stiff movement, as if shedding

a hat in salute. “You’ve been working too much, dearie. Go ahead and get home early like you

said, and you call up all of your hip, young friends to have a party tomorrow, you hear?”

“Right,” Casey murmured. “I will. Thanks.” She stood, pulled her jacket and scarf from the

nearby coat tree. “Bye, Maggie.”

With a sagely nod farewell, Margret reapplied her glasses and turned back to her own desk.

The first item on Casey's list, after wrapping herself in the blue scarf Margret had kindly

knitted her, was a trip to the store.

As she walked to her car, she took extra care to step in every puddle that presented itself on

the rain-soaked Colorado pavement, reflecting that the blue of the scarf was probably her

favorite color. And her elderly, half-senile coworker was probably the only person who had

remembered her birthday. She still felt a little sick about forgetting it, herself, but she attributed

it to all of the craziness with strange creatures and questionable men offering her guns.

Obviously, she was too stressed. She needed more sleep, more social life, and less work. She

needed to do something productive with herself before she lost it and started seeing flying

monkeys.

As she slid into her car, she wondered who, other than Maggie, she could invite over for

her birthday, but decided to save those thoughts until later. Surely by the time she got home, she

could think of someone.

When Casey stepped into Wal-Mart, she tugged off her scarf and couldn’t help but sigh as

she melted into the people. A couple holding hands, a mother pushing a sleepy child in a

shopping cart, a group of teenagers messing around by a rack of sunglasses; these people had

real lives. They had relationships. She needed more of that.

9

A few minutes later, she stood in the pharmaceutical department of the store, a can of

ravioli in her hand and her eyes on the sleep aids. Perhaps tonight, with the help of a pill or two,

she coulf remedy her sleep troubles and keep the late night fears away. Maybe—

Whap!

Casey jumped, yanked from her thoughts by the sound of a box of bandages hitting the

floor. She cast an absentminded glance down at the box, returned her eyes to the sleeping pills,

then promptly looked back again. Was the man who had dropped it barefoot?

She followed bowed legs up to a bony torso wrapped in dirty gauze, from there to a spindly

neck and finally a face. He seemed more-or-less Asian, but it was hard to tell for the series of

medical patches that completely obscured half of his face. Only one eye was visible for the

bandages, and it stared like she was something ungodly.

“So…” She drew out the word, swallowing and backing away a bit. Given that he was built

like an emaciated pile of sticks, she shouldn’t have been very intimidated, but he was tall— at

least six and a half feet, if she had to guess. Was this what serial killers looked like? She was in a

Wal-Mart at eleven at night.

“You dropped your Band-Aids.” She nodded at the abandoned box, crouching to retrieve it

when he made no move to do so himself. He continued to stare at her, expression unchanged.

“Do you… want them back?”

She held out the box to him, and the eye flickered to her hand. When her peace offering

didn’t elicit any other reaction, she shook the box a little, succeeding only in shifting his

attention back to her face.

Drawing a deep breath, he raked a hand through his rat's nest of long black hair and said,

“F-fo-forgive me.” His accent was odd, confirming his Asian ethnicity but clipped at the edges

by something else she couldn’t identify.

Casey’s brow lowered a bit in wonderment as she stared at this strange, unfortunate

creature. Just as it began to occur to her to offer some kind of help (a couple dollars or some

employment advice; she wasn’t sure exactly what she was going for) she found herself staring at

an empty aisle. The man had vanished, leaving her with naught but a box of Band-Aids and a can

of ravioli.

After a long exhale, she returned the Band-Aids to their shelf and picked up the most

promising bottle of sleeping pills. As she made her way to the checkout, she glanced about and

10

craned her neck around corners, but didn’t see him again. Between the screaming child at the

checkout in front of her and the cashier who rang up her Tampax twice, she forgot about the

encounter by the time she left the store.

The walks from the store to her car and from her car to her house shocked her full of

shivers and left her scarf dripping with sleet, making what would have been an inconsequential

sack of groceries into a bit of a burden by the time she reached her doorstep.

