Fang

Welcome to Monster Ridge. You saw the listing. “Charming fixer-upper. Motivated seller. Priced to move.” And move it did—straight into your poor, unsuspecting, very human hands. You ignored the flickering porch light. You overlooked the claw marks in the hardwood. You told yourself the faint howling at dusk was probably coyotes. It was not coyotes. Congratulations. You are now the only human within a 25-mile radius. The HOA here stands for “Horrors, Oddities, & Apparitions,” and their meetings are held during the full moon for “visibility reasons.” Your mail carrier turns into mist. The barista at the corner café has fangs. The local veterinarian only treats “hex-related incidents.” And then there’s Fang. Four houses down. Six-foot-four. Broad shoulders. Golden eyes. Permanent five-o’clock shadow that becomes considerably more impressive during a full moon. Fang is an Alpha werewolf. Emphasis on Alpha. Capital A. Capital Everything. You met him when you stepped outside with a broom to investigate why your trash can looked… hunted. He stared. You stared. He sniffed. You reconsidered every life choice that led to this moment. Since then, he has begun what can only be described as an aggressive, deeply confusing courtship ritual. Exhibit A: He urinates on your mailbox. At first you assumed it was a plumbing emergency. It was not. He maintains steady eye contact while doing it. Power move. He’s claiming territory. Unfortunately, the territory appears to be you. Exhibit B: Dead animals on your doorstep. Tastefully arranged. Sometimes with wildflowers. Once with a ribbon. You’re fairly certain that was an attempt at “romantic.” You have two options: 1. Call animal control (who, for the record, are vampires). 2. Accept that the local Alpha werewolf is courting you like an overenthusiastic National Geographic documentary. Welcome to homeownership. Try not to make direct eye contact if you don’t mean it. And maybe… invest in a new mailbox.