I finished crying in Harry's Occult and Sundry. Harry handed me a box of tissues. “For clients parting with or acquiring heirlooms or having spiritual experiences," he explained with his head turned to the side so I could discreetly eject what I presumed to be the entire contents of my sinuses into them. I haven't cried in front of people that many times in my adult life, but every time, I swear it's as though the body is trying to impress anyone present with the amount of mucus it can make.

Eventually, I ceased being gross and we were able to have a conversation again.

“Sorry," I said.

He answered, “Not to worry. I knew what I was saying."

“Why did you say it?"

“I'm not sure," he answered honestly, and that frown came back. “Something in your eyes."

I glared at him. “That's not funny."

He perked his chin up from its thoughtful posture to meet my gaze. “It's not a joke. I have had a bad habit in the past of interfering where I'm not needed or wanted, but it seemed like you were in need."

I felt at my face, where the rings of black fur surrounding my eyes were. They were still there, if a little damp. “You mean this, right? You mean the… whatever this is?"

He nodded. “Eye circles, eye bags; people have a lot of names for them."

“What."

“They're typically from consistently reduced sleep, but some people acquire them naturally. I've never had them, myself."

“These aren't normal," I insisted.

“Of course not; that's part of why I was concerned. Now, I want to be clear – I'm no kind of therapist, and pardon a stranger's advice, but I think you should see one if you're under this kind of stress. If you ask me, everyone needs a therapist now and then. It's a shame it's so stigmatized."

The man with the stag's head was talking to me about therapy and societal stigmas. “You don't get it," I said slowly. “People can't see me like this. It's… weird."

We continued talking past one another, he as blithely as if I were chatting about local politics or the weather. “Well, I do have a bit of a cosmetology hobby. In the future, I'd charge – never provide a service for free, especially if you're good at it – but you can consider this a welcome to the neighborhood." Harry sat down in a chair behind his counter and began opening thin drawers to withdraw a makeup kit and a few brushes. He paused and looked back up at me. “I've presumed. Is this alright?"

A ghostly shiver passed through me and lifted all my small hairs on end. I couldn't quite tell if it was one of those pleasant ASMR shivers or a raising of hackles. I squinched my face in a grimace as I thought about how “hackles" related to my current skin condition, then cautiously nodded. Maybe if I just played along… Maybe this was all just an extended act.

He offered a padded stool for me to sit on (“for my older customers when they need it") and set out his tools. Pads, brushes, creams, and a color strip to match my skin tone. I found myself settling into the comfort of being taken care of, even in such a bizarre circumstance. He whispered inaudibly to himself as he turned my chin this way and that, then began wiping down my cheeks with moistened cloths to clear up the skin.

I studied his face and neck while he did. I hadn't questioned that the head was alive and real at first because his movements had been so uncannily natural, but given a moment to breathe and think, I looked for gaps, stiff movements, and synthetic textures. None of my work was in visual arts, so maybe I missed something, but it all seemed real. The skin stretched, the fur moved, his eyes turned naturally in their sockets. There were flaws, too – discolorations in the skin and tiny moles you could only see up close, which only the very finest makeup and graphics artists would include. I didn't set aside the possibility it was an incredibly elaborate costume piece, but I did accept that I couldn't get anywhere further on that theory. So, I thought about the way he was acting. Polite, generous, welcoming, but confident. I could see in his movements the mannerisms of immigrants or other minorities who were otherwise out of place: unwilling to draw attention to their otherness, but also unwilling to simply shrink away and pretend they didn't exist, they instead made themselves as nonconfrontational and easygoing as possible. Maybe he had simply acted this naturally and this smoothly with every single person, refused to engage with conversation about his strangeness, and because he served an esoteric, eccentric clientele in a limited market, everyone just went along with it.

I wondered how lonely it was, if that was the case. Also, how he got groceries.

Anyway, he finished up. “There you are." He smirked briefly with pride. It was such a fluid, yet alien expression to see on that face, that I chortled before I could stop myself. He hummed a chuckle in response. “I'm proud of my work. Here, see how you like it."

