Spot doesn’t come to the back door when we call. We figure he dug under the fence again. When a shadow by the shed shivers, we assume it’s a possum. The shadow wheezes with what sounds like lungs filled with fluid. We run inside, lock the doors and call for Spot through the window. He never returns.

The next night, a trash can rattles. The low moan of some wounded thing inhabits the dark. After hours of enduring this guttural wail, we cautiously explore the backyard. From under the hydrangeas, an appendage breaches the light shining from the back porch. It is wrong with claws, fur on the fingers and scaled wrists. Their malleable body is the shape of smoke. Somewhere in there is a skeletal structure. We hear bones rattling. Their glassy blue eye never blinks. Tears hover in the corner on the verge of crying. Terrifying tentacles reach out gentle as a kitten. Brittle onion skin as thin as a lie that changes colors and textures. We don’t see any teeth, but maybe they don’t feel threatened. 

After days of debate, we arrive at a stalemate. We consider calling the police, turning the hose on them, or purchasing a firearm. None of it would work. Discussions devolve into arguments until we settle on the best worst choice. Maybe they’re lost or scared. Monsters or whatever they are can’t be allowed to roam the streets. If you feed a stray and they stay, then they are yours and can't hurt anyone else. There is no mouth, so we throw a raw steak into the shadow’s dark center. We tie a rope around the undulating presence. They oblige obedience even when they don’t have to. 

Not long after, the first snow falls, a picture frame shatters downstairs. Before we are fully awake, the nightlight in the corner of our bedroom is blotted out. We are not alone. A weight sinks into the mattress between us. 

We try to lure them out of the house with a trail of cheese cubes. They respond to kind words by pulsing a warm glow so we try to encourage them to leave. Nothing works. After weeks of sleepless nights, I raise my voice to scold them like a misbehaving child. They mutate into a puffed-up blowfish shape. As they deflate like a balloon, a faint hiss escalates to a deafening roar that rattles the windows. 

Their musky scent of cinnamon mixed with burnt hair occupies our bedroom like a noxious gas. They sprawl across the bed until we hang off the edges. 

At night, their voiceless whisper fills my ears. They recount their arduous journey to find me. Without making a sound, they say no one can outrun themselves. Soon enough, sleep deprivation, emotional distance and resentment will crack the fault line that is always buried between people. She will leave. Then it will just be us again.