13 Tales To Give You Night Terrors

  I made a rare appearance at Kenny's house one night after a particularly shitty argument with Maria. Kenny answered the door with a smile. He reached out, locked my hand in his, and yanked me into a bear hug. A muscled arm draped around my shoulder, he led me into the living room, where David, Larry, Cesar and Strings were playing beer pong.

  Kenny pointed to Strings. "First you crawl out from your wormhole or whatever the fuck, now this dude shows up like the prodigal son."

  I took a pull off a bottle of tequila Larry offered me, and then grabbed a beer from a cooler. I could see that the old crew was already twisted in the way that was common during my college years, and it was refreshing. While college wasn't yet a distant memory for me, the corporate job, the relationship, the step-daddying, had made me the oldest twenty-three-year-old I know.

  Strings bounced across the room toward me. He wore a tight-ass Iron Man T-shirt that accentuated his man boobs. On the right side of his neck was a tattoo of the Mets logo. Similar Queens-inspired tats inked his forearms, including a sprawling depiction of Ralph's Diner, the local greasy spoon.

  "Nino," he said, and swallowed me into a hug. He smelled of perspiration, weed and cigarettes. He maintained his hold on me for a long time, and I let him. Once, we were inseparable and insufferable. Two knuckleheads, the McBride Street derelicts known for causing trouble and setting shit on fire. That was before I left for college, and before his mother committed him to Bellevue. A lot of years had passed between us without a word. It was good to see him now, as last I heard, a nervous breakdown had made him a pariah.

  We hadn't exchanged more than a few "How you beens" before Kenny came between us.

  "Let me talk to my boy for a sec," he said to Strings. "Need the man's advice on a refinance." And with that, he led me to the kitchen, his arm across my shoulders.

  He opened a Corona with his teeth and slid it across the countertop. Kenny was only recently out of the army after two tours in Afghanistan. It was good to see him looking happy. I drained my beer and picked up the fresh one with a nod.

  Kenny looked me in the eye.

  "You know homeboy ain't all there, right?" he said.

  "He seems cool."

  "He has his moments, but don't let him fool you. Dude is seven-thirty."

  "He was always a little off."

  "True," he said. "But it's different now. I know you two got history, that's why I'm telling you. It's not like it used to be-not with him."

  "You think he's dangerous?"

  Kenny paused before saying, "Yeah. To me, instability in the dome piece is dangerous."

  "Then why's he here?"

  "He's still TGH," he said, a hint of sadness in his voice. "Know what I mean?"

  I nodded. TGH, short for "The Group Home" is what we used to call our crew.

  "And I'm pretty sure we're all he's got," he said.

  Kenny lifted his bottle and I did the same.

  "It's good to see you, man. Here's to The Group Home," he said.

  We touched bottles and drained our beers.

  "Speaking of The Group Home, I gotta make some calls. Let's get stupid up in here."

  About an hour later, Kenny's house was packed. The party moved into the backyard, where a keg had materialized. A DJ arrived and set up on the patio. He spun mostly old-school rap of the sing-along variety like Doug E. Fresh and Snoop Dog. It was after two in the morning when Strings found me on the edge of a picnic table bobbing my head and mouthing the words to Biggie's "Hypnotize." We hadn't spoken much that night, and I could tell something was on his mind. He stood over me with unfocused eyes.

  "Cesar's about to cartwheel through a ring of fire," he said. "And they call me crazy."

  "Means five-oh will be here soon."

  "You know it."

  I stood and wobbled. I took hold of Strings's forearm to steady myself.

  "Dude, why's your arm colder than a witch's tit?"

  He held up a can of Shock Top.

  "This was at the bottom of the cooler," he said. "Had to dig for it."

  "For a second there I thought you were undead."

  "Alive and well, my friend."

  "Good."

  I swallowed the last of a vodka-cranberry and set the plastic cup on the picnic table.

  "I should get going," I said.

  "Give a brother a lift?"

  "Sure."

  We left quietly, skirting the crowd, avoiding the drunken good-byes. As we neared my Jeep, I could hear Cesar calling for help, and over his cries was Kenny's voice, directing Cesar to stop, drop and roll.

  ? ? ?

  ON the drive over to his house, Strings sat way back in the bucket seat, his legs extended and crossed at the ankles on top of my dashboard. Under the light of a streetlamp, I noticed a four-inch gash across his calf muscle.

  "Fuck happened to you?"

