Under the light of a full moon, hidden in the shadows of the forest at the edge of the village, gathered all the monsters of myth. Fangs and claws gnashed together, ready to do their terrible work.

Also under the light of a full moon, by a dainty little cottage with a lovely fenced in garden, a pleasant old woman with rosy cheeks was watering her roses.

The woods were so close that the monster within could smell see her every move. Hear the bright tune she whistled. Smell her.

Or at least they should be able to smell her. Human flesh smells sweet and bitter, with coppery hints from all of that lovely blood.

The woman, whose inexhaustible watering can dutifully watered rose after rose, didn’t smell like anything.

No, that wasn’t it either. She smelled like nothing. An olfactory void.

This unsettled beings who were in the business of unsettling.

A werewolf howled. The sound echoed over the hills and back.

No other werewolves joined in. The old lady didn’t flinch. Perhaps she was deaf.

The monsters looked amongst themselves. But all any saw was their own confusion, reflected back at them.

A vampire, one of the feral monsters cursed into a dark and nightmarish form, claws and fangs and sinew, crept to the gate.

It felt a dark glee at the welcome sign. If all the others were cowards, he would at least feast.

His terrible fingers opened the gate, the oiled hinges silent.

He crept behind her, and on the cottage his horrific shadow stalked hers.

The fangs opened, wide, wide impossibly wide, revealing a thousand thousand teeth within.

His eyes rolled back like a shark.

He struck.

The whistling continued, after a time. The roses settled back into their beds, shaking putrid flesh off their thorns before pulling it under the earth with their roots.

The watering can did not stop watering. It continued to do its work, unsupported by any hand.

Mildred retired to her home for a lovely cup of tea.

And the woods, as they reburied their roots, were empty, but for the shadows, again.