Marty comes home with his bag of candy
bulging ... and a piece of scary, almost unbelievable knowledge.
He knows .

He knows who the werewolf is.

At one point on Marty's tour, the Beast himself, now safely between its moons of
insanity, has dropped candy into his bag, unaware that Marty's face has gone deadly
pale under his Don Post Yoda mask, or that, beneath his gloves, his fingers are
clutching his Yoda staff so tightly that the fingernails are white. The werewolf
smiles at Marty, and pats his rubber head.

But it is the werewolf. Marty knows, and not just because the man is wearing an
eyepatch. There is something elsesome vital similarity in this man's human face to
the snarling face of the animal he saw on that silvery summer night almost four
months ago now.

October