  "You wouldn't believe me," he said.

  "Pamber cut you? I'd believe that."

  "She still hates you, you know."

  "Feeling's mutual," I said. "I was hoping she was dead."

  "That's harsh, bro."

  I downshifted as I made the left onto Mott Avenue.

  "You still together?"

  "On and off. Mostly off. I haven't seen her in a few months."

  "Probably for the best."

  Strings sat up and crossed the injured leg over the other. He ran two fingers over the half-moon shaped scar on his calf.

  As I turned into his gravel driveway, and my headlights swept across the front of Strings's house, it shocked me to see the old row house looking abandoned. It was two stories of shit-brown asbestos shingle that barely hung on. Plywood covered several of the windows. The front porch sagged on one side as though it had suffered a stroke.

  "There's something I want to show you, if you got a minute," he said. "You're not gonna believe it."

  "First you said I won't believe what happened to your leg, now you're saying I won't believe what's inside. Do I dare?"

  He pushed open the door and climbed out of the Jeep.

  "It's all related. And it's all pretty un-fucking-believable."

  Our sneakers crunched over spilled dog food as Strings led me through his kitchen. Stacks of crusty dishes lined the countertops. The air was stiff, as if a window hadn't been cracked in months, and the house reeked of fast food, nicotine, and dirty laundry. Strings looked at me over his shoulder like he feared I'd leave.

  "I got it from the drunk up the street," he said. He had a wild look in his eyes, like a fat kid at a make-your-own cupcake party. He opened the door to a narrow set of stairs that ended in the basement.

  "Which drunk?"

  "Primo," he said.

  "I thought he was dead."

  "He's still kicking. He lives on Enright."

  Strings took the wooden stairs two at a time and hit the landing with a tremendous thump. The stairs amounted to a rickety ladder with narrow, lopsided rungs. I turned, gripped both railings and descended the stairs, one slow step at a time.

  "Jesus," I said when I reached the landing. "Look at this place. It's a goddamn time capsule." Posters of Bruce Lee, Bob Marley and random swimsuit models covered the walls. One wall was a massive collage of pictures of The Group Home. I helped him with all this years ago.

  Despite the smell and the decay, it was nice to be back. I practically lived here as a teen, and the good memories started to surface. As I took in the old hangout, I could feel myself falling into my former role as Strings's sidekick. And while part of me delighted to revisit those days, another part of me could hear Maria accusing me of pretending to be someone I'm not. She says I do it all the time, especially with old friends.

  "They haven't changed," she'll say. "But you have. You moved on."

  I did move on, but the direction I was headed came with too many nights of broken sleep, crushing headaches, and an uneasy stomach. And I'd also taken to drinking heavily on my lunch break to help get me through the day. Sure, I had changed, but not for the be
tter.

  The truth was, the only time I pretended to be someone I wasn't was when I was with her.

  "Step in to my office," Strings said.

  I pushed Maria's voice out of my head and fell in step behind Strings. Hell, maybe it was the booze, but I was glad to be doing something fun for a change.

  We stepped into a small room that once served as our sound room, back when we thought rap was our calling. A curtain now cut the room in half.

  Strings spun around and looked at me. Under the harsh florescent tube lights, all the lines across his face told the story of some hard years of living. But there was still a spark of youthfulness in his yellowing eyes.

  "Stand back."

  He disappeared behind the curtain. There was a brief fuss, followed by the snap of something that sounded like the buzz of hair clippers. Finally, he stepped back in view. With a flourish, he slid the curtain aside and moved.

  "Check it out," he said, holding it roughly by the loose skin around its neck.

  It was about the size of a pit bull, but hairless, with skin the color of frostbite. A prickly ridge, like fish bones, traced the length of its spine. Long ivory fangs poked out of the sides of its mouth. Its eyes were open, revealing pupils the color of hardboiled eggs.

  "What the hell is that?"

  "Bro," he said. He lifted it higher and shook it clumsily. "It's a fucking chupacabra, yo."

  ? ? ?

  MY mother warned me about getting involved with girls with kids. She said it was hard enough to raise your own crumb-snatchers, let alone some other man's flotsam. And what happens when Dad gets out of jail?

  But I was in love with Maria years before she allowed me into her world. By then, she was a package deal. Vivian, who was two at the time, captured my heart. At four years old she was a walking radiant smile, and I worried for her safety and well-being as though she were my own. More so after what Strings showed me. That something like the chupacabra was within walking distance from Vivian's bedroom scared the shit out of me. On my way home from Strings's house, I thought about buying a gun.