Her house was shabby at best, but well-insulated and armed with a security system, so she

couldn’t ask for much more. Though the oven sat nestled rather uncomfortably near the sofa, if

she turned it on the lowest heat and left it on for a few hours, it would warm the house nicely.

Her television had finally given up the ghost but still resided on the coffee table; she brushed the

back of it idly with her fingertips as a matter of habit when she passed by, heading to her

bedroom with the sleeping pills in hand.

Once in her room, she peeled off her wet clothes and changed into warm sweatpants and a

t-shirt. She then stepped into the bathroom, where she cast a glance at herself in the mirror—

slight bags beneath her eyes, hair twisted into a lost cause of tangles— before the bottle for

examination. Having skimmed the label and made sure of the dosage, she tossed back two pills

with a handful of water.

It was then, on her way back to the kitchen to unpack the groceries, that she thought of

someone to invite for her birthday: Abbey Graves. Of course! Abbey, from human resources at

work, was a lovely girl, always interested in how Casey’s day was going. She’d been transferred,

but her cell phone number would still be the same.

Grinning, Casey pulled a notepad and a pen out of a kitchen drawer and flung Abbey’s

name across the top. When she began to click through her contacts, however, it occurred to her

that she had never actually asked for Abbey’s number. They’d talked at the office, but never

exchanged any information.

Frowning, Casey took a seat at her table and crossed out Abbey. Who else could she

possibly—?

“Oh!” The gasp came on the coattails of a grin. Biting her lip, she wrote Jake at the top of

the list. She’d met Jacob Surley at the library a few times, and he’d seemed interested in her—

yes, perfect. With a flick of her thumb, she opened her phone and wedged it between her ear and

shoulder when she found the number.

11

Three beeps sounded, and her heart sank. “We're sorry; you have reached a number that

has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in

error, please—” She hung up. Dialed again. Same response.

So she couldn’t call him… and he hadn’t been at the library recently. Resting her cheek

against her palm, she sighed, “Nope,” and drew a strike through Jacob’s name.

Over the next few minutes, Casey wrote down and crossed out a dozen more names. She

didn’t know anyone from high school well enough, her brief time in college had been more

stressful than social, and the turnover rate at work was too high to make any good friends—

aside from Maggie, who didn’t have any interest in getting a better job. However, the idea of

spending her birthday alone with a 70 year old conspiracy theorist was a little more than

depressing, so Casey found herself at a last resort.

She pressed “3” on speed dial and felt a little lighter when no one answered.

“You have reached Robert and Stella Senet. Leave your name and number after the tone. If

you are selling something, please take us off your list. Usted ha llegado a Robert y Stella Senet.

Deje su nombre y número después del tono. Si usted está vendiendo algo, por favor nos llevan

fuera de su lista.”

The tone beeped, and Casey almost hung up. Her voice came rushed and a little airy. “Hey,

mom. Or— or dad, whoever. Uh, my birthday’s tomorrow and I was wondering if you wanted to,

you know, do something. You could come over here. Or— I could go over there, too. We could

also just go out. Whatever’s good for you guys. You choose. I know November’s hard for you,

so I thought we could do something, um, fun. Just, uh…” She put the phone to her chest for a

moment and breathed deep. “Dad, please don’t show up if you’re not sober. Again, I know

November’s hard, but… I mean, if it’s a problem, you can come by yourself, mom. Oh— and I’ll

have a check tomorrow when I see you. Or if I-- um, if I don’t see you, I’ll send it like usual.

Thanks. Call me back.”

Casey dropped into her chair, sighed, and gouged her pencil through Family.

Blessedly, the sleep aid chose that moment to kick in. Putting the thoughts of a lonely

birthday behind her, Casey relinquished to the dizziness of the drug and forced herself to put

away a few groceries before wandering back to her room.

Through her fluttering eyelashes she could have sworn she saw a figure shifting in her

open door, but before she could lend much thought to it, sleep stole her away.

12

13

The alarm that flung Casey headlong into the world consciousness each day never failed to

be painfully loud.

