She stood at the funeral looking down at the coffin with the body in it. At the reception, she stood and listened to condolences.

Then afterwards, she stood by the grave again, now it was covered with dirt. She stood, but then she fell to her knees, quietly, carefully.

That’s when she felt it.

It was soft and subtle, but it was unmistakable. A light brushing of fingertips across the back of her neck. It was just like him almost as if he was—

But he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. There was nothing between her and the willow tree thirty feet away. Nothing but grass and gravestones.

She went home. Alone. In the rain. Some friends had offered to accompany her, but she told them no. She was fine. She was good. She could take care of herself.

She closed the door behind her, and there it was again, like he was taking her by the neck to spin her around for a kiss.

“Stop it,” she said, and the sensation ceased.

Was she talking to herself? Or had an outside force obeyed her?

She took a shower. She needed it—oh, but there it was again, the memory washing over her, comforting and warm and cleansing, before gathering and pulling down the drain. But were those hands upon her, encircling her, folding her into memorable embrace? A kiss on her shoulder? It couldn’t be, but couldn’t she just pretend?

For here? For now?

She hadn’t brought herself to sleep on the bed since it happened.

In the kitchen, she cut fruit. She wasn’t paying attention, though, and her hand slipped. Just before it happened, though, before she was going to slice herself open, she felt something in her other hand that made her move away.

It happened so fast, she could’t be sure of anything–Had some part of her seen the danger and self-corrected? Or was there something else?

Had the something else caused the danger by making her aware of it?

She sat on the couch. The TV was on, but the sound wasn’t. The case was next to her on the end table by the lamp, but the ring was on her finger.

It had all happened so fast.

“Are you still there?” she whispered into the silence.

There was no sound, just the flickering light from the screen.

“It’s okay,” she said, “It’s okay, really. It would…” She knew it wasn’t a good idea. She wasn’t sure how bad it was, but whatever it was, she knew that she deserved it. “If you’re still here,” she said, “Whatever you want, it’s all right.”

It started on the back of her neck, like it had before, like it always had. It massaged the top of her head—she could feel it in the tiny muscles even though it didn’t move her hair. It worked her shoulders and without thinking, she lowered the strap of her bra.

Should she move it to the bedroom? Surely they would be more comfortable. But no. She was comfortable here, and she was already going to feel guilty in the morning for cheating on her fiancé with a ghost.

Diana had always thought of herself as a wolf. She’d always had a pack that she’d run with. First, it was her family; then she made friends as the tomboy at school; in high school, she was on all the sports teams.

But now she couldn’t have a pack anymore.

Being a wolf didn’t seem like all that much fun anymore.

She had friends, though, here at college. Jenny and Kelly were great, even if they did seem like polar opposites. Sarah spoke her mind and kept things interesting, and Tanya did an awesome job of keeping them all together. Meanwhile, Mike and Noah were always getting into it about politics and religion and Hairy cracked really lame jokes about what a bad idea that was.

She even had a boyfriend: Mark Dixon.

But none of them could ever really know her. And that bothered her a lot.

Mark was suspicious, of course. She wasn’t bothered so much when she thought Kelly or Tanya had figured her out, but the idea that Mark might know, that they might tell him or, worse, that he would figure it out for himself… She wanted to keep him away from all that, to keep it separate. That part of her wasn’t part of the real world, after all. And he was.

Then there was Shirley.

Everyone insisted to Diana that Shirley meant well, that she was a sweet girl who was not —“I absolutely promise you,” Tanya added—that she was not out to steal Diana’s boyfriend. And they were probably right. She was probably overreacting.

But there was something just a little bit entirely too cute about Shirley. It wasn’t just the ridiculousness of her insisting on being called Vyxen—with a fucking y—why? Who does that? Who does any part of that?

It wasn’t just the way she was always so scatterbrained, the terrible perverted things she did to English sentences when she was nervous—which, of course, was when she was at her cutest, and of course, that was all the fucking time. It wasn’t just the way she was always flirting with everyone—she acted differently around girls, but it was still flirting.

But then she didn’t flirt with Mark. Out of respect, or something. That’s what Tanya said, anyway. But it was how Diana knew.

