I first saw the Pharaoh when I was seven years old, down by Buck Creek on a bright April morning. He was in the creek, actually, up to his calves in water still swollen by snowmelt. His footing seemed unsteady, and the current was catching at the off-white linen wrappings as he struggled to make his way across. The Pharaoh was so engaged in his task that I don’t think he even noticed me, but I hid behind a tree anyway. It overlooked the gully that Buck Creek ran through, so I saw everything, though I could scarcely believe my eyes. [read more]

It was a party like many others that I had hated going to. Dragged along by friends that I liked better in other contexts, then abandoned to a suburban home full of strangers. I meandered past the table lined with unappealing drinks and inconvenient hors d’oeuvres half a dozen times at least. My shirt felt too tight, and my pants felt too loose. Three abortive chit-chats flared up and died abruptly in the front hallway and the living room, conversations I’d mostly spent thinking about how I was supposed to hold my arms. There were three moments of noncommittal silence, then three too-sunny goodbyes. I was picking my way back to the dining room for my tenth survey of the buffet table when I first saw the werewolf hunter. [read more]

You wake up early – earlier than usual, at least, and spend a couple of minutes wondering if you should try to fall back asleep. It’s still dark outside, and somehow you can tell that it’s going to be a cold day. Groaning, you heave yourself up and get dressed, quietly, almost reverently. You would go back to sleep, but you just feel energized. You decide to go for a walk, go out to that hill about a quarter mile from here, watch the sun come up. [read more]