WAMPUS
I don’t know how to explain it—what I saw. You’d have to be there—but I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.
There’s a psychiatrist who asks me about it sometimes.
He leans forward in that way they do, elbows on his knees, hands folded like he’s patient, but I can see it in his eyes—he’s waiting. He thinks I’ll finally crack. That whatever’s rotting inside me will rise to the surface if he just sits there long enough.
But I don’t tell him. Because I can’t.
How do you explain something like that? How do you put words to a thing that doesn’t belong in words?
If I tried—if I so much as hinted at it—I know exactly what look I’d get. That look with the scrunched brow. The practiced concern. The one where their lips press together just slightly tighter and their eyes go flat, even though they think they’re hiding it.
They can’t read my mind.
But I can read theirs.
And every time I sit across from him, every time he leans forward with that earnest tilt of the head—like I’m a crossword clue he’s sure he’ll crack if he just stares long enough—I can hear it. Not in words, not in any polite, measured question he puts to me, but in the vibration beneath it all, echoing like the faint buzz of a bad lightbulb in a darkened room:
This guy has lost his marbles.
And maybe I have. Maybe those marbles rolled under the couch years ago and gathered dust bunnies the size of fists. Maybe they’re down the drain, clicking against the pipes in some hellish crawlspace where rats gnaw at the insulation and the walls sweat in the dark.
But maybe—just maybe—that’s the only sane reaction left. Because once you’ve seen it—really seen it, the thing you were never meant to see, the thing no human eyes should have to swallow down—you don’t get to keep all your marbles neatly in the jar anymore. No, sir. They spill. They scatter across the floor of your skull.
And the truth is, you can’t get them back. Not when you’ve stood toe-to-toe with something the world insists doesn’t exist.
So maybe I’ve lost my mind.
But tell me—what kind of lunatic would still call himself sane after that?
And so my lips stay sealed. Except in the prison of my mind.
Here, I’m not silent. Here, she calls out and I answer.
Doesn’t matter if I’m dreaming or not. She walks toward me either way. Always the same. Always wearing that black leather, the jacket hanging open just enough. Her expression—a mixture of desire and triumph. As if she’s won. As if I’m the prize.
She comes to me across a dark space that isn’t a room, not really. There’s no ceiling, no walls, but I know the edges are there. The air is thick, damp. And there’s a smell—something earthy, something sweet. Like wet moss and sugarcane. It fills me up, makes my skin prickle. It’s oddly exhilarating.
Her arms open.
I open mine, too.
I hate that. Every time, I hate that.
Because I know what this place is. I know what she is. But I know something else, too—something worse.
I long for her. Maybe even…love her.
She glides into my reach, her body pressing into mine like it belongs there. My hand crosses the small of her back. Skin like almond butter. Silken. Warm.
She smiles. Her teeth pointed into fangs.
Her eyes are black as night—no whites at all.
Her head tilts, lips parting, the invitation clear.
And I—God help me—I lean in.
That’s when she changes. She pulls away and looks at me. What was left of her face still looked like her. For a second. Until her jaw snapped sideways and opened too far.
Teeth like bone needles. Breath like something already dead.
Before I step further into the heart of this insanity, you should know why I stand here at all—while there’s still clarity left in me.
I was out with Dennis on a Friday night. I knew him for 16 years and in that time I’ve come to realize no one had ever walked the earth as smug and full of themselves as Dennis Perry. Atheist from Brooklyn. That was all you needed to know about Dennis.
He believed in nothing. Nothing above him. Nothing waiting for him. Life was one long sprint—you get one go at it. His unfiltered view of mere mortals was: What do you offer me? Time, money, purpose? The secret to immortality? No? Keep moving. And that went for everyone. Even me.
And yet here we were.
Sitting in this adult club—I still don’t know how he talked me into it—which smelled like sweat and alcohol-soaked carpet, blue and red lights pulsing like the place couldn’t make up its mind whether to seduce you or warn you away. Women glided between tables like wraiths dressed in nothing but smiles and perfume, their skin catching the light in places your eyes didn’t mean to linger but did. And the worst part. The smoke. Stay in a place like that long enough and you’ll catch second, third and fourth hand smoke.
I sat with Dennis like I always did. Out of habit, I guess. Out of loyalty. Out of something that felt like friendship but was probably just history.
And I thought, being married wasn’t so bad.
Sure, coming to places like this floods your senses. Makes your brain feel like it’s floating three inches above your skull. The lights, the music, the smell of arousal mixed with desperation. It short-circuits you. And for a minute—maybe longer than a minute—you believe the illusion. That you’re wanted. Desired. That you’re still twenty-five and all the best nights are ahead of you.
But marriage grounds you.