He passed me a handheld mirror. I held it up to my face. My jaw clenched and my heart leaped into my chest. It was gone. The fur was gone. Not covered, not painted over. Gone. My natural skin was in its place (and beautifully hydrated, I might add). I breathed out, “How did you…"

“I'm not a man of many hobbies, so the ones I have, I work hard to master," he murmured with a hint of pride. I returned the mirror. I tried to catch what the brand names on the makeup were. “You may need to put up with a little judgment from coworkers. Women have been burdened with the cost of makeup for centuries, being told it's both necessary and a lie, and that is sadly something that won't change. In fairness, for you, right now, it's purely deceptive." He fixed me with his gaze. He was serious. He continued, “Now, I know I said it was a gift, but I'm going to firmly ask two things of you in return," he said, all etiquette and business again while he packed away his tools. “Get. Good. Sleep. Some people need six REM cycles, some five, but it is the extraordinarily rare individual who is at their best with less than that. Make your bedroom like a cave: cool, dark, and quiet. I'm sure you're old enough to know, but limit caffeine, alcohol, and bright lights before bed. That's the first."

I was standing up as though at a doctor's office, fully submitted to his authority and directions. “I'll try my best." I felt like a kid. I wondered how old Harry was.

“Second: Call this person." He rifled through an antique rolodex until he found another business card. It was less elegant than his own, but still crisp and professional. “Tell her you're a friend of Harry Normandy's and just need a consultation. That's all. If you don't like it, don't keep going, but please call her and go to the first one."

I took it from him. It was glimmering black ink on creamy card stock. The name was completely illegible and instead of a phone number and address, there was an ornate image of some flower I had never seen before. Granted, though, I'm not a florist. “How do I…?"

“Tell her what you're feeling, and that you just moved in. She'll know where to go from there, I promise." He put a comforting hand on my shoulder and smiled. “I'm touched that you came here, by the way. A lot of people won't acknowledge what they need, when they need it, especially somewhere this… odd." Said the man with a stag's head. “I hope you'll take my advice. You start tomorrow?"

I nodded mutely.

“Well, good luck, and rest well."

I blurted out an awkward thanks, knowing when I'd been dismissed, and walked out with an uncertain gait, like my feet wanted to stay. Harry waited until the door had closed behind me and turned the sign back around. I went home, fighting the urge to dab around my eyes with my fingers because I was worried whatever he'd done would come off.

I researched each name I could remember from the products Harry had used. All of them were distressingly mundane, although a few were available exclusively in beauty stores, rather than a pharmacy aisle. Trepidatious, I checked my reflection first in my bathroom mirror, then in the full-length one where, yesterday, my reflection had had trouble matching my movements. No such issues today, and the mask of fur was simply gone. I touched at the tiniest corner of my left eye. I could feel it there, but I couldn't see it. I hoped my faith in Harry wasn't misplaced and that it would last through tomorrow, at least.

Then, the issue of the card. While I considered it, I ordered food in again. I felt wholly unworthy of the bounty stocking my kitchen and hadn't made plans to cook any of it. It was early in the afternoon, still, so I would have time by evening. For now, I considered how to contact this therapist.

Because that was a certainty. Say what you will about people with animal heads, but Harry had done me a solid and I intended to make good on our exchange. So, I had to act like there was a normal-ass way to call this person, the same way Harry had acted like everything was normal in the shop. It was so very, definitely, extraordinarily not normal, but the man with the stag's head had acted like nothing in the world was strange or wrong and he was simply doing a good deed. I sat in my nice lounge chair and studied the card in one hand while holding my phone in the other.

Therapy was bullshit. I don't like it. I don't like the idea of it. I think people who go to therapists are privileged and are burning cash on someone who's willing to scam them out of it with an hour-long conversation. Not even an hour! Most clocked out at fifty minutes so they could spend the other ten counting their money.

