Flea-Bitten

By Pamela Love

Closing time at Knox’s Pawnshop—normally a routine matter of Herbert Knox securing that day’s profits and locking the entrance to his establishment—differed this particular evening in two respects. The new clerk, Nigel, ended his first day by sweeping the floor. And a growling, man-shaped beast began his first night as a werewolf by bursting through the front door and attacking Herbert Knox.

Knox, with his typical efficiency, seized a silver-plated vase and administered a solid thump to the monster’s skull. The creature immediately collapsed. Several choking gasps later, it shuddered and breathed no more. Knox checked the vase for damage, then bent over the werewolf. Its bestial features—fur, fangs, and claws—retreated into his skin, leaving a familiar face behind.

Knox raised his eyebrows. “Why, it’s Cyril Morton.” He glanced under the counter. “Nigel?”

The trembling clerk emerged from the shadows where he’d been reconsidering his decision to become a pawnbroker. “Yes, sir?”

“Go to the Mortons’ house—it’s the brick one on the corner—and tell Mrs. Morton what happened. Hurry now.” Knox put the vase back onto the counter.

Nigel wrung his hands. “But, but sir, he’s a werewolf, and you killed him, and—”

Knox folded his arms. “And Mrs. Morton wasn’t over-fond of her late husband. Besides, she’s a witch. She can call up his ghost whenever she wants. Around here, we prefer to handle these things privately.”

Nigel nodded and trotted through the door, then stuck his head back into the shop. “You weren’t bitten, were you, sir?”

Knox shook his head. “Certainly not. Now run along.”

Araminta Morton deftly helped Knox roll up her late husband in an old blanket. Once they finished, she glanced at Knox and frowned. “Looks like there’s a bite mark on your neck.”

The pawnbroker snorted. “I think I’d remember being bitten by a werewolf.”

Mrs. Morton rolled her eyes. “Not Cyril—”

“Well, I wasn’t attacked by a vampire, either. Tonight hasn’t been that busy.”

“Bah!” She leaned toward him and squinted. “I know a flea bite when I see one.”

“Impossible. Cyril didn’t touch me.”

“Fleas jump, fool.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I know about such things. If that flea bit you before you struck my werewolf husband down, its bite could—oh!”

Knox had dropped his side of the blanket, letting Cyril Morton’s corpse hit the floor with a thump. The pawnbroker headed to an ornate, gilt-framed mirror and examined the red mark on his neck. “Maybe it’s only a mosquito bite?”

“You’ll find out a month from now, during the next full moon.” Mrs. Morton tossed her graying curls. “Have someone ready with that vase when you do.”

The “someone” ended up being Mrs. Morton herself. Knox had explained the situation to Nigel the following morning, and the clerk had promptly fainted. Upon waking up, Nigel sprinted out the door and down the street, causing more than one passerby to assume he’d stolen from the pawnbroker’s cashbox.

Knox had put up a notice advertising for a new clerk, asked Mrs. Morton to stop by the next full moon, and done little else out of the ordinary for the next twenty-seven days. On the Day of Revelation, as he privately thought of it, he conducted business as usual. If any of his clients noticed his trembling fingers and pale complexion, they hadn’t remarked on it.

That evening, just as he finished sweeping and was about to close up shop, Mrs. Morton stepped indoors and followed him into his office. The silver vase, still unredeemed, stood on his desk.

Knox straightened his cuffs. “If… If I do turn, don’t hold back, ma’am. I’d never forgive myself if I hurt you.”

“Don’t worry about me.” She picked up the vase.

Outside, in a cloudless sky, a full moon rose.

Knox sucked in his breath as pain surged through his frame. His mouth and nose protruded. His back arched. His arms turned into legs as his hands and feet stretched into claws—and his body started to shrink almost out of sight. He frantically stared up at pencils that now seemed like tree trunks and a ledger looming like a railway platform.

Mrs. Morton slammed down the vase, trapping the flea underneath. “And I never had to tell a lie,” she said with a smirk. Whistling, she jimmied open the cashbox and smiled at Knox. “I’ll be on the first train out of town tomorrow morning. And when you change back, you’ll never say a word, now will you?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey, and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test”, which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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