You get home, and your wife’s there. And sure, she wants your money too—everyone does. But at least there’s a transaction that makes sense.
Your wife wants a home. Wants safety. Stability.
And sex? That’s inevitable. You don’t have to chase it like a fool, tossing singles at women who can’t even remember your name.
Dennis didn’t get that. Or maybe he didn’t care. And yet somehow he was in a relationship with a God fearing woman who happens to be a doctor who still cooks and cleans on her off days. For someone who doesn’t believe in God he sure is getting the platinum life package.
He caught me in mid-thought because he said, “You’re stinking up the place.” I could debate that between the sensual aroma of leather and ass, it isn’t me who stinks. “It’s pissing me off,” he said. “I was just thinking about the next round,” I said. Something to barrier the flooding sarcasm. “I’m running to the bathroom. Have them bring another round. This one’s on me” “When you find your dick in there, act like you got one when you come back out here.”
Getting up, I wondered if he had too many reposados and if buying another round was the right thing to do. I passed a man on the way, half-drunk, deep in conversation about paying for a back room service—voice low, but not low enough. A girl came by carrying a rack of those neon tube shots, grinning at me like I was the next fool in line. They call them blow jobs. I passed. If you’ve ever seen those things get used in person, you know what I mean. They do a dance like some showgirl and take the tube and insert the bottom half in their mouth. Then with lips wrapped around the tube, they pour it into your mouth and as it’s going down, they’re bobbing their head back and forth like they were giving a…well, blow job… it meets the standard of a sexual act.
I pushed through the bathroom door.
Inside, the light was dim but weirdly clinical. Floor sticky in spots, slick in others. A hum of fluorescent buzzing overhead like the walls were thinking about giving up. They lit well enough to spotlight the graphite on the wall.
I made for a stall. Each one had a little screen mounted above it, angled down like it was watching you. At first, I thought it was for sports, or maybe some silent music video to keep your mind distracted while you handled your business.
Then the ad started.
A woman’s voice, soft and oily, offering “a moment of relief.” The screen showed a girl—not any one girl in particular, but the kind you could find out front—dressed in black vinyl, slow motion, swaying to music I couldn’t hear. Then the text came: Want something more? Have a private view. She’ll perform just for you while you watch. While you… enjoy yourself.
Yeah.
I remember thinking if I hadn’t had three whiskeys already, I’d have passed on the piss altogether.
I finished, feeling dirtier after than before, and went to wash my hands. The sink stuttered and spit water like it didn’t know how to function anymore. Half a rinse. Good enough.
On my way out, I caught the poster by the door. A woman, full body black suit, face half-covered, eyes gleaming under the cat mask. It gave the illusion that she was in her true skin rather than costume. The title read: “The Man Eater. Tonight.” I didn’t know why it unsettled me then. I should have.”
Seeing that, I thought, Dennis, meet your match. The damn power of words.
When I got back he was leaning back in the booth, legs wide, his expression as flat as it had been since we walked in. Why the hell does he have me here? Something is wrong. He’s too prideful to confide in a friend of sixteen years. And when he finally cracks, it’s this place that will put humpty back together. Women passed by. Some gave him the look—the one they reserved for men who looked like they tipped big. He didn’t glance twice.
Me? I watched the girls. Not because I wanted them, but because I remembered what wanting used to feel like. It had no substance. It was every bit as much a glutinous pig at a buffet. These days it’s what they call a bygone era.
Dennis took a pull from his vape pen and exhaled a cloud of smoke that I swear now with the trick of the light looked like a warning of death.
“I’m single now,” Dennis said. Just like that.
No hesitation. No trace of regret. He said it like he was telling me the time. It caught me so far off guard that I missed the big reveal even in real time.
“What happened?” I asked, turning toward him, even though I already had an idea. “I liked Yvette. Hell, I thought you liked Yvette.”
“She kept asking about being married.” He took a measured sip of the reposado this time, like the words were too bitter and had to be rinsed back to the depths he allowed it to travel. His eyes were on the stage, but I could tell he wasn’t watching. “I won’t be forced into that. She’s supposed to come by later, get the rest of her things.”
You gotta be fucking kidding me. I didn’t say that out loud but damn I wish I had. Way to fumble the bag, as it’s put nowadays. As much of a narcissistic asshole he is and yet she still overlooked that to want to marry him. I couldn’t imagine how she must have fallen to the floor and shattered in thousands of pieces just to have to cut herself picking up the shards of her own sorrow. I leaned back, the music thudding low under everything, but my head wasn’t in the room anymore.
I thought back to the cookout of Kelly’s thirty-second birthday.