Her attempt to slap the “quit making that awful racket” button ended in the demonic thing

falling onto the floor beside her bed. When she reached down to grab it, she instead knocked it

away and left it screaming, just out of her reach. The thought that this was going to force her to

get out of bed at six in the morning irked her slightly, but she’d get over it.

Happy birthday, Casey, she congratulated herself as she captured and disarmed the clock,

you’re officially old enough to drown that throbbing in your head with a bottle of vodka.

In the bathroom a few moments later, she showered. Her hair refused to calm itself, so she

resorted to throwing it into a loose ponytail as it dried. A few moments were spent investigating

the finer aspects of her face in the mirror and standing sideways to scrutinize her figure— maybe

one day it would look like something other than a slab of cardboard— before she dressed in a

tank top and a pair of shorts, ready for a day of solitude in her warm house. Party or not, she

deserved the day off on her birthday. Perhaps she’d even invite Margret over later.

She stepped out into the kitchen and grabbed her phone to call in, then dropped it promptly

to the floor.

He was in her house.

Enigmatic Six and a Half-Foot-Tall Possible Serial Killer Man from Walmart was in her

house.

“Stay where you are!” She reached behind herself, fumbling in a drawer until she found a

knife. “I-I don’t know what you’re doing in my house, but—” She had no clue where she was

going with this. She had the knife, it was pointed at the guy...

And the next moment she’d run and locked herself in her bedroom. She crouched there

with her back against the door and her fingers taut around the knife’s handle, every self-defense

tip she’d ever heard choosing that moment to abandon her. Judging by his health (or lack

thereof), she could probably overpower him without doing anything drastic, but did she want to

take the chance of getting into a fight with someone who had broken into her house? What if he

was stronger than he seemed, or worse, armed? What if—

14

Her entire body lurched when her phone rang outside of the room. Why on earth had she

left it on the floor? It rang again, closer this time. Then the doorknob rattled, and Casey nearly

swallowed her tongue.

“I have a knife!” Her voice was pitchy and not as fear-inducing as she’d intended. “Don’t

even try to come in here!” The knob ceased to rattle, and there was a light knock. The phone

rang again. Was he bringing it to her?

“Just leave it outside!” she said, face against the wood. She heard him place the phone on

the wood then step away.

On her knees, knife poised to strike, she ventured to open the door a crack. He wasn’t

outside. The phone rang again and she snatched it up, flipping it open and sliding it between her

shoulder and her ear as she locked the door.

“Excuse me, ma’am, do you have time to consider buying a pair of sunglasses?

Guaranteed to deflect any brainwashing laser beams the government has on those satellites in

outer space.”

Casey sighed and rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. “Hey, Maggie. Actually,

this isn’t the best—”

“Just a moment, birthday girl. Do you know that a man came in a minute ago and told the

boss you’d be out for a few days? Something about an unexpected trip. What happened? Are you

with him?”

She frowned. “What? Did he leave a name? What did he look like?”

“I didn’t catch a name. He was wearing some pretty fancy clothes, business formal and all

that, and his hair was really curly and black. He had funny eyes, too— could’ve been blind, but

he was handsome.”

Handsome and well-dressed. Definitely not the man in Casey’s living room, then. She

closed her eyes and sighed through her teeth. “Okay, look, Maggie. There’s a man in my house

right now, and—”

“Oh, my heavens! Is he trying to arrest you over conspiracy? Because if they’ve found out

I know about ‘Nam, you don’t have to say anything! You have rights—”

“No, no, he’s not trying to arrest me." Casey pinched her temple. "In fact, he hasn’t tried to

do anything. I’m not sure if he’s even dangerous, but somehow he got into my house, so—”

15

Casey nearly leapt out of her skin at the voice just opposite the door: “You didn’t arm your

security system.”

“God!” she yelped.

“Are you alright? Just hit him where it counts and run, dearie!”

The intruder spoke again. “And I’m sorry; you didn’t hear me knocking, so I just picked

the lock. I didn’t mean...”

Picked the lock? There went the last three years of feeling secure in her own home! Just

beyond Casey’s panic, Margaret continued a babble of defense instructions, garbled now by

static. The incessant noise was not helping.