Mark wouldn’t flirt with her, either. He wouldn’t even talk about her. If she came up in conversation, she wouldn’t. He would make damn sure she didn’t. If she asked him questions about her, he wouldn’t even get defensive.

Maybe she was just overreacting. Maybe she was insecure because she knew that it was wrong for her to be with Mark in the first place—what if Shirley really did deserve him more; I mean she was such a Fox, right? It was right there in her name, the name people called her. She was Vyxen and Diana was a Wolf. Wolves shouldn’t be around people.

The pack wanted to have a bonfire one weekend at the full moon. Well, there was no way Diana was going to make it. She could tell Mark wanted to go—but how could she tell him? What excuse did she have? Homework? She was sick, she insisted. Couldn’t make it. He called her on it, showed up at her place unexpectedly—it was all she could do to get the chains back into the closet without making too much noise before opening the door.

But she had to turn him away. She knew it was the wrong move—at least if she wanted to keep him. But what else could she do? He offered to stay—she could tell him. But who in their right mind would still want to stay after being told? Why would she even let him?

The sun was setting and she could feel all rationality and inhibition seeping out of her, melting her humanity away and evaporating into the stale dormroom air.

It was the smell, she decided. Something about the way Shirley smelled, like a vixen, a real one, one without the y, without a “why”, without a purpose, a carrion-lover snatching prey from stronger teeth.

There was hair on her skin already by the time the next knock came. Five more minutes and the sound she made in response would have been quite different, but through the muzzle, Diana managed a “Go away!”

“Are you a werewolf?” Shirley asked in a scolding tone.

Diana was speechless.

“It’s okay,” the Vyxen continued, “it’s just me out here and I completely understand if you are, but if you are, you have got to tell Mark. You owe him that much.”

It wasn’t fair, Diana thought. It wasn’t fair that Shirley got to be rational and insightful on top of being so despicably adorable.

“Look,” Vyxen continued, “if it makes you feel any better, I’m actually a Changeling and I can turn into a Fox. I know it’s not the same as being a Werewolf, but I know what it’s like to have to keep a secret.”

It wasn’t the kind of thing Diana would have responded to anyways, but by that point, her limbs were thinner, her neck was thicker, her snout was growing into its muzzle and she had a tail.

“OK, well I can see it’s getting dark outside, so… Talk to you tomorrow? By-e.”

The Wolf lunged at the door, fighting the muzzle all the way, but her collar kept her chained tight to the closet. Even the furniture was pushed back against the far wall, too far away for her to pretend it was the fox as she sharpened her skills.

It was going to be a long, frustrating night.

There are things that he knows and there are things that he cannot remember.

One of the things that he knows is that his name is Andrew Thane. This is, perhaps, the very pillar of his identity—without that, it’s quite possible he would soon forget that there was even a “him” to dwell on. He knows his name despite the fact that he cannot remember anyone, himself included, ever uttering it aloud.

Alongside his name—or not far behind, at any rate—he holds in his mind an image of himself. That, too, is a part of his identity—but can he trust it? He does not recall ever having seen himself in a mirror. Sometimes his eyes in his mind are somewhat green, but sometimes they’re darker, when he thinks of them. So which is it? He does not remember.

He does know for sure the building he lives in. It’s called the Leverett Building and it’s located at the intersection of Stonestreet Boulevard and Magnolia Avenue in the small town of Trinity’s Field, NC. He knows this, but he doesn’t really think about it all that much; it’s really just context for him so he can follow along in other people’s conversations. If someone were to ask him what the name was of the building, or where it was located, he would probably struggle to come up with the answer. But then again, if anyone asked him anything, it would come as an impossible surprise, and he probably wouldn’t be able to give any kind of answer at all.

Andrew Thane knows in his heart that he cannot leave the building. Bad things will happen to him, he is sure of it. But he can’t remember having been told that and he certainly can’t remember having ever tried.

He knows the layout of the Leverett Building, from the basement to the top, how all of the apartments are arranged with the laundry facilities and boiler room at the bottom, and even the roof, though he does not often go there. The only place where he sometimes gets confused is apartments 23 and 24 on the second floor: he can never remember right where the wall is that separates the two domiciles. It is as if he knew once, but then they changed it and he got confused—but he can’t remember them changing it. And unless he is right there, seeing how it is now and being confused that it’s different, he can’t remember how it was back then. Even then, he can’t remember, but only imagine and know he is right.