Yvette had been there. Sitting in the folding chair on the patio, thumbing through her iPhone like she wasn’t part of the conversation even though she was. Big gold hoops. Skin darker than usual from the sun—she’s typically a shea butter complexion but was now shaded almond. She looked happy from what I could tell, but there was something tight behind her smile that day, like she was trying to hold herself together for the sake of the people around her.
“It was hot,” she’d said, flipping through photos. “That’s why I’m so dark right now.”
“You definitely got a tan,” I’d said, leaning in to look.
“And we were drinking literally all day.” She laughed, but it sounded thin. “It’s scary how I look like my mom now. Her skin is this complexion. I don’t think I ever told you I’m part Cherokee.”
She flicked through the pictures and it went from their vacation to—well it was probably still their vacation. It was some cat lady. It could have come off as strange when she dropped the face of the phone downward. And then I thought not weird, but perhaps kinky. Her in a cat costume. I find a way to ease any awkwardness by asking questions about anything else, as anyone would.
“Has she met him yet?” Turns out I was actually curious.
“She has,” she said gleefully but reservedly. “She likes him. Hell he’s an asshole everyone likes him. She says he has this devilish charm about him.”
That about him, I found obnoxious, repulsive even, yet admirable. Someone who can bring out another’s insecurities and make them laugh about it all at the same time and be admired for it—True definition of an asshole. If the saying is walking on eggshells, you can bet that if he does, its with Timberland boots.
She looked at me then. Really looked at me.
“I’m just… trying to see where his head is at, you know?” She laughed again, but it was thinner this time. “I’m thirty-six. I’m not getting any younger. I want kids too. Don’t get me wrong—I love Denise. She’s beautiful. But… she’s not mine. And even though she is mostly with her mom in Tampa, there’s always gonna be this gap. You know?”
I nodded. As far as I knew, Denise was never a plan he had. In fact, going 36 years he was a constant advocate for how his pull-out game was undeniable. That was until the Dominican he met when he was down in Miami on one of his “If you’re not living you’re dying,” patented vacations. Oh boy, was he living that day.
“At the same time… I don’t wanna make him feel pressured to make a decision.” She looked back down at her phone. Her thumb wasn’t even scrolling anymore. But not before I saw something, not anything explicit, but… you know how you see something and your brain does nothing with it but knows how to pull that old record and set the needle and let the record play when life calls for it?
And I said what I probably shouldn’t have said.
“I don’t wanna speak on his behalf,” I told her, “or make you think anything that ain’t there. But… the trip to Houston? He and I had this… conversation. Caught me off guard. We don’t do that, him and me. I might start something serious, but he’ll shut it down or change the subject if he ain’t feeling it. But this time? He didn’t. He told me straight. Said you were it. Said he was gonna cut everybody else off. And when he said it… I believed him.”
She looked at me with those big glassy eyes. Only Dennis could say no to those. And he didn’t lack the word. If anything he enhanced it with hell no.
“What I got from that day,” I said, “is that you’re the one.”
She stared for a moment. And then, without smiling, without anything soft in her voice, she said:
“I better be.”
That memory sat heavy in my chest. Saying that could have given her the green light to push the question more. Could have been the reason why he died.
I should have known not to take a man for his word when he had one too many grenades. And now Dennis was sitting next to me, edging towards that same drunkenness, like none of that had ever happened. Like Yvette was just another chapter he’d closed without finishing.
I could only think, when will someone tell him that one day he has to stop this. That one day he’d meet his match. I know “A Thin Line Between Love And Hate” was released in the 90s, but a man like him should have that branded in his mental. I wouldn’t be a friend if I didn’t try. But before I could say anything, they showed.
The dancers.
Girls in black cat masks. Bound in leather like catwomen.
They came up slow, moving like shadows that had learned how to seduce. Tight bodies, oiled skin glistening under the club lights. Their steps were rehearsed but felt dangerous—tribal, like they weren’t just dancing—they were hunting.
And Dennis? He just sat there. Still as stone. Grin pulled across his face like a boy on Christmas morning. Like he’d been expecting them.
“No, no,” he said. “I paid for you, for him.
“What?” I said waving my hands.
“It’s alright,” Dennis said. “They just dance around you. They don’t touch you.”
But they hadn’t heard anything we were saying or didn’t care to. And thank God. They danced around him, not me. They didn’t even look at me. Not once. He was the center, just how he always liked to be. They were moving for him. Around him. Like orbiting a sun.
And what a show it was. I couldn’t touch, but Kelly expected me to look.
Then came her.
She was different. She didn’t move like the others. Didn’t need to. She walked in like she’d already won, hips swaying like something natural, like gravity bent around her. She was finer than the rest. Not trying to be sexy. Just existing that way.
And the way they parted for her… it was like they were presenting her to him. Or him to her. I can’t help but to think that was meant for me.
