Kate dreamed she was in the woods, rocks and sticks pressing into her palms and knees as she crawled through the brush. She sniffed the air, filling herself with pine and mold smells. Something skittered to her left, dashing under the carpet of dead leaves.

Lashing out, she reached under the crunchy leaves, casting them aside, blowing the tiny critter’s house down. A chipmunk cowered before her, trembling, furry chest pulsing with fevered breaths.

“I’m sorry, little guy. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She wanted to offer him some food, but she had no pockets to check. She was startled to realize she was naked. A cool breeze danced across the lake, raising goose bumps on her exposed flesh.

The chipmunk chittered.

Then hissed.

Chipmunks didn’t hiss.

Its eyes swirled, the blackness dissipating until they were red as fresh blood. Kate cringed at the sound of its tiny bones popping. A yellowed ridge of bone ripped through the fur on its back, twisting it into an L shape. The chipmunk’s jaw opened wide, wider, until it was large enough to swallow her fist.

Oh, but she wouldn’t put her hand near that thing. Its gums separated as rows of jagged teeth pushed through like shards of glacial ice.

“Get the fuck away from me,” the woodland creature spat.

Kate scampered back, a sharp rock slicing her knee.

“You don’t belong here,” the chipmunk said, its body continuing to morph, distorting into a mass of bone and teeth, its crimson eyes holding her in place, even though she desperately wanted to run. “Don’t belong here. Don’t belong anywhere. Don’t belongdon’tbelongdon’tbelongdon’tbelong.”

“Stop it!” she screamed.

The eyes disappeared, replaced by shields of cancerous bone.

Kate opened her mouth to scream.

The bone chipmunk sprang from the moldy earth and leaped down her throat.

She flipped onto her back, hands wrapped around her throat, squeezing, trying to stop it from plummeting into her stomach.

Echoing in her mouth as she struggled was the chipmunk’s chant…

“Don’tbelongdon’tbelongdon’tbelong.”

* * *

Kate woke up with a sore throat, tangled up in the sheets. Somehow, Andrew had slept through her flailing about. The scotch must have helped.

She looked around the cottage for the shadow. Beyond the glare of the television, everything was in utter darkness.

There was no shadow. Or none she could perceive.

What had her all worked up wasn’t exactly the bad feels.

Her hands were cold, but she felt hot inside, as if someone had poured molten lead down her throat. It was just like the other night.

First, she checked her fentanyl patch to make sure it hadn’t split and she wasn’t on the verge of overdosing, her brain and body misfiring as the drug raced through her system.

It was fine.