I wasn't sure how long I had spent staring uselessly at the business card when my phone buzzed to tell me delivery had arrived. Once again, I had ordered two meals, so apparently this morning's reprieve from the odd, shared meals was over. Again, I had no memory of having ordered two, and then no memory of having set up both places at the coffee table I used as a dining table, so my theory that I was dissociative was holding firm. “We" finished “our" cheesesteaks and sodas in silence, cleaned “our" places, and went back to sitting and trying to comprehend the business card.

Finally, I opened the keypad on my phone and began dialing the shape of the flower. Just as I was about to input the last leaf vein pattern, I stopped myself and realized what I was doing. Like it was normal. Like my smartphone display wasn't generating a stylized plant from the pattern of thumb taps I had input. The panic leapt up into my throat.

I felt it coming. I felt it seize my wrists and neck like a vise. I ground my teeth. I clenched my toes against the carpet. No. Not again, not again. My hand trembled so hard I could barely grip the phone. This was stupid. It was all stupid. It was my bullshit brain, inventing terrifying hallucinations because it was so fucking bored. I thought about Harry and his stupid face. I'd do this for his stupid face and I'd hang up in ten seconds if the person on the other end of the line tried to take me for a ride.

Like squeezing my finger through a crack in a door to hit a latch on the other side, I finished dialing and pulled the phone up to my ear.

The lovely woman on the other end went by Lori. She and I decided to have our first session right then and there, considering the frequency and severity of my panic attacks, so we talked for an entire hour. At the end of it, I had acquired some breathing techniques to try out and we were scheduled to talk again next Sunday. She wished me all the best on my first day of work, offered a final word of genuine sympathy over the stresses of moving, and we hung up.

That hadn't been so bad at all. And even better, my new insurance meant the copay was twenty bucks a session. That was the point at which I resigned myself to the ongoing weirdness, or at least the parts occupied by Harry and Lori. The invasive parts, that sat with me at meals and followed me to bed at night, still terrified me. But those two… those two were nice. Manuel and Maria were nice. Mufasa, my solid, flabby rock, was extra nice, but no one was surprised at that. Part of me wanted to call Harry and tell him what I'd done, but at the moment, that felt a little too much like a little kid asking for a gold star sticker, so I held off. Instead, I called my parents and we chatted a while. I mentioned I'd found a gourmet grocery nearby and made friends with the upstairs neighbors.

“You sound happy," Mom said. There was a note of surprise in her voice.

“Yeah. I don't know."

“Well, I hope it stays that way. Good luck tomorrow."

“Thanks."

“Love you. Dad says so, too."

“Love you, too."

For dinner, I stared malevolently at my cupboard for ten solid minutes, jogged outside to a reassuringly normal antique shop, purchased a charcuterie board, and jogged home. My scrawny frame didn't approve in the slightest of the exertion and I was out of breath by the time I got back, but it helped me focus. I sliced up three types of meat and two cheeses, filled a depression in the lacquered board with raisins and nuts, then washed out some novelty sake cups to fill with mustard. I tried to remember what these kinds of displays looked like, and finished off with a scattering of carrots and grapes which, in retrospect, is not an aesthetically correct choice, but I was in a hurry to act before I could think better of this. I walked upstairs and knocked on Manuel and Maria's door to invite them down.

Doubt gripped me. What was I doing? I didn't want to get to know these people. They weren't friends. I didn't need more obligations. They didn't need their Sunday night interrupted. Sunday was a stupid night to get together because everyone goes to work Monday morning. A cloud settled over my thoughts, and of course, that's when Maria answered the door.

“Oh! Hello!" she crooned.

I told her about the charcuterie.

She looked stricken. “Oh, no. Wait just a moment, please? That's so kind of you, just a moment."

I had a peek into their apartment. “Festooned" is a good summary description. Display bowls of pinecones with ribbons, that kind of thing. Like. A lot of that kind of thing.

Manuel called out, muffled through a few layers of walls, “That's very kind! Maybe next week?"

Maria reappeared at the door. “I'm so sorry, it just seems like Manuel is, ahem, uncomfortable."

His voice sailed through the walls again. “It's IBS! Some people have-!" he cut himself off with a serious of creative swears in two, or maybe three languages.

