The land claims what you leave behind.

My grandfather used to tell me he was a werewolf. He’d.

Sometimes you just know what you’re doing is the only thing to be doing. That the world is conspiring all around you to make it happen, like, not just giving you permission, but herding you the direction you need to go, giving you secret nods and obvious hand signals, and getting everything out of the way so you have the clearest path possible.

Always feed a wolf his fill,” the old woman quotes out loud, “lest you wake with your throat in his jaws.

I think writers can get too attached to these worlds they create, these characters they make real, so that, instead of ending the story where the story’s asking to end, they draw it out, unable to let go.

But everything’s Horror, isn’t it? Sometimes you just can’t see the blood.

Each time he came back with all his fingers he would flash thumbs-up all around the platform to show how he was lucky, how none of this was ever going to touch him.

It’s soft at the end. Not just the pain, but the world.

That’s how it is with werewolves. You have something, then you just have the story of it.

Lewis finds the fourteen-foot aluminum ladder under boxes in the garage, Three Stooges in into the backyard...