Page 20 of Such Sharp Teeth

We take another lap around the store, passing an arrangement of large animatronic monsters. An evil scarecrow with eyes that glow neon green. A broomstick-wielding witch wearing a pointy hat. A truly horrifying sinister clown. And, of course, a werewolf. It howls whenever anyone walks by.

I know it’s there. I saw it as soon as we came in, then promptly looked away. My heart’s been on a rampage ever since, beating so loudly, I’m afraid Scarlett might hear.

On this pass, I take a deep breath and face it.

Well . . .

It looks a hell of a lot like the creature in the woods. It looks a hell of a lot like the beast that bit me.

The proportions aren’t exact. My monster was bigger. Lankier. Less fuzzy. More haggard. But overall, pretty close! Disturbingly close. Especially the eyes. Big red eyes.

Looking up at these eyes, I’m gripped by this stomach-sinking, gut-twisting, throat-constricting dread.

Was I bitten by a fucking werewolf?

A quick Google search confirms it was a full moon that night. I let out an accidental gasp.

“Hm?” Scarlett asks.

I shake my head. “No, nothing.”

She raises an eyebrow.

In the time that’s passed since the attack, I’ve managed to keep my shit together. Aside from the persistent oozing of my wound, and the fact that the bruise there has marbled a truly morbid shade of purple, and that whenever Scarlett’s at work, Reaper follows me from room to room growling, and that I’ve had intense cravings for meat, and wake up every morning sweaty and starving—aside from all that, everything’s fine. I busy myself by answering the consistent stream of work emails from my team (who are “So sorry to bother you on leave!”), by cleaning the house and attempting to cook, and by doing anything else I can possibly think of to make Scarlett’s life easier.

I learned young how to pretend like bad things never happened. It’s scary how easy it’s been to dissociate from the strange new reality of my body, the bizarre injury that seems insistent to fester. Still, about once a day, I open my browser and type in reported monster attacks or giant crossbreed species, then break into an instant sweat and X out before I can see any results. Then I clear my search history and go on with my life, abandoning the curiosity that I know doesn’t serve me, the what-ifs that won’t do me any good.

But staring up at this Halloween werewolf, listening to it howl, I can’t default to avoidance. I can’t distract myself or dissociate. And I feel certain I’m about to vomit in this Party City.

Bile bubbles up my throat.

“This is stressing me out,” Scarlett says.

Right. She’s stressed.

I laugh, and the bile almost leaks out. I swallow hard.

“What’s up with you?” she asks.

“You already know,” I tell her. “You know everything about me.”

I realize for the first time that this is no longer true.

“I don’t want to dress up as anything,” she says, huffing. “I don’t even want to be in my body right now.”

“Same.”

She gives me a look.

“I know it’s not the same,” I say. “But I’m still recovering.”

She nods, letting it go. She hates talking about it just as much as I do. She wants to forget it ever happened, same as me.

“I’ve got a cloak at home,” she says. “It’s black velvet. Maybe I’ll just wear that and do ghost makeup. Skull makeup.”

She picks up a black-and-white makeup kit.

“That could work,” I say. “Wait. Why do you have a cloak?”