The two-story brownstone was charming and rustic and all those other words you use to describe houses. I walked up the red brick steps to the front door and rang the bell.

The man in the gray suit visited me last night. He told me the remaining monsters would be more difficult to find. "They have gone away," he said, "to the places they feel are safe. But no place is safe from the end."

A woman answered the door. She was middle-aged and had short brown hair. She gave me a warm smile - so unlike the others I had seen - and asked, "Can I help you?"

"I'm here to see your daughter," I said.

I made the bullet last night from grief and empty spaces. I used the feeling I had during my father's funeral, when all that was left of him was ashes. Then I carved a name into the bullet using letters I didn't recognize, letters that hurt my eyes to look at. They seemed to shift before my eyes. The man in the gray suit told me the name was needed to kill the next monster.

The woman looked at me and said, "I'm sorry, it's not a good time."

"Do you know what she is?" I asked. The woman looked quizzically at me and I saw a flash of fear. She turned to close the door, but I pushed it open and shoved her back, then ran up the stairs.

The girl was in the bedroom. It was like I had double vision - with one eye, I saw a normal girl, cute as a button, with her hair braided in a French braid, and with the other eye, I saw a girl who shouldn't exist, whose pupilless eyes took up half of her face, whose teeth were many and sharp.

I pointed the gun at her and said, "I have a bullet with your name on it." Then I pulled the trigger.

The monster didn't say anything as she died, but the woman was weeping as I left the house. I left her to her tears. I didn't have any left of my own.