It started with the teeth.

Not the growing or sharpening of them—the shedding. Molars clattered into the sink like coins. Canines splashed into soup. He’d smile and leave bloody holes where speech used to live.

“He’s just under stress,” his wife said, watching him lick a lampshade.

But by Tuesday, he refused cutlery. He’d crouch in corners, gnawing raw chicken thighs with his bare gums, eyes wide like moons in a pitch-black forest. The hair came next. Tufts on his spine. Patches on his neck. Thick, black fur like a secret crawling out.

He began sleeping under the porch. They left the door open out of pity. At night, they heard the skitter of clawless hands and soft howls—low, longing sounds, like a child trying to sing through a locked throat.

He stopped answering to his name.

Neighbors complained about the smell. One claimed she saw him in her yard, digging up her petunias and snarling at her birdbath.

“I think he peed in our mailbox,” she whispered, clutching her dog.

Then he stopped pretending altogether. He started bringing them gifts: a dead squirrel, perfectly arranged on the welcome mat; a bone from somewhere. He’d crouch in the hydrangeas and watch. No blink. Just hunger.

The family tried a vet. The vet said, “This isn’t a dog.” The family tried a priest. The priest said, “This isn’t a man.”

Eventually, they stopped trying.

They locked the windows. Barricaded the doors. Hung garlic just in case.

But sometimes, when the moon is low and the wind drags its nails across the shutters, you can still hear him in the backyard—scratching at the soil, his face pressed against the glass, not quite human, not quite gone.

He became something else. A wild animal.

And the worst part? He looks happy.

The End