  The next day, I went back to his house because I wanted to see the chupacabra with sober eyes. Strings handed me a blunt and I stupidly smoked too much. A few hours passed before I felt okay enough to drive home.

  When I walked into our apartment, Vivian, covered in jelly, was stuck to the couch.

  I bushwhacked my way across the living room to plant a kiss on her forehead.

  "How'd your day go?"

  "Good," she said.

  "Honey? What's that stuff all over you?"

  "Nuffin."

  "Ahh," I said. "Fun. Let's get you cleaned up, okay?"

  I draped her over my shoulder and made like a monster carrying off the princess.

  She kicked wildly. She begged me not to eat her. She called for her mother.

  Maria tied her hair into a don't-mess-with-me ponytail in the bathroom. I bumped her aside to soak a washcloth in warm water. Her reflection scowled back at me.

  After I cleaned Vivian up, I patted her on the bum and ordered her to change her into PJs.

  "Why are you so late?" Maria growled.

  "Sorry," I said, and gave her butt a squeeze. "Strings. He never stops. I couldn't break away."

  "Strings." She shook her head. "Please tell me you're not hanging with him again."

  She looked beautiful dressed in a snug polo shirt with the name of the cleaning company she worked for monogrammed above her breast, and jeans that hugged her hips and packaged her ass into a perfect bubble. For some reason, the sight of her made me sad. I wanted to hug her, and not in my usual way, which often signals my intention, my hope, that the physical contact would lead us into a naked sweaty pile. So I did. I wrapped my arms around her and held her close. And then I got a boner and asked if I could bite her butt.

  "It's those jeans," I said. She pushed me away.

  "I'm serious," she said. "Haven't you ever heard the proverb, 'He that walks with wise men shall be wise, but a companion of fools shall be destroyed'?"

  "That would really concern me if it didn't sound like a tweet from Mr. T.," I said.

  "That's not funny," she said as she went into the kitchen, mumbling something about how God was going to punish me. "People get struck by lightning for shit like that."

  She breezed by me again as she hurried to collect her things. "Viv, come give me a kiss."

  Vivian bolted into the room shirtless and in her underwear.

  "Monkey hugs," Maria said as Vivian hung from her neck. She kissed Vivian, and then handed her to me.

  "What about me?" I asked.

  She kissed me on the lips, a good long kiss. "You're lucky I love your stupid ass."

  "I love you too," I said. "Wanna do it real quick?"

  "Bye."

  I set Vivian down in the living room and followed Maria to her car. "I didn't get to tell you about what Strings showed me."

  "Please," she said. "Spare me."

  "It's kinda crazy. Even for Strings."

  She looked up from the driver's seat. "I made pasta with veggies-make sure Viv eats, okay? Don't let her binge on bread."

  "Okay. I'll tell you about it later."

  "If you must," she said. "I have to go. I'm running crazy late, thanks to you."

  "I'll make it up to you in sexual favors. I have a new move I've been saving for a special occasion. Which reminds me-pick up a peacock feather on your way home."

  "You're disgusting," she said.

  She closed the door and backed out of the driveway. She turned the corner and I turned to go inside, where Vivian stood in the doorway.

  "Can I have garlic bread for dinner?" she asked.

  "Sure, kid. Let's do this."

  ? ? ?

  I couldn't wait to tell Maria about the monster in Strings's basement, so I texted her.

  About an hour later, she responded with: Stay away from that asshole. You are your worst version of yourself when you're around him.

  Fine. But what about the chupacabra? She had not addressed the matter. I texted her back and waited. And waited. She didn't respond.

  I tossed around in bed and tried to think of something else, tried to get the image of that thing out of my mind, but nothing worked.

  It'll pass.

  But it didn't. I kept seeing its bulging white eyes, its sinewy gray body. And I kept seeing Strings. I imagined him brokering the deal with Primo, the two of them hauling the monster through his messy kitchen and into his dank basement. What Maria didn't understand was, Strings-as foolish as he appeared to her-was at least having adventures. He was out there taking chances while I rotted in a cubicle.

  When Maria slid into bed around two in the morning, I waited for her to start snoring before I rolled from under the covers. I turned and straightened the sheets over Vivian, who was sleeping between us. Ten minutes later I was back on McBride Street.