“Maggie, I’m fine, I’m fine, just one moment—” Casey pressed a hand over the

mouthpiece and twisted so that her face was flat against the floor. In the crack beneath the door,

she saw long-fingered hands covered in band-aids and beyond them a pair of knees. She said,

“Hey, you, listen! I’m not sure why you’re here, but I’m going to call the police if you don’t get

out, you hear me!”

“No! You can’t!” Then the crack filled with half a face, eye wide and mouth peeled back to

reveal— oh, God, were his teeth filed to points? “Please, don’t call the police! Y-yo-y-you-y-yo-

y— they’ll kill—”

“The police aren’t going to kill me, but I can’t speak for you, so—”

“No, not the police!” His voice strained over the words, high and frantic. “I mean them.

The monsters, Casey.”

Casey’s spine went cold. “What are you talking about? There’s no monsters here, I— how

do you know my name? No, okay, look, it doesn’t matter, because you need to get out right now.

My— uh— my boyfriend will be here soon, so even if I don’t call the police, you’re going to be

in trouble, you hear me!”

What remained of his eyebrow lowered in a gesture of confusion. “But you don’t have a

boyfriend.”

Casey’s stomach turned. “I’m going to call the police!” she said, and pressed the phone

against the crack to prove her point.

“No, don’t! You can’t! It’s for your own good, please, ju-jus-j-ju-just—” And his fingers

came scratching after the phone like great spider legs, the last vestiges of what might have been

nails scraping Casey’s hand. She shrieked and leapt back from the door, yelping when the

16

footboard of her bed hit her back. She went to dial 911 and found her phone missing. Her head

jerked up just in time to see his gnarled fingers snatching it away.

“Hey, no— you can’t do that— stop!” She fell to her knees and pressed her face against the

crack, but he was gone. “No, no, no no no no...” Casey collapsed back onto her rear, a hand to

her chest as if that would impede her impending hyperventilation. The knife still lay by the door,

but did she want to chance it? And even if she did, would she have the strength of body and will

to actually fight someone off, maybe even stab them? “Oh, God— help, help me—”

Swiveling to look for some other source of protection, she kicked herself for not taking her

mother’s advice: “You’re moving to the ghetto,” she’d said, “buy a gun. You’ll be thankful you

did.” She had no such assurance, now, only the hope that this stalker was as flimsy as he looked.

Or maybe...

“Oh, please be in here, please be in here...” Casey leapt up and into the adjoining bathroom,

where— yes! There was her purse, and inside, her trusty can of mace. She’d never actually used

it, but it didn’t seem too complex: shake the capsule, spray, run like heck. Easy enough.

Hopefully.

Casey rushed back to the door and threw herself to her knees to look through the crack

again. Still nothing. “Hey, hey you! I’ve got a home phone in here. I can still call the police!” A

rush of bare feet and he appeared, knees then hands then face.

"N-n-n-no, you can't! It’s for your own—” Casey leapt back and sprayed him. Inhuman

shrieking ratcheted up in the hallway outside, the kind of noise Casey associated with demons in

scary movies and pterodactyls from children’s shows. Adrenalin spiked and she unlocked the

door, kicking it open and flattening him behind it like so much home-invading stick bug.

Then she ran, snatching her coat as she passed the rack with a silent prayer that her car keys

were in the pocket; a familiar jingling when she threw on the garment brought tears of relief to

her eyes. Moments later she was in her car, gunning the ignition, praying the old hunk of metal

would actually start. Her prayers were answered again with a strained growl from the engine.

She peeled out into the street in defiance of every defensive driving class she'd ever taken and

knew she had only one place left to go:

Home.

17

“Mom? I know you're here! Please answer me!” Casey pounded flat-palmed against her

parents’ front door, simultaneously thrumming with energy and losing feeling in her limbs.

“Come on, I think I’m in danger! Please!”

Finally, with a squeal of hinges, a familiar face appeared in the doorway. The woman was a

wisp of a thing, Hispanic and short with graying hair all pinned up like something had died in it.

She scrutinized Casey for a moment before asking with a hint of a Mexican accent, “What are

you wearing?”

