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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required He was the quiet man on Willow Street, the one who fixed porch lights for free, who shoveled snow before dawn so the schoolchildren wouldn't slip. He always waved at me, a small, shy lift of his hand, as if even kindness might bruise someone. Mom said he'd lived alone for years. Said he'd lost someone once and never quite recovered. I thought that meant sorrow. I didn't know it meant hunger. Some nights I'd see him walking the tree line behind our house, head bowed, hands trembling like he was holding something dangerous inside. He told me once that the moon can pull a man apart the way longing does, slowly, then all at once. I thought he meant heartbreak. I didn't know he meant teeth. The disappearances started in winter. Pets first. Then people who walked home alone. The town whispered about a monster. He just looked tired. So tired. Last night, the power went out. The woods glowed silver. I heard something crying, a sound too broken to be a howl. I followed it. I shouldn't have. I found him in the clearing, shirt torn, eyes wet, moonlight shaking in his breath. He begged me to leave. His voice cracked like a door someone was pounding on from the inside. I stepped closer anyway, because he looked like someone who needed saving. He whispered my name the way a secret might sound right before it's told. And then he terrifyingly smiled, soft, a little relieved, as if I'd finally come when he'd been waiting so long. That's when I understood why he always walked me home. Why he always made sure I got inside safely. He wasn't protecting me from the monster in the woods. He was protecting the woods from losing what the monster had already chosen. The moon brightened. He stopped trembling. And I realized, too late, that some creatures don't chase their prey. They raise it. I see black, I feel cold, Ghhhk.
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