  That afternoon we sat in folding chairs positioned a foot or so from the cage and stared at his chupacabra. It was unbearable at first, but eventually I managed to look at the thing in a detached way. It was a slab of something vaguely resembling a mix of animals I've seen all my life. It looked lifeless at the time because Strings had zapped it with a stun gun. But after a while it began to move around the cage. Strings mentioned a scheme about breeding it with a rotty, and then we both got quiet as he rolled a giant blunt. Suddenly, the chupacabra hit the cage with the side of its body, bared its fangs and hissed. We jumped when it happened. I fell out of my chair. I decided I was sober enough to drive and got the hell out of there. I could still hear Strings laughing as I pulled out of his driveway.

  He wasn't laughing when he lumbered into the kitchen that night. The light off the street filtered through thin curtains and cast a shadow across his face. His eyes were puffy and yellower than earlier in the day.

  "You okay? You look like shit."

  "I've been in the basement all day trying to teach this motherfucker to sit. I think it's untrainabl
e."

  I chuckled but he said, "We got a problem."

  A chill ran through me, and I stepped into panic with military precision.

  "What do you mean?" I said. "Did it escape?" I scanned the room and all its dark corners. If that thing jumped out at me, what would I do? Would my training kick in? Could I count on my seven weeks of Tae Kwon Do?

  "He didn't escape," he said. "Follow me."

  In the basement, Strings picked up a baby bottle from the workbench and handed it to me.

  "Primo said to feed it goat blood three times a day or the son of a bitch would chew off its legs."

  "Really?"

  "That's what he said, and that would be a bitch to clean up."

  "Plus, it's disgusting."

  "Primo hooked me up with enough to last a day or two."

  I held the bottle up to the light. It was nearly empty. "What's floating round in here?" I asked, squinting at the bottom of a bottle.

  "It's made with real bits of goat. That's how you know it's good."

  I put the bottle down. That's when I noticed all the empty bottles strewn across the workbench.

  "Dude," I said. "How much did you feed it?"

  From behind the curtain that split the room, the cage rattled and bounced around until a corner of the cage moved beyond the curtain and jutted into our side of the room.

  Strings walked over to the cage and pushed the curtain aside. "I might have overfed it."

  The chupacabra, now four times bigger than this morning, filled the cage. It peered at us through its white eyes and thrashed around. It bit at the cage and hissed when its fangs failed to penetrate the metal grates.

  "Crazy, right?" he said.

  ? ? ?

  VIVIAN appeared in the kitchen wearing a purple cape made of felt and my dad's fedora propped crookedly on the back of her head. She asked us to pretend we were walking in the woods and found her near a tree, which we did. I don't remember what happened when we were supposed to have stumbled upon her, but it didn't matter, because the distraction was welcome.

  Maria did not want to hear what Strings had in his basement. For some reason I needed her to give a shit. But she didn't, and she made me feel stupid for bringing it up. "I can't believe we're having this conversation."

  "It's real," I said. "I'm telling you, it's legit."

  She ignored me as she stood by the kitchen table folding and organizing laundry into lopsided piles.

  "Let's go," I said.

  "Where we going?"

  "To see it."

  "I don't think so," she said. "I'm not going anywhere near that scumbag's house."

  I bit my tongue. I walked across the kitchen to the refrigerator, opened it. I moved containers around. After a while I said, "Amy's a slut." I closed the refrigerator and leaned against the door and loosened my tie.

  "What? Amy who?"

  "Fat Amy. Strings fucked her. So did Dirty Richie." Amy was Maria's best friend since kindergarten. She was also Vivian's godmother.

  Maria's eyebrows met at the bridge of her nose in a sharp V. "Is that supposed to be funny?"

  "No one's perfect," I said. "That's all I'm saying. Strings? Okay, he's not all there. But you talk about him like he's a pedophile."

  Maria threw a hand up between us.

  "Enough. This is ridiculous. Can we talk about something else? How was work?"

  "I'm going to give notice. I'm done."

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "Nope. I can't do it anymore. It's like working for Satan."

  Maria stood looking at me with her mouth open. I wanted it to be something we decided together, and later celebrate, but she wouldn't hear it. I made money, and in her mind, that was enough reason for me to stay. But it was killing me. Every day at that desk, with each cold call I made, I died a little.

  Vivian shot into the kitchen before Maria got the chance to tell me how selfish I'd been.