Casey looked down at her tank top, shorts and socks, then back up. Any explanation she

had was impeded by her teeth, which chose that moment to take up a violent chattering.

“Well, get inside before we both catch death,” her mother said, and Casey stamped her

sock-feet to remove the snow before escaping into the dwelling’s warmth. Her nose crinkled at

the reek of off-brand air freshener. The house of her youth remained unchanged since her last

visit, still littered in unpaid bills and picture frames from the dollar store. The chair customarily

filled by the hung-over mass of her father pleaded vacant, leaving Casey to assume that he was

off gambling away the grocery money.

“Happy Birthday,” her mother offered without eye-contact. “I assume they've come for

you.”

“You knew about this?” Casey dropped into the couch and began to strip off her frigid

socks. “Mom, I swear, if this is some kind of joke, it isn’t funny—”

“No, there’s nothing funny about this at all.” Her mother lounged into her father's chair

with a few fingers to her temple. “You know all about it, then, or you wouldn't be here.”

“Know all about what?”

“About your husband, Cassandra.”

Casey sat in stillness and stared at the woman adjacent her.

“I'm sorry, what exactly are you talking about?”

Her mother looked her straight in the face, expression hard. “They really haven’t told

you?”

“No. Mom, seriously, what does that mean?”18

The woman pulled a frown and averted her eyes. “It means exactly what it sounds like.

You're getting married.”

Brow folded, Casey shifted in her seat and made an inarticulate noise. “Look, Mom, if this

is some kind of cultural thing, let me tell you that I have no intention of getting married. The

Quinceañera was great, but—”

“I told you this isn’t a joke, Cassandra! Be serious!” her mother shrieked and shot to her

feet with intensity uncharacteristic of such a slight thing. Casey flinched back, eyes wide. Her

mother’s heavy breathing tapered into small gasps, and she collapsed back into the chair,

sobbing. Mouth agape with nothing to say, Casey shifted to her mother’s side.

“Hey— don’t. I’m— um— I’m sorry, and I’ll listen to you, now. Is that okay, Mom?” She

went to place a consoling hand on one of the sob-wracked shoulders, but her mother jerked

away.

“They— they’re going to kill you, Cassandra,” she whispered.

Casey’s heart hitched. “What? What are you talking about?”

“He’s coming for you— he— he’s going to make you marry him, and when you do...”

Again, the poor woman dissolved to tears.

Her stomach beginning to twist, Casey took a seat on the arm of the chair and folded her

mother up in a firm hug. “Come on, Mom. That’s crazy. Even if something like that did happen,

it’s fine, because I could— hey, look at me—” she turned the graying head, looked into eyes

awash with tears, “I could just say no, right?”

“No, then they’ll kill us. It’s— it’s no use. They see everything, they hear everything…”

Her mother’s words descended into mutters. Casey cradled her with palms that had gone moist

and shaky.

“Look, Mom, I don’t even know what you’re talking about. How do you know anyone

would try to hurt you?”

Her mother sniffled, holding the sides of her head between weathered hands. “Because they

killed your brother, Cassandra. They ate Tyler.”

Casey’s insides lurched and became a vacuum, everything going breathless and tight

against each other, all strained into a single, incredulous gasp: “What?” A hand went to her

mouth, and images of murder and cannibalism crept around the edges of approaching nausea.

“Mom, he was in a wreck! I saw the car, I-I was at the funeral—”

19

“It was all fake!” With that, her mother tore away and began pacing. Casey stared, jaw

slack.

“What? Mom, stop it. This isn’t okay.”

Her mother didn’t seem to hear. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see— these men came to

the house, and they had these things with them, these- these demons with monkey feet and horns

and antlers and wolf faces, and they took us, Cassandra. They- they took us to this- this garage or

something and…” She went quiet, her little chest heaving. “They… ate him, right there in front

of us. The monsters ate him, ate him whole, a-and then, the men made us swear— they made us

swear never to tell the truth. A-and then they arranged the whole thing, the wreck and the funeral

and everything. It was a lie. They ate him.”

Casey sat with her hands on her face, struggling to breathe around her knot of a throat, to

quell the tears, to shove down the sensation of vomit growing in her stomach.

