Feeder

She put out fresh seed for the birds and corn for the squirrels, cutting herself on that damn baffle first thing; bled all over before she groaned and wrapped it with the tie of her robe. “You’re welcome, Bunnicula,” Mavis hissed, trying not to smear blood all over the latch back into the house. “Stupidest thing.” It was late sunset, then suddenly night, and she hesitated along the far wall facing out of the picture window in the family room - trying to see what on earth was coming through the bushes. Werewolves are not like dogs, nor wolves, really; they’re bigger … have to be, when you think about it. It sniffed around, following the trail of her blood drops from the feeder to the baffle to the back door. Mavis held her breath and her position; it was instinct. Suddenly, the werewolf filled half of the window, its nose almost pressed to the glass, crouching low to peer in. “You did track in high school,” her brain said. “How fast can you take those stairs?” Mavis stayed as close to perfectly still as she could manage and continue to breathe, making no sound, even when the thing scraped a nail against the glass. It would eventually back away, disappear into the woods, and Mavis would lower herself to the ground slowly, by millimeters, and sit there until morning light (grateful she'd grown up watching Mutual of Omaha's "Wild Kingdom").