Belly of the beast

My hubby has been swallowed by the beast on Saturday night. He was there one minute and gone the next—just a shout, partly suffocated, as the thing consumed him. I didn't witness the swallowing. I came just in time to observe the wolf-like creature licking its jowls. It's nothing like you've ever seen before: Like papaya seeds, the eyes are tiny and black. Its limbs are covered in his Pid hair. Claws have the appearance of little sickles. Tongue: leathery and lengthy.

If I had been feeling heroic, I would have fought it with a fire iron or my husband's reenactment sword, but something in the creature's groaned, tired after its work had consumed him, made me wait and watch. It sank onto the bed, where my husband had only moments before been resting, whined like something lost, and appeared unconcerned about me.

When I tell my friends what has happened over the phone, they confirm what we've all heard from women in our area whose husbands have vanished: the retired teacher whose husband vanished ostensibly nearby, so close that she occasionally sees him in their driveway, at the corner store, on their street; the three young mothers whose husbands stay out later and later until one night they don't return at all; the wife who claims her husband was kidnapped by a herd of deer

At the very least, my pals say, you know what happened. And, of course, this is correct: I anticipated this. I'd been seeing the creature skulking around the yard for a month and had done nothing since I refused to think it could hurt us. It was outside our door last week, and I discovered its dark hairs all along the bedside yesterday. What does it mean that I observed the warning signs but did nothing but hope they went away, that I was incorrect in some way?

Later that day, I hear what sounds like crying, but it's loud and guttural, and I assume the monster is thirsty. So I sneak up close with a coffee tin full of water, place it on my husband's nightstand, and sleep on the couch that night, one eye open, wide awake at the least sound. The beast appeared to be sleeping the next day, so I left him alone. I'm not surprised to learn that he knows and responds to speech: mostly barely audible words in the deepest growl, but occasionally so much like my husband that it takes my breath away and sends every atom in my body spinning.

I'm not sure if this is more comfort or horror, but I believe he has stolen my husband's voice, breathed it in, and stored it. Still, I offer him water and soup and inquire if he requires anything else. Is he unwell? Do you have a lack of sleep? Depressed? No, he isn't any of those things, he says, shaking his bestial head.

After a week, something weird happens: I'm crawling around the creature near the bedroom windows when I catch a glimpse of my husband's face beneath the whorls of dark fur. It astounds me to see it because I've been battling the thing alone for days. It's almost as if there's a light glowing from within the beast itself. My husband's face flashes, barely visible below a layer of skin and fur, as the dense tangles of hair that cover the creature are lighted. When I see it, I cry and collapse on the bed, much to the chagrin of the beast, who prowls into the next room, snarling and uninterested in such emotion.

Something strange happens after a week: I'm creeping around the creature near the bedroom windows when I see my husband's face beneath the whorls of dark fur. It amazes me to see it because I've been fighting this thing by myself for days. It's almost as though the beast emits a light from within. As the dense tangles of hair that surround the creature are ignited, my husband's face flashes, barely visible beneath a layer of flesh and fur. I cry and collapse on the bed when I see it, much to the disgust of the beast, who prowls into the next room, snarling and uninterested in such emotion.

“John?” I keep my voice low. Then he screamed even louder, as if he were across a mile-wide gulf, not just an arm's length away from me. My husband's hand shoots out like a second tongue from the beast's maw, and I instinctively grasp for his fingers, clutch, and hold his warm, wet, solid, and still-alive hand.

“John!” I yell. Then came the snap of our jaws and the swift movement of both of our hands.

A long spear is brought to me by a friend, a woman whose own husband was killed by wolves. It's not something you'd expect to see someone lugging around, and I'm still curious as to how she came across it.

She lives in a house set back from the road, two doors down. They had been into outdoor sports when her husband was around: fishing, hiking, camping, and survival. I recall her chuckling as she told us about her husband's bow drill skills and the fire he had built for her on their first camping trip. As she hands me the spear, her eyes are filled with a wordless wrath. She won't say it, but I'm aware of what she's proposing.

“There aren't always excellent options,” she explains.

I have both hands on the spear. Like a modern arrowhead, it's made of smooth, hefty, finely sanded hardwood with a black metal tang and a serrated point.

“Thank you,” I say, aware that she is attempting to assist me.

I set the spear down in the doorway and invite her in for a cup of tea. We discuss a variety of topics, including the end of summer, the failure of our street's garbage pickup, and fall festivals that we will both attend.

That night, I give the beast my strongest sleeping medicine and enter the chamber, spear in hand, and stand in the doorway. I can nearly feel the texture of his dreams via his breathing, which is heavy and profound. I'm not sure if they're fused with my husband's, or if my spouse is still in the belly, battling for his life. I wait a few minutes, then collapse in shame and tiptoe outside, into the yard, where I hack the spear to shreds.

I start weaving a rope inside. I make it out of our bed linens (which I've shredded), my husband's childhood blanket, a quilt I created seven years ago, and my own hair, which I cut into long strands and bind to the rope like thread. I've googled "how to build a four-strand rope that won't break," and I've been working late at night on it. When I'm done, I return to the sleeping beast and use all of my power to push his bulk up onto the pillows, wondering if the pills I gave him were insufficient.

As I work, I sing the same song that my mother used to sing to me as a child when she would sit by my bedside at night to say prayers and rub my back as I slept. She'd say, "There's nothing to be afraid of." “All those monsters are merely unhappy and afraid,” says the narrator. As my hand hovers above the sleeping jaws, while I lower the rope down the beast's neck and trust that my husband has the strength to grip on, I think of this as I sing – the little melody pushing through all that is dark and scary.