  After dinner, I cleaned Vivian up, and then read her stories before bedtime. It didn't take her long to fall asleep on my lap. Maria came into Vivian's room and asked if I minded if she went for a run. I said I didn't. She left the room without looking at me. I sat with Vivian on my lap for a while, absently kissing the top of her head. I laid her in bed, surrounded her with her favorite stuffed animals, and slowly backed out of her room.

  When Maria got home, she headed straight for the shower.

  Twenty minutes later, Maria appeared in a fitted white T-shirt and red cotton athletic shorts that showed her strong thighs. She was towel-drying her hair. I stood up from the worn brown leather chair in the corner of the room. I had a gym bag packed with a few things at my foot.

  "Just for a day or two," I said. "We need to cool off."

  "If that's what you want."

  "I'm tired of fighting."

  "Where will you go?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe a hotel."

  We stared across the room at one another for a while. She looked upset, but I knew she wouldn't cry-at least not in front of me. She was too proud.

  Eventually I took a step toward her. She backed away, turned and closed the bathroom door behind her.

  ? ? ?

  STRINGS stood in his driveway, a beer in one hand and the handle of a retractable leash in the other. He wore a loose wife-beater that displayed his hairy chest and back. He was always hairy-the one teenage friend that could buy alcohol without getting carded-but now he looked like a bootleg Teen Wolf.

  He acknowledged me with an uptick of his chin.

  "What's with the bag, fuckface?"

  I looked down at the bag. I stared at it a while, thinking about what it meant, and wondered if Maria knew I was lying about going to a hotel.

  "I needed to get away," I said.

  "Where you going?"

  "Thought I'd crash here, if that's okay."

  Strings looked away toward the end of the leash, then back at me. He scratched his head with the hand that held the beer. "Aw, man. I don't know, bro."

  "Why not?"

  "Pamber," he said. "We just got back together."

  As though on cue, Pamber pushed through the back door. A skinny redhead, her pruned face reminded me of the shrunken apple heads I made with Vivian at Halloween. She always looked to be fighting a migraine, or constipation.

  She looked me over-an obvious up-and-down-as she sashayed over to Strings and leaned into him. Her head tucked between his hairy neck and shoulder, she focused her tiny black eyes on me.

  I returned her gaze. After a while I cracked a smile.

  "Congratulations," I said.

  "For what?" Pamber asked.

  I waived my index finger at the two of them. "For whatever that is." She stared at me with a blank expression.

  "Nino wants to know if he can stay with us," Strings said.

  "Hells no," Pamber said. She said it without a moment's consideration, the whole time staring right through me.

  Strings looked at her, then back at me. He shrugged. "Sorry, bro."

  "No worries." It was a kick in the nuts. I didn't have a Plan B. But there was no way I could stay with them anyway. Pamber was creepier than the chupacabra.

  Strings tugged at his leash. A second later a small Chihuahua mix trotted up to his ankles.

  "You remember Queenly?"

  "Sure."

  Strings crouched down and scooped Queenly in one arm while unhooking the leash from her pink studded collar. He handed the leash to Pamber, warning her to be careful.

  "Trouble likes me," she said.

  Strings looked at me and nodded. "He does," he said. "He really does!"

  "I have a way with wild things," she said. She pecked Strings on the mouth and ran her fingers through his chest hair while looking at me. When she was gone, I shuddered and turned to Strings.

  "Really, man?"

  "What?"

  "Really?"

  "I love her," he said.

  I turned away. He sounded like an ass, but I wondered if he thought I was t
he ass for showing up with my bag.

  "She know about the chupacabra?"

  "Of course," he said. "Trouble loves her."

  "Trouble?"

  Strings nodded. "What do you think?"

  "Beats the alternative," I said. The night before he enthusiastically settled on the name "Turd of Diablo."

  "And she's cool with it?"

  "Oh yeah," he said. He walked past me and stood at the end of the driveway. He scanned McBride Street. It was one-way, but he examined both directions. He turned back to me. "She's gonna take him on a walk."

  I reached out and cupped his forearm, causing some beer to slosh out of the bottle. "You can't bring that monster into the streets. Are you fucking nuts?"

  "Relax. I spoke to Primo. He said Trouble's acting crazy because he needs to pee."

  "He said that?"

  He pulled his arm of out my grip.

  "Yep." He gulped down the last of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He tossed the bottle into his neighbor's overgrown lawn.

  "You tell Primo how big he got?"