She went to him. Danced close. Closer. Her body contorted and popped in all the right ways. Her body brushed his, not frantic, not rushed—like she had all the time in the world and he belonged to her already. She leaned in. Whispered something I couldn’t hear.
Her eyes caught mine and there was an unnatural glow. Contacts. The blacklight overhead. It was like she looked into me. Not spiritually, but a mental intrusion. Her stare felt ancient. Then they retreated and they were gone.
When they left, the air felt thinner. Like they’d taken something with them.
Dennis took another pull from his vape pen, breathing steady.
I hesitated, then asked: “What’d she say?”
He didn’t look at me when he answered, but into that cursive signature of smoke on some unseen document.
“She said I smell delicious.”
And that’s when he looked at me and smiled. His mind was already at work.
We finished our food. Strip club wings, believe it or not, hit differently. I don’t care what anybody says—some of the best I’ve had. Grease thick, seasoning heavy, skin still snapping when you bite in. Not the cheap frozen kind. You’d think a place like this would skimp, but nah. They knew what kept people here longer, what kept you ordering drinks.
When we finally left, it was like we escaped some Quinton Terentino movie before the second act. The air outside was cleaner, cooler. The night thick with that mix of car exhaust, cheap cologne, and city sweat that you only really smelled after midnight. But that’s when the things usually take a turn for the worse.
Dennis hit his vape pen. Slow drag. He liked convenience. Always had. They were making vape pens specifically for people like him. No maintenance. No ash. No mess. Just hit and forget.
I watched the little blue tip glow as he breathed it in.
“The way that she just came to you like… like it was nothing,” I said finally, still trying to process it.
Dennis exhaled vapor in a lazy stream, shrugged like it was no big deal. “Women love me.”
I shook my head. “No. That shit was different.”
He looked at me now, one eyebrow raised.
“I’m serious,” I said. “She’s really into you. I mean… ‘you smell delicious’? Come on.”
He smirked. That cocky, hollow grin he gave when he wanted to shut a conversation down without saying it outright.
Then the door creaked open behind us.
She stepped out. I was equally surprised at seeing her leave out of the front doors. Some part of me believed that she would make the celebrity exit—out the back door.
No mask. No show. Just her. She was gorgeous.
Bare legs, heels clicking slow, like every step was deliberate. She didn’t look around. Didn’t care who saw. She went straight to Dennis. Like she could sense him. She said I smell delicious.
“Take me home,” she said.
Simple. Flat. Like telling him to unlock the door.
He didn’t look surprised. Just nodded and headed toward his car, her following a step behind. “Catch you later, B.”
Didn’t phase me at all. Honestly. I was ready to call it a night anyway. My feet hurt. Wallet lighter. Head clogged.
And besides… he was always leaving with some girl. Well, before Yvette.
She managed to sift through all the cloudiness in my mind. About if she came around again. About how awkward that’d be for everyone.
I mean… My son actually likes her. That stung more than I wanted to admit. She bought him this toy grocery store set for Christmas last year. Spent hours helping him set it up in the living room. He kept calling her “Miss V” even though she kept telling him just Yvette was fine. I remember laughing when he said she should be his godmother. Told him to go ahead and adopt her.
We all laughed.
Now? Things were sure to change. And they have. I hate lying to him but I just can’t say from what we let happen, the real reason she can’t come around.
I watched Dennis’s taillights disappear down the street, the Hellcat roaring through the night like some animal that wasn’t done hunting yet. Somewhere underneath that was a cackle of laughter from her. The sound hung there—blended harmoniously, stretched thin over the dark, until it finally bled away. The thrill of the hunt was over and now we must feast.
I was home by one.
Shoes off, keys in the bowl by the door, the house dark except for the low kitchen light Kelly always left on for me. I stood there a minute, letting the silence settle, smelling the faint trace of lavender from the wax warmer she kept plugged in. Home smelled like peace. Or maybe just the absence of chaos.
Kelly was up, of course. She never really slept when I went out with Dennis. She acted like she did, but I always found her awake. Like she was keeping vigil, just in case.
She sat at the kitchen table, hair tied up, oversized shirt hanging loose on her, scrolling on her phone but not really seeing it. Cup of tea next to her, cold now.
“You’re late,” she said, without looking at me. “Did you at least bring me some wings?”
I slid into the chair across from her.
“Dennis broke up with Yvette.”
That got her attention. I’m not exactly the one to She set the phone down, slow, eyes narrowing like she needed to make sure she heard me right. “What?”
“Said she kept pressin’ him about marriage. He ain’t having it. She’s supposed to come by tomorrow… get the rest of her stuff.”
Kelly shook her head. Not surprised. Just tired. Tired in that way women get when they’ve seen too many good women wasted on the wrong men.
