The next morning, whatever was left of Ghost, was on the boobytrap outside. Using her own comics as firewood, she was being cremated, as were all the other dead bodies. Both Stan and Brigitte, who have stayed awake the whole night and didn't take any time to get patched up, were watching them all burn.
"So if I get this right..." Stan said, "... that werewolf was that same Jason who ordered everyone to beat me up way back when."
"He was?" Brigitte wasn't aware of this herself.
"Keeping in mind that most people don't wanna become werewolves..." Stan continued, uninterruptedly, "... if they were to be real, I can't think of any better way for him to die."
Stan looked at his left hand. It was still wounded from his fight with Ginger, though the dirt in his fingernails prooved he actually scratched himself. He wasn't at all sure what it was that really happened when he was in that green-and-black place, but he didn't really want to know either. He looked at his left, where Brigitte stood. He noticed a scratch mark on her left shoulder. He covered her wound with his wound as he was about to guide her back into the house: "Come on. Let's get ready to re-enter society."
So they re-entered the house, to get some rest and to get patched up.
THE END
... or not?