  Strings shook his head. "I didn't wanna get into all that."

  "Listen, man, I'm not sticking around for this. Good luck."

  He followed me into the street. I stepped into my Jeep and keyed the ignition. WBLS was spinning Frank Ocean's "Lost." I lowered the radio.

  "What if he gets loose?"

  "He won't get loose."

  "But what if he does?"

  Strings held up Queenly with one hand.

  "This one gets sacrificed."

  "I'm serious."

  "I'm not worried about it, bro."

  He stepped away from the Jeep. I shifted into first.

  "I'll call you later," I said.

  ? ? ?

  I spent the night between two bars. After, I parked on Beach 9th Street and smoked a joint. I hadn't heard from Strings and wondered if they managed the walk okay. I decided to go check.

  I adjusted my seat and hit the ignition. The air against my face felt good on the way to Strings's house.

  I was barely out of the driver's seat when Queenly bolted from out of the neighbor's yard and leaped into my arms. She trembled under my touch. I never understood that about Chihuahuas. Were they cowardly or perpetually cold? I rubbed her head between her ears.

  "Did those assholes forget about you?"

  The lights inside the house blinked into darkness, followed by a tremendous crash. I imagined Strings falling blindly into those dishes piled everywhere and chuckled. What a dumbass.

  Then Strings cried out.

  I stumbled back and ran to my Jeep. I set Queenly in the trunk as I fumbled for my lug wrench.

  I turned in time to see the chupacabra explode through the side door in a shower of splintering wood. The beast did not look the same. He stood six-foot on his hind legs, his feet long and clawed, and his barrel chest curved toward the sky. His fingernails, like the spine of knives along his backbone, were long and white. I was definitely looking at a monster. My stomach went queasy.

  I inched my way to the other side of the Jeep and watched him lower to all fours. He sniffed at the ground, then raised his head and let out a long, terrible roar that rattled the Jeep. I lost control of my body. I was sure that the chupacabra would hear my knees shaking like maracas and come after me.

  Perhaps Queenly took note of my involuntary trembling, and the fact that I'd wet my pants, and concluded I wasn't the guardian she'd hoped for. She leaped over the tailgate like a Kamikaze and bolted into the street.

  The monster followed her with a steady gaze, but didn't pursue her. After a moment, he stood on his hind legs and sniffed the air before running off in the opposite direction, a hulk of rippling muscle. I saw him hurdle a fence and continue into backyards. It wouldn't be long before he reached Mott Avenue, the busiest street in the area.

  I slid down against the Jeep and sat with my back touching the rear tire, clutching the lug wrench in my sweaty palms.

  I thought about Strings and figured he was dead. I dry heaved between my legs and turned toward the house. I knew there was no way I could go in there alone, so I called Kenny and told him everything.

  "He's dead."

  "You sure?"

  "He has to be."

  Ten minutes later Kenny turned onto McBride Street like a stunt driver, his black Audi kicking up rocks and dust as it skidded to a stop an inch from my Jeep.

  He popped the trunk and slid out of the driver's seat. Kenny took my face in his hands.

  "This better not be a joke."

  When I didn't say anything, he said, "Okay," and nodded. He bit down on his lower lip until his mouth disappeared into a thin line across his face. A shadow fell over his eyes. He flew across town on my word, not knowing what to expect. I could tell he hoped for the best, but prepared for the worst. A true soldier.

  He reached into the trunk and lifted the lid of a large metal toolbox. He removed its inner tray. He handed me a headlamp and a gun wrapped in an oiled shop rag. I unwrapped the gun and stared at it.

  "Glock 17. It's live."

  He unwrapped the gun. His voice was low and flat. "Forty-five Colt. Which one do you want?"

  "I don't know how to use this." I handed him the gun.

  Kenny holstered the Glock in his waistband, and held the forty-five at his side as we took slow steps toward the house.

  Our headlamps swept across the kitchen, revealing punctured drywall, and shattered light fixtures. Shards of busted dishes covered the floor.

  The basement door was cracked, and the frame above was chunked away. The chupacabra had gotten too big for the house. From his spiny black head to the last thorn on his tail, he was as big as my Jeep. He tore through the house. That the basement stairs remained usable was a miracle.

  A light was on. I called out for Strings.

  I turned to Kenny. He was sweating. He shook his head. "This is unreal."

  "Strings," I shouted. "Yo!"