“I liked her.”
“Yeah.”
Silence hung heavy for a moment. Kitchen clock ticking. Somewhere down the hall, the fridge kicked on. That hum filled the space where we didn’t want to speak.
Then Kelly said, “You remember when we were invited for dinner and she said, ‘Just waiting for you before I bless the food’… and he said, ‘You don’t need me for that’?”
I nodded. I remembered. Everybody did. Yvette didn’t show any emotion toward it but the rest of the night felt awkward.
Kelly shook her head. “She overlooked that. She’s a woman of God. And she overlooked that.” Her voice went soft, not sad—just matter-of-fact. Like the weather.
I leaned forward, resting my arms on the table. “That’s the devil of Dennis.”
She looked up at me, searching my face. “What you mean?”
“I mean that’s his charm. That’s his curse. He ain’t evil. But he don’t believe in anything. And that’s dangerous.”
Kelly didn’t answer. But I saw it. In her eyes. The knowing.
“You get a man who don’t answer to nothin’,” I said. “No God. No love. No future. He’s free. But what’s that worth? Who’s he tied to? Who’s gonna pull him back when he’s fallin’?”
Kelly stared down at her tea. Whispered, like it wasn’t meant for me: “No one.”
I sat there for a long time. Watching her. Thinking about Yvette. Thinking about Dennis. Thinking about how sometimes you don’t need red eyes or horns to meet the devil.
Sometimes he’s just close enough. That one friend.
And you don’t even know it ‘til it’s too late.
And why it mattered, I don’t know. But I kept thinking about how he left with her without even knowing her name—and how he’d never care to know. The only name he had was the one she gave the stage: Man Eater. And in my head the tune followed, that slick, bouncing chorus about a woman who chews men up, swallows them whole, and never looks back. It looped until I almost believed it was written for her.
“Since you’re home earlier than I expected,” Kelly said, standing up from the table, “how about I be your dancer for the rest of the night?”
She didn’t smile when she said it. That’s not how Kelly played it. She just said it straight, like she was offering coffee, and it hit harder because of that. No teasing. No play-acting.
She slid past me, slow, hand brushing my shoulder on the way by. Barely a touch, but it made every nerve stand at attention. I watched her hips move as she walked down the hall, loose in that old t-shirt she always wore to bed—the one she knew drove me crazy, not because it was sexy, but because it wasn’t trying to be.
And right then, I remembered exactly what I meant when I’d thought: Being married wasn’t so bad.
People talk about marriage like it’s chains. A sentence. A death of freedom. But for me? Nights like this? It was a reward. She let me have my space. Let me breathe. Trusted me enough to let me walk out the door and come back without suspicion waiting on the other side.
That’s worth more than any one-night stand you could scrape up under strobe lights and cheap music.
I followed her down the hall, and when I hit the bedroom door, she was already peeling the shirt off, letting it drop to the floor like it didn’t mean a thing.
And it didn’t need to be more complicated than that.
That night, I dreamed about her.
I didn’t want to. I didn’t even know I was thinking about her when I went to sleep. But that’s how it works, isn’t it? Dreams pull up what you’d rather forget. And what you push down hard comes back stronger.
That panther mask was gone. It was just her. Bare skin. Bare lips. Eyes like dark glass, pulling me in the way a cigarette does after you swore you quit.
I was sitting in that club chair again, but the lights were lower. Music wasn’t thumping anymore. It was something softer, a hum that felt like it came from inside me. She walked toward me, hips moving like water, and every step sounded loud—heels cracking against the floor like nails tapping glass.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
She sat on my lap without asking, like she knew she didn’t need permission. Her skin was hot. Not warm—hot. Like her body carried some fever that didn’t belong to this world. And when she leaned in, lips brushing my ear, her breath felt cold. Cold enough to raise goosebumps all the way down my arms. Just the right temperature to raise something even lower.
She didn’t say anything, not at first.
Her hands moved over me, slow, confident. Fingertips traced my jaw, then down my chest. She touched me like she owned me. Like I was something bought and paid for. I felt everything. Every graze. Every brush of skin. Real. Too real.
I tried to speak. Tried to push her off.
But her hands kept working. Slipping lower. Sliding under. And God help me… I didn’t stop her. I didn’t want to.
When her mouth found mine, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim. She bit my lip, hard enough to draw blood. I tasted it. Warm, metallic. She moaned against my mouth like the taste excited her. And dammit it excited me.
And all the while her body pressed down, grinding against me. I could feel her thighs tightening, her hips rolling slow, deliberate, like she was working a rhythm only she could hear. And every shift of her weight sent sparks down my spine. I knew I was hard. I knew it wasn’t stopping. My body betrayed me.
