The charm that the fortune-teller sold you was supposed to help you find true love. Or, you know: at least a decent booty-call.
What she didn’t tell you was that the fucking thing was a big glimmering beacon for all of those things that go bump in the night, that scuttle in the corner of your eye, and that wait for you to go to sleep before sitting on your chest.
A normal person groan out their dismay to the powers that be. You park your car in your parents’ driveway, though, thanking your lucky stars that the first creature who jumped you in a foul-smelling alley would be an excitable one with a thing for humans.