Wild Thing

by Matt Warnock

The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another, his mother called him “Wild Thing!” and Max said “I’ll eat you up!” and so he was sent to bed without eating anything. Had his mother known how hungry Max was, or rather the thing that had enveloped her son, she might have given him a little something to fill his belly.

Max pounded up the stairs to his room and slammed the door before stomping around and snarling like an animal. The thing that taken the place of his wolf suit days before sensed his anger and frustration. Tendrils of alien tissue, indistinct from the suit’s white fur, wormed their way under his skin and into his spine. The boy threw himself on the floor, pounding his fists and gnashing his teeth. Images of monsters, terrible chimeran creatures with wicked yellow eyes, sharp teeth, and long claws, rumpused through his mind. He fought it, as best as any boy could, but the suit took control as it had done to the others before him. As he was overpowered his body stilled. He lay curled in a pile on his bedroom rug breathing quickly. Sweat dripped from his face and his teeth were clenched while the suit went to work. The transformation went on while Max’s mother ate her dinner in the room below.

Poor guy must have tired himself out, she thought as he quieted, enjoying the silence and calm. After she’d finished her meal, and a generous glass of wine helped her nerves settle down, she thought about her son and decided to bring him a plate.

She gave dinner a quick zap in the microwave and climbed the stairs. After knocking gently on his door, she said, “Max, honey, I brought you something to eat.”

She waited for a reply, but only heard a low noise, like snoring or growling. Opening the door a crack, she was assaulted by a foul odor, sweat and blood and bile mixed together with other animal smells.

“Max, are you ok,” she said, pushing the door open the rest of the way.

The room was dark, the only light spilling in from the hallway behind her. The noise had stopped. She reached for the light switch. It was already up.

“Max, what’s wrong?” Panic flooded her voice. “Where are you?”

She took a step into the room, then another. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she could see the shapes of his furniture and toys, but nothing that looked like her son.

Leaning down, she peered under the bed. Yellow, hungry eyes sprang open. She got the impression of long, sharp teeth. A clawed hand shot out from under the bed, missing her face by an inch, and gouged the wooden floor. She screamed and ran out of the room. The plate tumbled to the floor, spilling chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas.

The thing that was Max scrambled out from under the bed and snarled after her. “Oh please don’t go. We’ll eat you up. We love you so.”