A sudden gust of wind batters the trees. There’s the shimmy of leaves, twigs snapping. An unsettling.

It’s getting dark so fast, the night panting at my back.

My body goes cold.

What if it’s still out there?

Telling the truth seemed futile because I knew no one would believe me. But I never considered the potential harm of the lie. It somehow failed to occur to me until this moment that whatever attacked me might still be out there roaming the woods and might go on to attack someone else. Or with my luck, me again.

I stare ahead, searching the ambiguous dark for some evidence of danger. Some validation of this fear I’m feeling. The threat may be invisible, but it’s there. I know it’s there. Somewhere. And now I’ll always have to wonder: What if the hunt isn’t over?

“I’m making an executive decision,” I tell Reaper, who is busy eating a leaf. “Time to go home.”

He ignores me.

“I’ll give you so many treats. A bounty of treats.”

An ear perks.

“Treats beyond your wildest imagination.”

The other ear.

Additional bribery and a few tugs of the leash and we’re on our way. I lead us at a brisk pace, afraid we’re being followed.

That I’m being pursued by a monster only I know exists.

When I finally get us inside, I slam the door closed and lock it, then collapse onto the couch, trying to steady my rebellious breath.

Reaper snarls at me, unsympathetic, forcing me to make good on my promise of infinite treats.

—

I am safe in my bed. I am asleep.

But I am also in the woods.

Barefoot. The ground is soft from evening rain.

There’s a crimson tint to everything, like the world is soaked in blood. Like I am soaked in blood.

I lift my hands and see they are not my hands.

I scream, but it’s not my scream.

You’re dreaming, I think.

Suddenly, I’m behind myself, staring at the back of my own head.

It’s not me, in this other body. But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the hunger.

A limb. An ear. The neck.

I wake up in the morning ravenous.

—

Scarlett and I roam the aisles of a sad, dirty Party City, searching for last-minute Halloween costumes. It’s been two weeks since the bite, and though I’m desperate for distractions, this particular outing isn’t doing it for me.

“I want to be . . .” I start, scanning a wall of culturally insensitive plastic bag costumes, “invisible.”

“Aw,” Scarlett says.

“I was kidding,” I say. “Kind of.”

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.