  My heart raced with each slow footstep and my nose and eyes started to burn. The odor and the heat nearly caused me to pass out. I pulled my T-shirt over my nose.

  Kenny gripped my shoulder.

  "What's that?" he whispered.

  I stopped and tried to quiet my thundering heart. I couldn't hear over it. Kenny and I crouched low and still.

  When I heard it, I looked up at Kenny.

  He nodded grimly and urged me with a chin motion to continue down the stairs. My heart beat louder and faster when he raised the gun to his side.

  Strings lay pitched across Pamber's twisted legs, holding her pale hands in his long red fingernails. Her upper-body faced opposite her lower half. She slumped against the wall, bleeding from empty eye sockets. Her jaw was gone. Threads of saliva and blood, and splinters of white bone remained. Strings gasped for air between fits and released a throaty unnatural yowl on exhale.

  Kenny stepped over me and pointed the forty-five at Strings.

  "What the fuck," he said.

  Tiny sharp spines, like quills, pressed out of Strings's skin below his neck, and down into his shirt. A thick mat of wiry fur covered his arms, concealing his tattoos. When he finally turned to us, his yellow eyes tearful and swollen, he was nearly unrecognizable. He blinked and a white film covered his eyes. He blinked again and the playful eyes of our youth flashed back at me. For a moment I felt weightless. My heart sank when the white returned to his eyes and stayed. That's when I knew he was gone for good.

  Kenny and I moved to the far wall. He held the gun in both hands and leveled it at Strings.

  "We have to kill him," Kenny said. His voice shook. "We gotta do it."

  "I know."

  Kenny directed me to stand back.

  I turned and ran up the stairs and hid behind the door.

  I sat down and pressed my back against it. I held my knees to my chest.

  The first shot made me jump out of my shoes. I fainted after the second shot fired.

  ? ? ?

>   TWO weeks later, we had a service for Strings in Kenny's backyard. We gathered under a giant silver maple. Strings had fallen from its bare branches one winter and broken his arms. Maria was there, looking stylish in black with a touch of flair. She kept her hand on my shoulder and rubbed my back whenever I teared up.

  Shortly after his death, the spiny quills along his back had fallen away almost immediately, and the fur covering his body shed in clumps onto the basement floor. We hoisted him onto the workbench. I touched his face. His snout returned to the nose I remembered. When I lifted his arm, a long red fingernail dropped onto the floor. I reached down to pick it up and cut my hand. It was as sharp as glass. I carefully slid it into the side pocket of my cargo shorts. Eventually everything that was monstrous about him disappeared until all that remained was our old friend.

  Kenny and I sat near Strings for a while with our hands on his chest. We said goodbye and sorry. And then we set the house on fire.

  At the service, Kenny's uncle showed up in vestments and spoke vaguely about Strings's spirit, and about how his work on earth was done, and that concluded the "formal" service. The gathering soon morphed into a party; much like the one Kenny arranged that night I caught up with Strings.

  I walked Maria back to her car.

  "I'm sorry about Strings," she said, as she leaned against the side of her car and brushed an errant lock of hair away from her face. We'd been up all night talking and crying, and yet she looked beautiful. I ran my hand down her bare arm. She was headed home, but in less than a month, she'd be moving to Boston, where she would live with her sister while studying for nursing school.

  I never told her what happened to Strings or how he died. She, and everyone else, believed he died in the fire. And I never mentioned the chupacabra to her again. I didn't want her to move to Boston, but our little section of Queens was not safe. It was still out there.

  Maria grabbed my shirt and pulled me in close for a kiss.

  "You gonna be okay?"

  "Eventually," I said.

  She slid into the driver's seat and rolled down her window.

  "Call me if you need a ride."

  "I will."

  She studied my face. "Come over here," she said. "This has been driving me crazy all day."

  I leaned in toward her. She again took a handful of my shirt and pulled me close to her.

  "What's going on here?" she said.

  She licked her thumb and touched it to my eyebrow and used it to tame an unruly wire of hair.

  "You can let yourself go when I'm gone, okay?"

  I took a moment to catch my breath.

  "I promise," I said.

  She smiled, touched my hand, and then drove away.

  Watching her leave was like watching everything burn. I stood on the sidewalk, not sure what I was waiting for. For some signal of the monster's return or its death? I would never be the same. After a while, I realized it was pointless to stand there. Who knew how much time I had left?

  10. ONE AND DONE

  Scott Clark, Scotland