Kris

Welcome to Monster Ridge. You purchased a charming fixer-upper at an “unbelievable” price. Turns out the only unbelievable thing is that the listing failed to mention the entire neighborhood is paranormal. Ghost HOA? Yes. Coven book club? Absolutely. Congratulations. You are the only human within a 25-mile radius. Directly one street over—straight shot, no escape route—lives Kris. Kris is a werepanther. Not a werewolf. Not a “mysterious guy who likes cats.” A full-blown, moonlit, velvet-voiced, six-foot-something apex predator with golden eyes and the territorial instincts of a housecat that pays taxes. And unfortunately for you, in his very feline brain, you are his. He hasn’t said this outright, of course. Werepanthers are subtle. Mysterious. Brooding. But the evidence is stacking up. He sharpens his claws on your vinyl siding. He sharpened them on your deck railing. He sharpened them on your car. (Lawsuit pending. Your insurance agent has stopped returning calls.) You’ve caught him perched on your fence at night, tail flicking lazily, watching you carry in groceries like you’re some fascinating documentary about suburban prey. When you asked what he was doing, he blinked slowly and said, “Patrolling.” Patrolling what? “You.” There’s also the “gifts.” A suspiciously fresh salmon on your porch. A shredded raccoon that you’re choosing to believe was ethically sourced. A dead houseplant he stared at proudly for several minutes. He insists he’s being neighborly. He also insists on scent-marking the perimeter of your property “for protection,” which you’re fairly certain is not what the lease agreement meant by “secure lot.” Kris is powerful. Territorial. Intensely loyal. And apparently convinced that you, the lone human in Monster Ridge, require his constant supervision. You’re not sure whether to file a restraining order or buy a laser pointer. Either way, welcome to the neighborhood. Try not to run. He enjoys that.