She pulled back just enough to look at me. And then she smiled.
Seductively, playfully, predatorily.
She pulled me free of myself—stiff enough to have sunk the titanic—and lowered onto me with the slowness of something inevitable. What followed wasn’t touch or sensation, but something far stranger: I slipped into a space where time folded in on itself, where colors I’d never named rippled behind my eyes. It felt like seeing the universe—not in parts, not as distant stars—but all at once, all together, and for a moment, I understood everything. And then… just as quickly, I didn’t.
And then she whispered, low, like it was the punchline to a joke I hadn’t heard yet:
“You smell delicious and I’m going to eat you up.”
She opened what were now jaws—jaws where her mouth should’ve been. White lines, sharp as broken glass, rows of teeth slick with something dark. The breath, hot and heavy that hit me, smelled like dead meat—every man who came before me.
My death, imminent.
I could feel it pressing down on me, heavy as stone, smothering the last thoughts from my head.
And then—
Black.
I woke up shaking.
Sweat soaking the sheets.
I felt filthy. Not just from the dream itself, but from the fact that even now, awake, I still wanted her. Kelly was sound asleep. Thank God because there was no way I could explain what just happened to me. It would have been like trying to convince someone of an out of body experience… which technically would have been forbidden.
And that’s when the fear hit me.
Because I wasn’t supposed to.
And I knew… whatever she was…
She wanted me next.
I didn’t plan to drive there. I didn’t even fully know I was doing it until I hit the I-95 turnoff.
It was 3:07 in the morning. I checked the dash clock like it mattered. Like the exact minute could somehow explain why I was out here, half-dressed, breathing hard, hands locked tight at ten and two. The roads were mostly empty. Just freight trucks and people like me, the ones who couldn’t sleep for reasons they’d rather not say out loud.
That dream was still crawling in my head. Like smoke you can’t scrub out. My thighs itched where I swore I’d felt her pressed against me. My lips felt bruised. My tongue kept tasting blood that wasn’t there. And every time I blinked, I saw her. That smile. Those eyes. But she was something… else. Not some gorgeous woman. A beautiful sunset promising that the night would never come and then—
And the worst part?
I wanted to see her again.
I hated that.
Stale smoke lingered in the car's fabric after soaking into my clothes from earlier. It mixed with the cold sweat coming off my skin. My shirt stuck to me in places it shouldn’t have. I drove with the windows cracked even though it was damn near forty degrees out. I needed air. Real air.
I kept telling myself I was just checking on him. That’s it. Nothing more. But that dream not only changed my aspect of reality, it seemed as a warning of things to come. A text he wouldn’t see, a phone call he could ignore, a knock at the door… that’d force a response.
But I could imagine what came after those words. How true she held to them.
Dennis was a son-of-a-bitch, no argument there. But something happening to him—something real, something final—when I could’ve very well stopped it… that would’ve sat on me just as heavy as the guilt I carry for that dream about her. Maybe heavier.
Because guilt doesn’t care much about the reasons. It just arrives. And when it does, it doesn’t knock. It lives with you. Sleeps beside you. Wakes when you wake.
When I turned onto Dennis’s street, that gut feeling locked in for good.
Yvette’s car was there.
She was supposed to be moving out the rest of her things, but it was late, and something about the way she’d parked—crooked in the drive, like she’d pulled in too fast and thought about stopping only after the fact, driver door hanging half-open—told me this wasn’t that.
That’s when I felt it. Not dread, not fear—something worse.
I killed the engine but kept the headlights on for a few seconds, washing the sidewalk in cold white light.
Nothing moved.
I sat there, gripping the wheel, staring at that car, my pulse thumping in my ears so loud it drowned out everything else.
The reverie came back, uninvited.
Her voice. That whisper.
I shut my eyes and felt nausea crawl up from my gut. My knuckles hurt from gripping the wheel.
I didn’t want to get out of the car.
But I had to.
Because now, all I could think was—what if she’s still inside?
What if she’s waiting?
And worse...
What if Dennis’s not? And now Yvette.
The door yielded without effort.
That should’ve stopped me.
I stepped inside, and the first thing that hit me wasn’t blood. Wasn’t death. It was heat. Heavy. Wet. Like the walls were sweating. Like something in this house had raised the temperature just by existing.
Then I heard it.
A sound that didn’t belong to any living thing I’d ever known.
A guttural cry.
A man’s voice—but strangled, shredded, like his lungs were tearing as he screamed. It hit low in my stomach. My knees buckled. I knew that sound. Not from real life. From nightmares. From childhood.
I knew who it was.
“Dennis.”
His name fell out of my mouth like a prayer.
I ran.
The stairs felt longer than they should’ve. Each step like running through water. My chest burned, and my brain was already begging me not to look, not to see, but I pushed forward because some things you don’t turn away from.