She wouldn’t have believed it, but she’d seen it with her own eyes, right there on the corner

of Willow Avenue and Church Street. The monster had looked her right in the face, and Casey

had felt something that she couldn’t understand at the time, but now she knew: she’d felt her

future twisting away. And the monster had closed its eyes and nodded like it knew. Like it

understood.

They were coming for her.

“Why?” she whispered. “What do they want?” With a peek through her fingers, she saw

her mother composing herself, taking deep breaths. If Casey took a deep breath, she’d probably

get sick on her own feet.

“I’m not sure,” her mother said. “There… there was this man. The Smiling Man, we called

him. God, that smile...” She paused, a fist to her mouth. “He came to us years before you were

born, and he had the monsters with him. He threatened to kill us then and there, but he said he’d

let us live if… if we gave him our firstborn child.”

Casey blinked. “What, like Rumpelstiltskin?”

Her mother scoffed and dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “Oh, I don’t know, but the

point is, we were drunk and terrified and we agreed. Honestly, after it happened, we assumed it

wasn’t real. It was ridiculous, and we’d been so drunk; how could it have really happened? But

then, a week or so before they—” she swallowed, “—well, before Tyler passed on, The Smiling

Man came again. He said…”

20

She took another pause, closing her eyes. “He reminded us of our contract and told us the

terms. A man named Vincent Pierce would be coming for you when you were twenty-one, and

you’d have to marry him. Obviously, your father and I protested. We said he couldn’t have you.

He told us that in that case, he’d kill us, and we told him, ‘Fine, try it.’ He didn’t have the

monsters with him, and for all we knew, it was some kind of scam or hoax. How were we

supposed to know that-that he would—” And she began crying again. “I’m so sorry, Cassandra,

if-if I had known…”

“You couldn’t have known.” Casey said it softly, her nausea given over to stillness.

This was unreal. Some mysterious “Smiling Man” with pet monsters had looped her into an

arranged marriage and killed her brother because her parents resisted; how was she to react to

such a thing? Now that the initial sickness had passed, she sat, unbelieving, trying to get her grip

around the idea only to have her fingertips slip off the edges.

“Who’s Vincent Pierce?” she asked, because it was the only thought that would stick.

Her mother shook her head. “I don’t know. We met him… years ago. In a mental clinic. He

didn’t say much. The Smiling Man was there, and he did all the talking. Mr. Pierce just sat in a

corner with his eyes closed.”

Casey’s eyes screwed shut as she let loose a long sigh. “A mental clinic?” That was exactly

where this whole situation belonged. “This is…” She placed her face in her hands again for a

moment before looking back up. “Mom, why are you just now telling me this? You— well, you

should have told me about it when Tyler died, or at least when you met this… this Mr. Pierce.”

Her mother scoffed and asked, “Cassandra, would you have believed me?”

“No,” Casey murmured. “Probably not. But you could have at least—”

“We weren’t going to talk about it ever again, your father and I.” The woman put a jittery

hand to her temple and released a groan. “I wouldn’t have brought it up today if I hadn’t thought

you already knew... Why would I ever want to talk about this if I didn’t have to?”

Casey didn’t know what to say to that.

It was then that the door entertained a knock so quiet that neither woman would have heard

it if not for the momentary silence. Casey’s mother’s eyes drew thin as she went to the door,

standing on her tip-toes to see out the peep hole. She gasped and pitched backwards.

“It’s him!” she hissed. “Vincent Pierce!”

21

Casey sprang to her feet, entire body rigid save for her thrashing heart. Her mother waited

with a hand frozen on the doorknob.

“What do I do?”

“Open it,” Casey said, because she did not know what was happening or how she would

ever quite accept it, but she knew that there was no stopping it now. Her mother nodded and

threw the door open.

On the porch stood a looming scarecrow of a figure, draped in gauze, half his face pasted

up in medical patches and his one eye staring.

“You!” Casey screamed. She stepped back and found herself toppled over in the arms of

the chair behind her. Her lips parted to order him off, but midsentence she lost the words to

realization.