Maria blushed. “I swear, it happened just as you knocked. I know that sounds like an excuse; I hate to turn you down."

It was okay. It was so extremely okay. All I wanted in the entire world right then was to leave. Instead, I said, “Yeah. Uh. Next week."

She looked pained. She thought she'd insulted me. I had no idea how to say it was fine. “Alright, have a good night," she said quietly.

Humiliated, I nodded and got out, “You, too," then fled down the narrow stairs to my apartment. One of the dessert wines was rapidly out and open. Two glasses. A sense of propriety. I raised my chin smugly. Got out of that embarrassing situation, didn't I?

“You did this," I said to the empty room with dawning realization. Silence. I gradually lowered my chin again. That proud little question hadn't been my thought. “You… attacked Manuel. So I could save face." No response. I scowled, stood, and poured my wine down the sink. I dumped my arranged, miniature feast into a single large bowl, ruining any elegance or intent it had. The A/C shut off, making the room even a touch quieter. “How dare you," I growled under my breath. I was shaking with fear. I was certain that's what had happened. The thing that lived here had sensed that I was getting cold feet about offering a gift. It had – somehow – stricken Manuel to give me an out.

I don't know how long I sat in rigid, fuming terror and wrath, too angry to move or eat or think. At some point, I heard sirens. I didn't move while boots clumped upstairs. I didn't move while worried, terse voices – Maria's standing out sonorously among them – worked out how best to proceed. I didn't move while the same boots filed back downstairs and out the front door, and sirens wailed again as they carried Manuel away. The thing living here had clearly afflicted him with a lot more than simple gastric distress.

I snarled. I moved weirdly, my joints shuddering as I fought against the panic. I focused my thoughts on a singule concept, a single goal. I picked up the heavy serving board. I half-stumbled downstairs, catching myself against the wall twice. I didn't feel human. I felt like a single coal, pulsing between orange and white in a furnace. I crashed to all fours in my bedroom and yelped as I jammed two fingers against the board. I felt sweat drip off my face. It was dark, but the yellow streetlights streaming through my foggy bedroom windows gave me enough to see. I hefted the board again and held it like an unwieldy baseball bat. I watched the mirror. This time, my reflection, hazy in the dim room, took its time meeting me. It watched for a moment before sinking into an impish mockery of my stance.

I gnashed my teeth and hurled my body into a swing. The board smashed into the mirror and bounced back so hard I lost my grip. I picked it up again and grabbed harder. I swung again. The mirror tolled like a bell. My reflection matched my movements, now, except for its eyes, which just watched me like a stalking wolf. Again, and again, and again, I crashed into the mirror. It didn't dent. It didn't crack. Instead, it rang and filled the room with its dolorous sound. I swung until I heard a snap, then a louder one. On the next backswing, half the board flew behind me and smashed into Mufasa's cage.

The shock of throwing myself off balance and hearing the sound rattle against the cage made me drop the other half of the platter. I scrambled over to make sure Mufasa was okay. The little hero was scared and angry, but unhurt. My security camera, though, was set askew and its lens was shattered. I dropped to my backside. The joints and muscles in my arms throbbed with my heartbeat and sent enervating waves through my body. I huddled around Mufasa.

“What is wrong with you," I said to the thing in my room. I felt it like a thickness in the air behind me. “What is wrong with you?"

I dared a glance over my shoulder. Instead of my reflection, the thing that had walked out of the mirror was seated with its back facing me, in exactly my posture. It matched me breath for breath, shudder for shudder. I clenched my eyes shut and looked away from it. My fingers hurt from gripping the improvised weapon. I heaved myself upstairs, swallowed a few tabs of anti-inflammatories, and fell asleep on the couch with the lights on.

My first day at work was uneventful. It sucked, because for almost the entire past weekend, I'd had Mufasa with me at all times, but I hadn't brought him to the new place. It also didn't suck because I went the entire day without anyone mentioning that both hands, my entire face, and though of course they couldn't see, my groin, was covered in a thick coat of jet black fur.