Derek pulled into the driveway at two-forty-seven in the morning, headlights cutting across the empty concrete where his mother’s car should’ve been parked. He killed the engine and sat there for a minute, staring at the vacant space. The dashboard clock blinked to two-forty-eight. He pulled out his phone and checked for texts—nothing from Sheryl.

  He’d spent the night in New Orleans with guys from his old high school, people he hadn’t seen in four years. Dinner at a Vietnamese place in the East, then bowling at Rock ‘n’ Bowl, then a few hours wandering through the Quarter watching tourists stumble between bars. Derek grabbed his jacket from the passenger seat and walked inside. The house was dark except for the hallway nightlight that Sheryl always left on. He set his keys in the bowl by the door and walked down the hall. His mother’s bedroom door stood half open. He pushed it wider and looked inside.

  The dresser was upright again. The same one that had crashed to the floor three days ago, splintering drawers and cracking the frame. Someone had put it back together. The wood was split along the top, with deep gouges running through the finish, but it stood against the wall as if nothing had happened.

  Derek stared at it. The dresser was solid oak, easily two hundred pounds. He’d assumed his mother would call someone to help move it. A neighbor, maybe. One of her coworkers is from the hospital.

  He walked to his room and lay down without changing clothes. Turned on the TV. Some late-night monster movie marathon on AMC. A black and white film with bad dubbing and practical effects that looked like rubber suits and corn syrup blood. On screen, a scientist in a lab coat was explaining lycanthropy to a skeptical detective.

  “Those infected become highly dangerous. They lose all sense of morality, all human restraint. You must stay away from them.”

  Derek almost laughed. Yeah, sure. Next, they’d be warning him about vampires in Shreveport.

  He fell asleep sometime after four with the TV still on.

  Derek woke to the news anchor’s voice cutting through the blue light of morning television. He blinked at the screen. A reporter stood outside the yellow crime scene tape, microphone in hand, face serious.

  “...the fourth and fifth attacks in Bayou Mounds this month. Police are urging residents to avoid wooded areas after dark. The victims, identified as BMU quarterback Marcus Webb and his girlfriend, Ashley Brennan, were found deceased near the Riverside Estates nature trail. Authorities believe the attacks are the work of wild animals...”

  The screen cut to footage of a mangled RV in a state park, emergency vehicles clustered around it, body bags being loaded into a coroner’s van.

  “...and in Mississippi, a retired couple was found dead at Mike Allen State Park. Park officials have closed the area pending investigation...”

  Derek sat up and rubbed his face. His phone showed eight-thirty-two. He’d slept four hours. He stood and walked to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and drank it standing at the sink. Outside, the morning sun was already heating the concrete, turning the air thick and humid.

  The sound of a car door closing made him turn. Sheryl walked in through the garage entrance wearing a white robe and flip-flops, her hair damp and tangled, skin flushed red like she’d been running sprints in hundred-degree heat. The robe hung loose, barely tied, and Derek could see she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

  She smelled like sweat and nature. Like she’d been rolling in mud and leaves.

  Sheryl walked straight to the refrigerator, yanked it open, grabbed a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and drank the entire thing in one continuous pull. Her throat worked, water disappearing down her esophagus without pause. She dropped the empty bottle on the counter, grabbed another, and drank it the same way. Then a third. A fourth.

  Derek watched from the doorway. “Mom, where were you last night?”

  She finished the fourth bottle and exhaled hard, chest heaving. “Out.”

  “Out where?”

  “Just out.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Run down to the store around noon. Pick up ten packs of New York steak.”

  “Ten packs?”

  “You heard me.”

  “That’s like sixty steaks.”

  “I know how to count, Derek.” Her voice was flat, irritated. She grabbed a fifth water bottle and cracked it open. “Just do it.”

  “Mom, you’re not even wearing anything under that robe. Where the hell were you?”

  Sheryl’s eyes locked on his. For a second, something flickered behind them. Then it was gone, replaced by exhaustion.

  “It’s none of your business,” she said. “I’m taking a shower.”