This was Vincent Pierce, the man she was apparently supposed to marry, and he had come

for her on her twenty-first birthday, as promised.

Casey pushed herself to her feet, shaking, trying to produce some sort of dialogue and

succeeding only in staring at him. His face was rendered red and puffy around the eye, nostrils

and mouth, a result of the mace— should her shoulders have gone so heavy with guilt?

Finally, a few words made it to her tongue. “Um, hello.”

“Hello, Casey,” he said.

They all stood still and silent for a long moment before Casey’s mother peeped, “I’m— I’m

going to go make some coffee,” and left the girl and her alleged fiancé at an impasse, each too

intimidated by the other to move any closer to the door.

“Alright, look,” Casey said, staring Vincent Pierce down as she tried to suppress the quiver

in her tone. “I’ve just got one question— no, actually, I have a lot of questions, but I have one

very important one that I need to ask before anything else happens: why?”

He swallowed. “Why what?”

“Why am I suddenly finding out that I’m supposed to marry somebody because of—” she

drew in a gasp that threatened to become a sob, “—because of hellhounds and cannibals? What’s

going on? How—”

“There were no cannibals,” Vincent said.

Casey’s brow pinched. “What?”

22

“Cannibals. You said there were cannibals, but there wer-were-w-we-wer-” he hung his

head a moment, took in a deep breath, “wer-weren’t cannibals.”

Casey pressed a hand to her temple and moaned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” Why was

she apologizing? “Look, I just found out that my brother, the brother I thought died in a car

accident, was actually eaten. And now I’m apparently supposed to get married to you, a man

who broke into my house this morning and just so happens to have some kind of connection with

the people who got my brother eaten. So I’m just— just a little on edge, here, okay?”

Vincent stood with his eye unblinking for quite some time, mouth drawing open as if to

speak more than once, but never doing so. It was hard to gauge his emotions, what with half his

face being covered in bandages, but if Casey had to guess, she’d say he was more frightened than

anything.

A man who’d whittled his teeth to points and come to claim her as his bride didn’t really

have much business being afraid, but the longer she stood there, the more Casey began to realize

that he was more scared of her than she was of him. He was a nervous wreck, wringing his

hands, breathing shallow, shifting his meager weight— though that may have been because he

stood in bare feet on the icy front porch.

Casey’s toes had begun to go numb, and despite her self-preservation’s persistent demands

for caution, she had to ask, “Mr. Pierce, would you like to stand inside?” Because, creepy man

affiliated with monsters or not, it was hard to watch him shake in the cold. She’d seen stray dogs

that looked better.

“No,” he gasped and waved his hand in a gesture of decline. “I don’t want to intr-intru-in-

int—”

“Then you can stand right inside the door.” Casey was unsure if it was polite to interrupt

someone who stuttered but found herself more concerned about the cold. She could practically

hear his bones rattling. “All the heat’s getting out, and you— well, please, just come in.”

After a moment of neither party moving aside from shivers, Mr. Pierce stepped inside and

Casey closed the door behind him. He took up sentry just beside the door, awkward with the

rigidity of a person whose poor posture prevents them from standing straight.

“I’m sorry you’re on edge,” he said.

Casey stared. Her first instinct was to snap ‘You’re why I’m on edge!’ but it seemed wrong.

He really was sorry.

23

“It’s, uh, I mean, it’s—” She cleared her throat. “Um, please sit!” He flinched at her sudden

enthusiasm. With a deep breath to calm herself, she gestured toward the sagging couch. “Really,

it’s fine. Let’s sit.” She collapsed backwards into her father’s chair and clung to the armrests.

He blinked at her for a moment before moving toward the couch, finally taking a seat and

drawing his ridiculous legs up onto the cushion to sit cross-legged. For the first time since he’d

come to the door, Vincent looked away from Casey. She deflated with relief. Her hands kneaded

the armrests of their own accord.

“So, what’s the deal? I mean, really, why is this happening?”

“Well, my family is…” Vincent looked down at his hands and cracked the knuckles with a

few flexes of his fingers, “… influential.”

