I did not keep them in suspense.

For the first time in weeks, I awoke with a sense of hope. I had made the right decision. Everything was going to be all right. 

I told Sampson at breakfast that I intended to 'put my roots in the ground'.

"I'll stay with you, but I won't be your son."

It wasn't the nicest way to put it. Sampson winced and I knew I hurt his feelings. I don't know what prompted me to speak that way. Now it sounds silly, even cruel, to say such a thing, but in the moment it was important to me that Sampson understood my true meaning:

No one will ever replace my real family.

"But maybe we can be...something like a family?" Sampson's voice was quiet, meek.

I nodded and his expression filled with joy.

Yes, his eyes seemed to say, I'm not your pa, but I'm happy to be your father.

Even Angela cracked a smile. She surprised me with a cloth like the one Sampson kept in his pocket to wipe his brow. On the face of it was my name stitched in elegant, curvy lines, with red and orange leaves surrounding the first and last letters.

"A little something to welcome you home," she said, obviously proud of her work but too humble to say so.

"It's lovely, thank you." 

Sampson later revealed that Angela had spent a week fussing over my gift, and it was not only a symbol of me joining the tavern, but a pact of peace and acceptance made between myself and the woman who ran it.

That day the atmosphere was merry. The sun was warm and the air held the pleasant scent that lives between summer and autumn, suggesting hope for the new life ahead of us. When Sampson and I went into the woods to collect traps we traded jokes back and forth, until tears were streaming down my face and I was holding my stomach to ease the ache of prolonged laughter.

A handful of times I was even allowed to utter the word, 'damn', without admonishment, which made me feel grown and confident.

I helped Sampson skin and prepare the animals, and not once did my stomach turn. A passing wonder came to me, of when the disgust of blood had left my heart.

At dinner, Sampson announced the new addition to his family and offered a mug of ale to the humble handful of three guests who were staying at the tavern. They raised their cups and toasted, and the room was lifted into celebration. One of the guests brought out an old fiddle, and at the behest of an unusually giddy Angela, he filled the tavern with music.

Sampson's posture relaxed with each gulp of ale, and he pulled me into several tight embraces throughout the night. I sang along to the music, creating new words instead of learning the real ones. Angela and Sampson found it so amusing that they tried to join me, though their words grew increasingly slurred. Even Moira was swept into the frenzy when Sampson picked her up and swung her about as if they were partners in dance. The toddler loved every second of her father's attention, and cheered and giggled and screamed until she grew tired and Angela took her to bed.

Long after the fiddle ceased and the guests had left for sleep, Sampson motioned me to follow him into the back of the tavern for a surprise.

"Guests've been thinning," he attempted to whisper, "so we made one up for ya!"

With a beaming smile he opened a door and revealed a room with a bed and table. 

"Go in, boy! It's yours now!"

My mouth dropped open, but no words left it. No more barns and hay and sleeping on the ground—

I had my own room! With my own door that closed and everything!

I was a king in my castle.

After a tender goodnight Sampson left and I laid my head on the pillow. The mattress beneath me was softer than a cloud, but the blanket was too warm and I had to kick it off my body. My stomach was turning and rumbling, threatening to ache, and I knew my nerves were the cause of it. I was excited but exhausted from the energy of the day, and I needed rest.

But I would not find comfort in sleep. If I had known what was about to transpire, I would have relished that bit of happiness for as long as I could.

In my dreams, I was overtaken with fear and pain, but there were no monsters to taunt me. There was nothing but a void, and a threat hanging in the darkness—

Then I was running through the woods. It was night and my fear and pain were gone. My ears picked up a thousand noises from animals and leaves and wind. When I finally thought to stop I placed my nose against the ground and inhaled deeply. I could smell everything that had crossed the dirt before me.

I was a wolf.

There was no confusion or condemnation over the fact, just the wonder of unending freedom, where the night was a paradise opening before me. I ran again, for miles and miles without stopping, pleased by the wind in my fur and feeling more at home under the cover of trees than anywhere else in the world.

 I must have turned around at some point, for I found myself back at the tavern. I could hear the soft snores of people within, so I went to the back window and jumped through to grab one of the rabbits in the kitchen. When I was content with the meal, I wandered around the tavern, feeling like a guardian on watch. I went to the doors of the guest rooms and listened in, but only heard calm breathing and the occasional groan. I heard nothing coming from my own room and thought it quite ridiculous that I had expected to hear anything at all.

Clearly, I was not in bed.

Sampson and Angela's room was likewise quiet, though I could hear Moira's gentle cooing as she dreamed of pleasant things.

Satisfied nothing was amiss, I turned toward the kitchen to leave, when a quiet thud caught my attention.

Something was happening in Sampson and Angela's room.

Several squeaky voices whispered behind the door.

"It'll wake the peoples!"

"Get in, quick!"

"Take it first!"

"Give us time! We do this at our own pace!"

"You prattle about—they'll wake up any second!"

"And it's a heavy one!"

"Pretty, though."

"Pretty as pork tails. Mums'll be pleased with it."

"We hate the blanket too much!"

"But you'll likes the taste of human po-tates and rabbit stews!"

"Oh, yes. Yes, we will."

"Was our turn for a good life!"

"Expects we'll have a grand time here."

"Was the right thing, at your years."

My paws were on the door, trying to push it open to no avail. In a flash I was in the kitchen and through the window, running towards the wall that surrounded Sampson and Angela's bedroom.

A portal had been magically conjured, creating a small window between the room and outside.

Crawling from it was a wretched party.

Leaves cascaded down their backs as if growing from their skin, which was a sickly greenish color. Their noses were small and blunted, pressed into their skulls like a pig snout caving inward, and their shiny, black eyes held a pinpoint of yellow light. By far the biggest feature on their faces was their mouths: Wide, gaping holes filled with jagged points. They were short in stature, slightly bigger than Moira, but their arms were thin and long, reaching so far down that their knuckles brushed the ground, while their legs were stubby and bent with a bulbous knob at the knee. Their clothes were made from scraps pieced together by an unskilled hand.

I could not name what they were, for I could not recall ever seeing such grotesque creatures before.

Four of them were visible, but the number of voices told me there were more inside.

They were in Moira's crib, which I knew rested right beneath where the portal was hanging.

I snarled, ready to charge, until I saw the baby, sleeping peacefully as she was passed between gnarled hands and through the portal, until she reached the last fiend who cradled her in its arms.

"Yes," it hissed at her angelic face. "Mum's likes this, she will."

It snapped its fingers and was gone—taking Moira with it.

Overcome by rage, I dashed to the portal, growling as I drew near. My presence caught the band by surprise, but even shocked they were impossibly quick. By the time I reached the wall they had all disappeared into the air, and the portal into the bedroom was closing.

I only had a few seconds to peer inside, and what I saw puzzled me.

Moira, in her crib, looking up at me with innocent eyes.

When I looked closer I could just make out the tiny wrinkles around her mouth and forehead, and the pupil in one of her eyes was slightly misshapen.

The child began to suck her thumb, still staring at me with curiosity, and then in Moira's sweet voice it babbled something incoherent. 

I realized then what had happened. Ma once told us about wicked beings who stole children from their homes before putting one of their own in its place. The only protection against them was to keep something made of iron nearby. 

The crib had no such object. 

This was not Moira. It wasn't even a baby.

It was a changeling.

The portal closed, leaving my new family alone with a monster.