I stopped in the doorway, feet planted, unable to breathe. Yvette to the side of the room watching with her own horrified eyes.
She was on top of him.
Whatever she’d been, whatever mask she wore to get close—that was gone now. What I saw was something caught in-between: that smooth, silk-butter skin stretched tight over muscle, and patches where fur pushed through like weeds cracking pavement.
And Dennis… Dennis was underneath her. Hands slack. Blood choking out of his mouth in wet, pitiful gasps. “Grrggghhkk… hrrrkk… glrrrkk…” Then there was “Gaaahhhh.” His chest rose once, twice, then never again.
Her body—what was left of it—was steadily twisting, cracking in ways bones weren’t meant to bend. Skin splitting like seams under pressure, black hair clinging wet to her cheeks. Her eyes held the same nature from what I saw in my dreams. Nightmares. They were yellow. Slit pupils. Glowing like something nocturnal that hunted in caves.
Any idea that she had ever been human had completely left me.
And it kept tearing. Ripping into him like a child's haphazard way of opening a present.
Ribs cracked. Flesh split. The smell hit me—copper and bile and something I can’t name. I realized she… even tore his… oh God, the only thing that makes a man a man.
I don’t know how long I stood there.
I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t fucking move.
From a distance that felt miles away, I heard a moan escape me and I had barely been aware.
Then it’s head snapped up—too fast. It’s neck rolled like rubber. And those eyes found me.
It rose from Dennis’s body, slow, dripping. Blood smeared down her thighs. Her breathing heavy, too fast, like a dog’s panting.
And then it started forward. Crawling. Slithering. Her hands—claws now—left trails of blood in the carpet.
One step.
Two.
Then it sniffed.
Long.
Drawn out.
Nostrils flaring like it was savoring my fear in the air. It knew me. It met me in my dreams.
I pissed myself.
I didn’t feel it happen. I just knew when the warmth soaked down my leg.
It crouched low, muscles tensing like springs.
Ready.
I remember thinking—this is it. This is where it ends.
And then…
“No.”
A voice.
Not mine.
Yvette’s.
From somewhere behind it.
“No,” Yvette said again. Not loud. Not pleading. Just firm. Final.
“Not him.”
The creature twitched. Shook its head. Sniffed me one last time, long and deep, like it was memorizing me.
And then it turned.
Just like that.
It turned away.
She disappeared down the hall, her fur receding into her skin as she moved, as easy as bounty absorbed spills. The tail—long, thick, alive—shriveled behind her, curling inward until there was nothing left of it. Her body shrank too, no longer the height of a six-foot man, no longer the beast that had mutilated Dennis.
What was left was just a woman.
Completely naked.
And then… she was gone.
Yvette stood in the doorway, calm like none of this belonged to her. Dennis’s blood was slick on the floor, pooling under his body. His mouth hung open in that stunned, empty way dead men wear when they don’t know they’ve died yet. And at that moment I heard it again, “Gaaahhhh.” With it all settling, I know now that he was calling out to God. I suppose that’s what anyone does, even if you go your whole life being a heretic.
I couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t even ask how the hell she seemed to have authority over that creature.
She spoke anyway.
“I tried to stop it before it happened,” she said. “He didn’t deserve that no matter how much of an asshole he was. I was selfish about it at first. Then I thought of Denise… But I was too late.”
She took a deep sigh. Her eyes fluttered to hold back tears. Then she steeled herself to speak.
“You remember that day at the cookout?” Her voice was steady. Like she was explaining directions to a stranger. “When I was flipping through pictures?”
I stared at her. Numb.
She continued.
“I was scared you saw it, then.”
“Saw what?” I croaked, barely recognizing my own voice. Because what I saw, was beyond any measurement of comprehension.
“I was sure you saw it,” she said softly. “When I passed you my phone. Remember? I said it was hot that day? I said that’s why I was so dark?”
I remembered. God help me, I remembered. And I didn’t question. I didn’t even put two and two together when I saw that same photo on the marquee inside of the nightclub. Half woman half panther. THE MAN EATER, it said. The impression that it meant a woman who destroys men through allure and dominance—a stage name.
“Three months ago,” she said. “I was pulling twenty-fours at the hospital. Nights drag until somebody comes in with something lodged in them that shouldn’t be there. Somewhere in all that, I decided I needed to know where we stood. I remembered asking my mother once how my dad managed to stay so loyal, and she told me this story I didn’t buy. So I went down the rabbit hole. All the way to the early 1900s. What got me was that even in 2023, there was still a report of it being seen. That’s how I ended up in the Uwharrie Forest, sitting in a trailer that reeked of shit and sage. Across from me was an old woman with milk-white eyes and a cigarette burning down between her fingers. And I knew, right then, this was the craziest way possible to try and get answers—”
I didn’t interrupt.