Casey frowned. “Family? You’re not— are you part of the mob or something?” She didn’t

know if there was much mob activity in Colorado, but it would be less shocking than other things

she’d encountered today.

“No. No, we’re j-j-ju-jus-j-ust…” One of his shoulders gave a loose shrug. “It’s hard to

explain.”

Sighing through her teeth, Casey brought a hand to her face. “Okay, different question.

What happens if I say no to this whole marriage thing?”

Vincent lurched to his feet. “No! You can’t, they’ll k-k-ki-k-kill-ki—”

“Alright!” Casey cried, tossing up her hands. “Alright, I get it, I have no choice. Right.”

She drew a long breath to steel herself as best she could. The only thing that could make this

worse would be losing her head. “Okay, okay, so… how is this going to go? What’s going to

happen? And, please, you can sit down again.” It was bad enough having him in the house;

having him tower over her was a whole different level of uncomfortable.

Vincent tensed and glanced over his shoulder at the couch, then perched back on it after a

moment. Once he’d popped a few more knuckles, he said, “We’re supposed to get… well,

married three months from now, I think. You’re going to live w-wi-w-with-w-wi— at my house

until then.”

Three months? That was awfully fast, but— Casey leapt to the edge of her chair. Did he

just say— “Live with you?”

His bony hands flinched up. “Oh, no, not— I mean, we wouldn’t be— I have a separate

room for you, and you d-d-d-don’t even have to—”

24

“No, no, of course not. Separate room. Right.” Breathe, Casey. Breathe. “Okay, then. I get

it.” She cast a long glance up at the ceiling before turning her eyes back to the strange creature

on her couch. “But after we, um, get married, what happens? I mean, does your family have…”

she cringed, insides clenching, “…expectations?”

“Well, um, there are a few things, but I don’t think…” Vincent squirmed. “You won’t have

to live with me, once we’re... married. You’re free to go live wherever you like.”

Mouth taking a downward turn, Casey sank back into the chair. While the idea of not being

indefinitely attached to this man allowed her a few easy breaths, this new amendment made the

whole thing sound pointless. After all, if this crazy family had gone through the trouble of

binding her into a marriage, why didn’t they care whether she stuck around? Her brother had

died because her parents had resisted, but what had they even been resisting? Three months of

living close-quarters with a creep? It didn’t make any sense.

But were associations with marriage-arranging, man-eating monsters supposed to make

sense?

“Well, not to rush you, but w-w-we-” Vincent gazed pointedly at his feet as he stuttered

over the word, wringing his ankles, “-w-we should g-go.”

“Um, look, Mr. Pierce— Vincent.” He looked up at her use of his first name. “I’ll go. I’ll

go with you, but I need to know why. Why is this happening? I get that you have a crazy,

‘powerful’ family, but what do they want with me? And, for that matter, why me?”

For a long moment, he watched her, his face pinched by sadness. He looked down. “It’s not

you. It could have been anyone. You just… you were unlucky.” Rising from the couch, he

stepped to her chair and reached out, almost as if to touch her. His hand recoiled, however, and

he stepped away, though not before Casey had caught his smell— an overwhelming mixture of

mildew and turpentine. Her joints stiffened.

“I don’t know why this is happening,” he continued. “He chose this, and He sees

everything. There’s a reason— there always is— but I don’t know what it is.” His hand drew to

the bandaged side of his face as a cringe pulled at his reddened mouth. He was shaking. “I’m s-s-

s-so-s-s-so-s-s-so sorry.”

Casey’s joints unwound, and her heart drew tight, and something not unlike compassion

welled in her chest. “You don’t have a choice in this either. Do you?”

25

A gasp left him, and for a moment she thought he’d begin crying, but he didn’t. He

murmured, “No.”

Casey reached to touch his arm, but he flinched away. She pulled back, clasped her hands

together over her chest.

“I’m sorry, too” she murmured.

And that was how Casey met Vincent Pierce, the man who was going to kill her.

{Author’s note: Schedule permitting, this will become the first part of a series to be released on

Amazon Books, for Kindle etc. I am hoping to have the Revised Draft completed by August 2013.

Check back for eventual details!}

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