A light, he realizes, piercing the dark. It’s coming through the keyhole of the door leading to the living room. But how can it be? There’s no one else in the apartment—hasn’t been for years.
What I’d taken for white beads are actually human teeth, mixed with white crystals I identified (via taste, to Mole’s horror) as salt. Mole looks at the mixture and shudders. I don’t know how to explain why I keep them. As much as I wish to deny the strangeness of our near-death experience…if some wyrdcraft did take place, this feels like a talisman.
The fact of the matter is that the basic acts of our species' survival - sex, birth, nursing - are discomfitingly sticky. They upset the rather delicate balance of mind versus body that we all, one way or
another, have to achieve, sending the squishy-meat-sack side surging to the forefront in all its oozy, dripping glory. Werewolf stories expose this side of human existence, which we usually don't highlight. Werewolves excel at externalizing bodily fluids.