  She walked past him down the hallway. The bathroom door closed. Water started running. Derek stood in the kitchen staring at the four empty bottles lined up on the counter, condensation already forming on the plastic.

  Karen Stewart pulled into Sheryl’s driveway at six-fifteen on Tuesday evening, parking behind Derek’s truck. She grabbed the bottle of wine from the passenger seat and walked to the front door. Sheryl answered before she could knock, already smiling, already back to something resembling normal.

  “Come in, come in.” Sheryl stepped aside. The house smelled like seasoned meat and garlic. Jazz played low on the living room speakers, something smooth and instrumental that Karen didn’t recognize.

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  “Smells amazing,” Karen said, handing over the wine.

  “Steak. Baked potatoes. Caesar salad.” Sheryl walked to the kitchen and set the wine on the counter. “You want red or white?”

  “Red.”

  They ate at the dining room table, plates piled high, conversation easy and familiar. Sheryl, the tireless ER doctor, and Karen, the accomplished pharmacist, shared everything: vacations to the Caribbean, spontaneous dinners, long nights filled with laughter and stories about men who couldn’t keep up.

  “Sherry, you carrying anything?” Karen asked, cutting into her steak. “Pepper spray? Mace? A gun?”

  Sheryl laughed. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m serious. These dog attacks are getting worse. Five people dead in two weeks. You’re out there driving home at midnight after shifts. You need protection.”

  “The media’s making it worse than it is. You know how they are. Anything for clicks and ad revenue.”

  Karen shook her head. “Still. Be careful.”

  They finished dinner around eight. Derek stepped out to meet friends, leaving the house quiet. Karen helped Sheryl load the dishwasher, then hugged her cousin goodbye at the door.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Karen said.

  “Sounds good.”

  Sheryl closed the door and stood there for a moment, listening to Karen’s heels click across the porch and down the driveway. She walked to her bedroom, changed into a bra and underwear, then settled onto the loveseat in the living room with the TV remote.

  She found a true crime documentary series she’d been binge-watching, hit play, and curled into the cushions. The narrator’s voice droned on about cold cases and forensic evidence. Sheryl’s eyelids grew heavy. Her head tilted back against the cushion, farther and farther until her neck was fully extended, throat exposed, mouth slightly open.

  Her breathing slowed. Deepened. Her fingers twitched against her thigh. Then the voice came.

  Karen.

  It wasn’t her own thought. It came from somewhere else, somewhere deep inside her skull, clear the living room as she’d just woken from a dream and rubbed her face with both hands. Stood and walked to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and drank it slowly.

  Outside, the streetlights hummed. Cicadas screamed in the trees. Bayou Mounds settled into another humid Louisiana night.

  Friday marked the first day of Sheryl’s three-week vacation. She’d been planning it for months. No hospital. No ER shifts. No pagers going off at two in the morning. Just time to sleep, cook, and catch up on the shows she’d been missing for the past year.

  She called Karen around noon. “Come over tonight. I’m making ribs.”

  “St. Louis style?”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  Karen arrived at six carrying a bottle of Moscato and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s for later. The kitchen emitted smoke and the smell of brown sugar, sweet and savory, mixing in the humid air. Sheryl had the ribs laid out on a platter, meat falling off the bone, glaze thick and caramelized. Macaroni and cheese in a casserole dish. Potato salad in a bowl. Sweet tea in a pitcher beading with condensation.

  They sat at the table and ate. Karen made it through half a rack before slowing down, leaning back in her chair, patting her stomach. Sheryl was on her third rack. She tore through the meat with her hands, bones piling up on her plate slick with barbecue sauce, fingers sticky and red.

  “Girl, you are grubbing tonight,” Karen said, laughing.

  Sheryl paused, licking sauce off her thumb. “Stress release from work.”

  “Must’ve been some stressful shifts.”

  “You have no idea.”

  They finished around eight-thirty. Karen helped clean up, then grabbed her purse from the counter. They hugged in the doorway.

  “Call me tomorrow,” Karen said.

  “I will.”