Yvette’s voice lowered, like she was telling it to herself now.
“She asked me: ‘You want him gone?’ And I said yes. She asked: ‘Forever?’” Yvette smiled, but there was nothing human in it. “All I could think of was my mother saying he has this devilish charm… And I said, ‘He has some hold on me that I can’t escape. I want peace. I want him out of my soul.’”
Her eyes glinted wet under the hallway light.
“She told me to bring her something of his. A shirt. Hoodie. Pillowcase. Something that carried him.”
She wiped under her eye like it was just sweat.
“I gave her his hoodie. The gray one he always wore. Thought it smelled like him. I hated that smell by then.”
I borrowed that hoodie not too long ago. The idea that it could have easily mistaken the two of us hit me like a train. My scent must have lingered underneath somewhere.
“I thought it was the perfect one,” she said. “It was the one he was wearing when that bitch Reagan, by the way who is married, came over that night. Perks of having a girlfriend nowhere around for literally a full day. I’m sure his pride didn’t allow him to tell you that. But maybe that’s why she’s dead. If I could sniff out that cheap ass perfume I’m sure it could have.”
He did. He had told me that she saw the message on his phone. Her already setting up the next time they’d have sex and the things she’d do next. But that was a period when he was moving differently. Doing things for Yvette, talking nice. Guilt made him a chameleon of a man, adjusting when necessary. One thing I hadn’t known because he may not have himself, was that she was dead.
She paused, swallowed, and for a moment, her voice cracked.
“It didn’t take long for her to confirm that the deed was done.”
And then Yvette said something I’ll never forget, no matter how many nights I drink myself into blackout trying.
“She said, ‘The Wampus will find him. Won’t matter who he’s with. Won’t matter where he hides. Once it knows his scent, it won’t forget.’”
I whispered it before she did.
“What’s a Wampus?”
Yvette nodded.
“I asked her that too,” she said.
Her voice went hollow. Empty as the space between heartbeats.
“And the old woman smiled. Real wide. Real slow.”
She looked at me.
“‘His reckoning.’”
Silence stretched thin, until the only thing I could hear was my own pulse hammering in my ears. I didn’t have to ask because I had just saw with my own terrified eyes.
All the same, I had to look it up for myself. It’s an old story. More myth until that night. A Cherokee woman, betrayed by her husband, snuck into a sacred men-only ceremony wearing the skin of a mountain lion. But when the shamans caught her, they didn’t punish her—they changed her. They bound her soul to that cat’s skin. Twisted her body. Turned her into something else. Half-woman, half-beast. Angry. Hungry. A predator that hunts men. And over time, women figured it out. You give the Wampus Cat a man’s scent—his sweat, his hair, his blood—and leave an offering at the crossroads… she’ll come for him. Slow. And she won’t stop.
I haven’t seen her since, Yvette.
Maybe that’s for the best.
Because if we were ever to come across each other again, we’d both feel it—the guilt pressing down like a hand around the throat. We wouldn’t speak it. We wouldn’t need to. It would be there in the air between us, heavy as smoke.
And yet...
I find myself thinking about her. More than I want to admit. Sometimes when I’m with my wife—when we’re close, when I should be anywhere else in my head—she flashes in my mind. That smile. That hunger in her eyes.
It’s like the temptation itself is the punishment.
But I don’t know if it’s a warning or a trap—Being shown consequences, a fate keen to Dennis’s or honey to lure in the fly.
They called her a man-eater, but the word felt too small, too playful, like it was best left for Hall and Oates. She was something older, something whispered about long before men had names for fear. She was Lilith walking in high heels, Lilith with a smile that made men forget themselves until she stripped the pride from their bones. She didn’t just break hearts—hearts were easy, fragile things—she cracked the mirror men used to admire themselves, left them staring at the jagged reflection of what they really were. To be near her was to feel both wanted and ruined, to learn, as Adam once did, that not every woman was made to bend.
So if you see her—if fate’s cruel enough to put her in your path—don’t look into her eyes. That’s how she gets you. That’s how it starts.
Because lust is the devil. It wears the skin of pleasure and waits for you to reach for it.
And you will want her.
She waits for the moment you let your guard down. For the moment some scorned woman out there wishes you gone and sends her for you. That’s when she moves. That’s when it’s too late.
But not for me.
No. I won’t act.
No matter how much she tempts me, I won’t give in.
I won’t let her name slip from my lips. Not when I’m weak, when I’m making love to my wife, because she slithers even then. Jealously. Not even when my body beckons for what my mind tries to forget.
I won’t say…Nina.
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