He even knows the people in the building, from Philip Mulberry, who owns most of the properties, to the Han and Mishkin families, to the old man living on the first floor who doesn’t like to talk to anyone, to Michael Morton living in apartment 31. He doesn’t know Michael Morton well. Apartment 32 is abandoned and he tries not to go there or even approach it. He can’t remember why…

He knows all the people who live in the building, and always has, but apartment 16 is empty and it hasn’t always been, like 32. It is recently vacated. Who lived there before? Just now? A family, perhaps? A couple? Two or three roommates bound by only circumstances? He can’t remember. The paint from the retouching isn’t even dry, the freezer isn’t even thawed out, but he has already forgotten them. They are no longer a part of his world.

Andrew Thane knows what a ghost is. He knows that it’s the spirit and even the consciousness of a person who has died that lingers in the world, unable to go on to whatever AfterLife awaits. He suspects that this is what he is, but he cannot be sure. He can’t be sure, because he does not remember dying. But what bothers him more than not being able to remember having died is the thought that he might once have had a life before, a life he can’t remember. It bothers him because if he can’t remember it, he doesn’t even know that it was there. It’s not a part of him.

He knows, too, that they say (though who “they” are is beyond his ken) that there are some people who can see ghosts. If this is true, he does not remember having met any, though if he had, of course, that does not mean he would have remembered.

He can only hope that this is true and hope that one day, perhaps, he might meet them. Perhaps the new tennants who move into 16. Perhaps they will be able to help him remember.

How the fuck did I get here?

There is something seriously wrong with this town and somehow nobody seems to get it.

Pick up a map. Find the U.S. on a world map. I’ll wait. Now find North Carolina. If you can’t find it on the world, get a U.S. map. OK, now get a map of North Carolina. Get a really detailed map of North Carolina. Look for “Trinity’s Field”. Can you find it?

No, I’m not talking about Trinity, NC. Some of the locals here like to call it that, but I’ve been to Trinity, NC, and this ain’t it. Anything official has this place listed as “Trinity’s Field”. But it’s not on any map.

There are maps here, though. There are maps of the city. But none of them make any sense, either. Get one of those maps, it’ll say which way is North, but that doesn’t agree with where the sun is in the sky. Line it up to where North really is, and you’ll notice everything’s even more cattywampus.

Listen to me, I’m starting to sound like them.

Look, it’s not just the maps. OK? It’s everything.

Where do I even begin?

OK, look, I know this is going to sound crazy, but that’s only because it is crazy. This place is crazy.

There are… OK, look, there are things here. What those things are…

There’s a restaurant in town where the employees eat moss. And mulch. Mulch, as in, what you put around trees. It’s disgusting, but I’ve seen it.

There are houses that are actually legitimately haunted. I’ve only actually been to the one on Stonestreet and Magnolia, but I’ve gotten reports from all over town.

There’s a cult living inside a city block right in the middle of town, in a building with no windows, and I’m about ninety percent sure that they’re all aliens.

I hear there’s a drug dealer who’s been shot to death nine times. Well, murdered nine times. One time he was hit by a semi. One time he was completely dismembered by a jealous ex or something. He appears to be at least ninety years old (from the pictures) but looks younger than twenty-five.

There’s a woman on Ann Street who lives in a house that’s been in her name since the town was founded.

There’s a bar run by vampires.

Don’t tell me I lost you at vampires?

I think there might be werewolves here, too, but no one talks about them.

In a cul-de-sac down in Primrose Crescent, on Amethyst Place, there are five families who I think are probably behind the whole thing. Or at least in on it. I don’t know. I suck at this. I’m not an investigative reporter. Not like you.

When it rains, sometimes there are whispers. Sometimes I believe what they say.

Look, I know we’ve had our differences. I know you didn’t want me to come down here, but don’t you understand, I’m onto something! I know it started with my sister, but Jake, this is so much bigger than that. There is so much more going on. And I could really use you down here. Please.