  Sheryl stood in the open doorway, watching Karen walk to her car. The streetlight overhead flickered. Karen pulled her keys from her purse, pressed the unlock button, and reached for the door handle.

  Heat exploded through Sheryl’s chest. Her teeth lengthened, pushing through her gums with wet pops. Her fingernails darkened and curved into claws. Her pupils dilated, swallowing the brown completely, then flaring bright yellow.

  She moved without thinking. One second, she was standing in the doorway. The next thing she knew, she was across the yard, slamming into Karen from behind. Her cousin went down hard, palms scraping concrete. Sheryl’s jaws closed around Karen’s left shoulder, fangs punching through skin and muscle, tearing deep into the meat.

  Karen screamed. Tried to twist away. Sheryl’s grip tightened. Blood filled her mouth, and she wrenched her head sideways, tearing tissue, then released.

  Karen collapsed forward onto her hands and knees, gasping. Blood poured from the wound, soaking through her blouse, dripping onto the driveway.

  Sheryl stood over her for half a second, breathing hard, eyes still yellow. Then she turned and sprinted towards the house.

  Inside, Sheryl stood in her kitchen, chest heaving. Blood covered her lips, her chin, her teeth. She walked to the sink and turned on the water. Watched it swirl pink down the drain. Her hands were shaking. The yellow faded from her eyes. She wiped her mouth with a dish towel and dropped it on the counter.

  Karen was still on the driveway, clutching her shoulder, blood seeping between her fingers. She tried to stand. Made it to her knees before collapsing again.

  Sheryl pulled out her phone and dialed Derek.

  “Hey. I need you to come home. One of those wild dogs bit Karen. She’s hurt.”

  “What? Where are you?”

  “Front yard. Just come now.”

  Derek arrived ten minutes later. By then, Sheryl had helped Karen sit up, pressed a clean towel against the wound, and told her cousin to keep pressure on it. The bite was deep, ragged, chunks of muscle visible through torn flesh.

  “Jesus Christ,” Derek said, dropping to one knee beside them. “Mom, call 911.”

  “I already did. They’re on the way.”

  The ambulance arrived twelve minutes later. Paramedics loaded Karen onto a stretcher, started an IV, and wrapped the wound. At the ER, doctors cleaned it, gave her a rabies shot, prescribed antibiotics, and painkillers. The attending physician said she was lucky. Another inch deeper and the bite would’ve severed the brachial artery.

  Sheryl stayed with her until Karen was discharged at two in the morning. Drove her cousin home. Helped her inside. Made sure she had water and medication within reach.

  “Thank you,” Karen whispered, already half-asleep.

  “Get some rest,” Sheryl said.

  She drove home as the sky began to lighten in the east. Derek was waiting in the living room, still dressed, still awake.

  “Mom, you need protection. I’m buying you a gun tomorrow.”

  Sheryl smiled faintly. “That’s why you’re here.”

  Over the next week, the attacks escalated. Seven more deaths. Three in Bayou Mounds. Two in Slidell. One in Hammond. One in Covington. All blamed on wild animals. The mayor held a press conference. Instituted a mandatory curfew—no one on the streets after nine p.m. During full moons, all businesses were ordered to close by sundown. Police presence tripled. Animal control set traps throughout the wooded areas surrounding the city.

  Sheryl watched the press conference from her couch, glass of wine in hand, face calm. When it ended, she turned off the TV and sat in the dark, listening to the house settle around her.

  A knock came at the door. Soft. Hesitant.

  Sheryl stood and walked to the entrance. Looked through the peephole. Karen stood on the porch, face pale, eyes distant. Sheryl opened the door. They stared at each other for thirty seconds without speaking. Then Sheryl leaned forward and inhaled deeply near Karen’s neck, her nostrils flaring, pulling air in long, deliberate draws.

  When she straightened, she smiled. “Welcome aboard.”

  Karen said nothing. Just stepped inside.

  They walked to the living room together and stood side by side at the window, looking out at the skyline of Bayou Mounds. The city lights glittered in the humid darkness. Their reflections stared back at them from the glass, taller than they should be, shapes distorted by the angle and the dim light.

  A new monster had been born.