There are times when a father and son bond at unexpected times. Secrets are spoken, pacts are formed, and monsters are made.

"Want to know what it feels like when you puncture it with the ice pick?"

"Yeah, Dad."

We stand together in the basement, father and son. In my hand swings the machete, sharpened to a razor's edge. Billy holds the ice pick still dripping dark blood"I'd just showed him the proper way to use it, and he's anxious to try out the stabbing technique. The creature screams loudly, its wail reverberating off stone walls as it hangs from chains fastened to wooden beams above, its ankles chained to the cement floor. It's about six feet tall with white marbleized skin, a bald demon with pointed ears and incisors. The black dot from having shoved the ice pick deep into its chest has disappeared, leaving only a bloody line dripping from a diminutive indentation above its right nipple down to its diaphragm.

"It hurts," the creature shouts. "Please stop, Billy. Make your father stop the pain."

Its white face crinkles into a grimace, but whether it intends a smile or frown I do not know. Its tiny pupils dilate and shrink as its gaze catches Billy's.

"Don't look into its eyes."

It's too late, for Billy is lost in some demonically enhanced reverie. He wavers on his feet, shifting from side-to-side, his head lulling back and forth like Ray Charles lost to an unheard rhythm. I shove my ten year old son, and he falls to the stone floor, his head jarring against the cement.

"Damn it, Billy. I said don't look into his eyes."

The monster laughs without mirth then screams again, this time in triumph. While maniacal laughter fills the basement, Billy rises with the ice pick pointing at my chest, his eyes glazed over, face stoic.

"Do it, Billy," the writhing monster says, its chains clinking and rattling while it leans toward my son. "Kill him now."

Billy lunges and I sidestep. He rushes past me and crashes onto the floor, and I twist his wrist behind his back until the ice pick falls. I kick it against the wall away from my son.

"Ouch, dad." Billy's voice cracks and he cries. "You're hurting me."

"Billy?" I call his name, trying to get him to look me in the eye, to snap him out of the monster's hypnotic control, to make sure.

"Billy?" the monster taunts.

I use the machete and slice the creature's throat. Black bile pours from the open wound, but already it begins to heal. The steel of my edged weapon slicks with the vampire's black blood, and Billy shakes his head, trying to clear it.

"Dad?"

His eyes clear, focus. I smile"he's back.

"It's okay, Billy."

He stands and we embrace. My machete is behind Billy's back, trembling in my hand, the blade wobbling back and forth. A drop of black blood forms along the edge, drools to the floor, about to strike the stained floor. Then the dark strand halts before swinging toward the monster like a pendulum. I watch as the obsidian strand elongates impossibly long, stretching toward the open gaping wound in the creature's throat. The black strand disappears into its healing wound as the monster's throat closes and mends.

I feel Billy's stomach growl against my leg as the monstrosity whimpers through its newly healed voice box. We've seen this before, Billy and I: the monster healing preternaturally fast, growing back fingers and limbs that we've severed, taking everything we throw at it. Billy rubs his stomach when his hunger gets the better of him. It's late and we haven't had dinner.

"Billy, go upstairs and heat the two frozen dinners in the microwave."

"Are you sure, dad? It's dangerous down here."

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