Page 26 of Strange Lights

Mournful howls turned to unearthly yowling, and, when I checked, an orange kitten had replaced the puppy. She’d slipped up transforming, leaving the row of spikes along her back and down her tail. Still not her true form.

“I don’t clean litter boxes,” I said as I slammed the door in her face yet again.

The third time I opened the door, it was because the litany of curses I’d heard intrigued me. A high-pitched voice calling out with impressive volume and enunciation, spouting filth that would impress a sailor, carried right through the walls to the Winnebago’s interior. It was Eldi, exactly as she is now: a toddler with dirty hair and sticky hands. Her steel-gray eyes and perpetual frown were at odds with her soft little potbelly and plump cheeks. There wasn’t a stitch of clothing on her body.

“Really? I don’t know who or what you are, but I’m not taking in some stray kid.”

Before I could shut her out for a third time, she pushed past me, stomped inside to the bathroom, and shut the door decisively. I stared after her in disbelief for a long moment before I heard the toilet flush and Eldi reappeared, giving me a disdainful look and muttering, “No litter box.”

The rest, as they say, is history.

My heartbeat doesn’t return to normal for a solid hour after the wake-up call from Eldi and her pet vacuums. This is far from the first time Eldi has pulled this kind of bullshit on me for kicks, but her accomplices add a jarring element to the experience that I find harder to shake off. I’ve woken to a toddler in the night countless times; that I can handle. The probing takes a bit more getting used to. For once, I’m completely alert before coffee. The sun isn’t awake yet, but apparently, I am.

I expect Calvin to show up on my doorstep early with lattes, half a dozen theories, and even more questions to answer. But strangely, he does not appear. He probably slept in and didn’t wake up with a child straight out of a horror movie lurking over his face and potentially alien robots probing his ear. There’s occasional movement behind the curtains that hang in the Airstream window, so I know he’s in there. I drink from my stash of crappy cheap coffee, drowning the stale flavor with copious amounts of questionably aged creamer I can’t recall buying.

I’m sure Calvin is busy with podcasting things or making banjo thirst trap videos or whatever, but he doesn’t emerge by lunchtime. Or even when afternoon creeps by, bringing oppressive dry heat. Maybe I am feeling a twinge of worry. But I refuse to be clingy.

When I get bored, I find some googly eyeballs and stick them to both Doug’s and Dave’s carapaces, adding some angry eyebrows on Dave to differentiate the two. I’ve decided Dave is the problem vacuum; Doug is the nice one who cooks breakfast.

Dusk is approaching, bringing with it cool mountain air and the promise of a clear night of stars and an unobstructed view of unidentified space lights. Prime mountain-lion-stalking time. Eldi heads for the door, trailed by Doug and Dave. Presumably they’re headed out on their nightly excursion to carve lines into the salt and sand. Eldi leaves with no goodbye, only a sharp command to “watch Goat.” I dodge Goat, thrown at my head with the strength and accuracy of a professional pitcher, as the door slams behind Eldi and company.

With still no sign of Calvin, I’m starting to worry in earnest. Maybe I should text him. Or maybe an email would be better. Going to knock on his door seems like too much of an emotional commitment. I’m debating what seems least needy and/or paranoid, when the door to the Winnebago bursts open, slamming into the wall, without warning.

I can’t decide whether to scream, run, or find a weapon, so I try for all three at once before I realize it’s Calvin. Then I trip over my own feet, ripping down the broom, hook and all, from the wall as I go. I really need to get some better weapons, I think as I land gracelessly on the floor, abruptly knocking myself breathless and cutting off my scream with a squeak. Swearing angrily at Calvin, some Fijian phrases I’ve learned from Eldi, I pick myself up.

He’s yelling some nonsense about toast and butter knives, too excited to make sense, his hair sticking up in all directions again. Even more baffling, he’s carrying what appears to be an entire drawer of silverware, and he’s barefoot, wearing only pajama pants.

“You almost gave me a heart attack,” I say. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you again.”

Calvin’s eyes go wide. “Oh! There’s an idea! I bet I could stop a bullet.”

“What on earth are you talking about? And why don’t you ever wear a shirt?”

A smug smirk crosses his face. “As if you mind.”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it. You’re hot. What’s with the silverware?” I refuse to let him win.

“I was making brunch this morning, and I dropped the butter knife. And when I went to catch it, it stopped in midair and zoomed back into my hand.”

“You smoke a little something before this brunch of yours?” I ask, just to be a pain, although I think I know what he’s talking about now.

He rolls his eyes. “No, Reggie. Werewolf powers, remember? Metallurgy powers! I’ve been practicing and researching all day, and I think I’ve got it!”

“So you spent all day practicing using silverware? It only took Eldi five minutes to learn how to use a spoon.”

“Throw a fork at me,” he says, shaking the silverware drawer aggressively.

I do him one better and whip a butcher knife from the block on the counter straight at Calvin’s bare chest. He yelps and throws up his hand reflexively, and the knife does indeed boomerang away from him. Straight back at me. I duck, and the knife lodges into the wall behind me. Calvin shudders, and faster than I can blink, there’s a shocked-looking werewolf hulking over me.

“What the hell, Calvin! You could have killed me! You nearly hit my cactus!” I inspect the gnarly old succulent for damage. We’ve been through a lot together.

He huffs and bares his teeth before he shakes himself like a dog drying itself. Unsurprisingly, he’s got a lot of golden retriever energy. Makes a funny sort of sense that he got himself turned into a canine.

“I said ‘fork,’ not ‘knife’!” Calvin retorts once he’s back in his human skin.

“I figured you’d learn faster under pressure. What happens to your clothes when you transform? Do they disappear?” I ask. He’s obviously still wearing pants, and I have immediate regret that I asked before thinking.

“If you wanted to get me naked, you could just ask,” he says, all smug again.