Five Stories of Wolf Beasts — Werewolves, Wild Dogs and Monster Horror

Compilation transcript, edited from an automatic transcription. Minor transcription errors may remain; not checked word for word against the audio. Advertising and the separate opening and closing promotions omitted. Original story introductions and transitions may be retained.

Wolf Moon by Joe Solmo Daria looked up into the night. Was that a scream? She turned to her boyfriend of three years. His face was illuminated by the dancing flames of their campfire. The look in his eyes told her that he had heard it too. His hand subconsciously went to his belt, where he had a knife attached in a sheath. It was probably coyotes, Brandon said, reassuring her. Sometimes they can sound like babies yelling.

That was no coyote. Wasn't there a car we passed up a little ways ago? Maybe something happened to them. We should check to see if they're okay, Daria said. I'm sure it's just a bunch of drunks having a good time. I haven't heard anything since, Brandon said, looking back towards the old logging road that traveled its way around the small lake where they were camping. We're in the woods. We're going to hear things we aren't used to.

That's half the reason we come out here, to experience new things, he said, and smiled at her. Do you need another beer? he asked. No, she said, sullenly, and stared into the darkness towards the sound she heard. She looked back at the flimsy tent and wondered what kind of protection it could actually offer if something did come into the camp tonight. It was her first time camping, and she was having a hard time relaxing.

Brandon, on the other hand, grew up in the woods and had no problem enjoying the outdoors. It was fine during the day, but once the darkness started to settle in, her anxiety started to rise. She knew somewhere inside that she was just being foolish, but he wouldn't listen to her. The full moon's light played off the trees and cast shadows just out of the firelight. She constantly found herself looking around, thinking she saw movement.

Brandon said she was just nervous because it was her first time in the woods. He had told her that he'd camped here before and knew the area well. The fresh air was great, she had to admit, and the quiet was unbelievable. No hustle of the city, no loud cars cranking bass driving by, no fireworks or gunshots. You never really could tell. It felt like they were the only people in the world until that other car drove up the road.

Brandon said there were other spots to camp around the lake, but it wasn't a well-known area. She had tried to fish earlier, but grew bored after about an hour of trying. Brandon laughed at her for being impatient. She looked over at the folding table where they had some of their supplies sitting. Everything from pans and paper plates to utensils and even a tube of Pringles. The rest of the food had been packed away into a sealed container and put in the back of their SUV to keep the bears away.

She looked up as she thought she had heard another scream. She turned back towards Brandon, but he'd fallen asleep in his camp chair. She stood and approached her boyfriend, who was lightly snoring. If tonight was any other drinking night, then he would sleep soundly through the entire night. She undid his belt and pulled the knife and its holder off and slid it into the front of her shorts. She grabbed a flashlight from the table and walked the little path up the logging road.

She looked both ways on the road, the dirt illuminated by the full moon through the gap in the trees above. There was no movement or sound coming from either direction. She debated if she should check out the other camp. She wanted to make sure they were okay. It would give her peace of mind as well as making sure they were alright. She couldn't bring herself to start walking down the road. She was afraid.

She hated to admit it, though, even to herself. I'm being silly, she said out loud and turned back towards her camp. The fire looked inviting from this far out in the cool night. She stumbled on a route as she entered the campsite and it awoke Brandon. He rose from his chair. Are you ready for bed, babe? He asked. Yeah, she replied and poured the rest of her beer onto the fire to put it out. that's a waste of beer Brandon said and unzipped his pants he started to piss on the fire Daria headed to the tent disgusted hey uh hey babe we should do it it'd be fucking intense get it fucking intense Brandon said and burst out laughing he turned around and saw her slip inside the tent no sense of humor he said zipping up a few minutes later brandon was snoring next to daria wrapped up in his sleeping bag if only she was that lucky she thought as she watched the faint light from the moon dance in the shadows cast by the leaves every time the breeze kicked up she thought it was something approaching her camp there was no way she was going to sleep that night She played with the idea of sleeping in the car.

She might feel safer that way as she looked at the knife she still carried. She slid her fingers across the edge of the blade to see how sharp it was. A thick trail of blood ran down her finger as she misjudged how hard to press. She stuck her finger in her mouth. A howl erupted out in the night. She didn't know wolves lived in these woods. She turned towards Brandon to see if he had heard it. but he was still snoring.

She tried to place where the howl had come from in her mind. She thought it came from the same area as the screams they thought they had heard earlier. It's just my imagination, she whispered and tried to close her eyes, but she was filled with nervous energy. She thought about how if Brandon was awake, she would take him up on his offer just to have the companionship at that moment. She thought about waking him up.

She knew if she did, he would be pissed. Was that a twig snap? She sat up in the tent. It sounded really close to the tent. The hairs on her arms rose up and gave her goosebumps. She looked down at the knife and realized she was holding it as hard as she could. The handle was sticky from where she bled from the cut. Okay, that time it was definitely close to camp.

She tapped Brandon on the shoulder. He could be as pissed as he wanted to be. She needed him right now, but he didn't stir. It was then that she saw the shadow pass over the tent. What the fuck was that? She wondered and poked Brandon harder. The large shadow stopped near the flaps of the tent and she could hear a sniffing sound. Fuck, fuck, fuck, it's a bear, she whispered and started to shake in fear.

A low growl came from outside. A shadowy appendage rose in the darkness and she could see claws of the beast. She punched Brandon in the face and he woke up. What the f- he started to say, but she put her hand over his mouth and pointed to the tent entrance. His eyes grew huge as he saw the shape in the moonlight. The sniffing continued. He reached down to his waist for the knife, but it wasn't there.

The shadow moved toward Daria's side of the tent, and she practically leapt on top of Brandon. She saw the thin fabric stretch as the animal pushed against it with its face, still sniffing. She looked down at her hand. oh shit she whispered and showed brandon her bloody finger he took the knife from her and rolled his eyes he pulled his pants on as a growl came from behind them the tent shook from the animal probing it he grabbed her and pointed towards the flap on the tent as he handed her the car keys she tried to protest but he shook his head her heart pounded in her chest but her limbs felt heavy, almost frozen.

She wasn't sure she could make a run for it. The growling stopped, and all was silent for a moment. The shadow moved off the tent into the woods. They could hear footfalls of whatever it was. Brandon made his way to the zipper on the tent and undid it slowly. Now, he said and opened the flap. She hesitated for just a moment, and he pushed her out of the tent, following right behind her.

She scanned the campsite for whatever it was, but didn't see anything. A great howl came from behind the tent that made her move. She took off to the short trail towards the car in the darkness. She heard Brandon behind her. Oh shit, oh shit, he said, and she turned around to see what he was talking about. A great black shape in the darkness charged after them, and she ran to the car and yanked the door open.

She turned her head towards Brandon and saw him 15 feet from the car. The large black shape pounced with lightning speed and landed on his back, driving him to the ground. No! She screamed and the beast looked up in her direction. Its yellow eyes glowed, reflecting the moonlight. She'd never seen a bear up close before, but she knew instantly that it wasn't a bear. Close the door! Brandon called out to her from under the beast, which had put a clawed hand down on the back of his head, driving his face into the ground.

She yanked the door closed and plunged the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life and she turned on the headlights and threw the car into reverse. She lined the front of the car up with the camp so that she could see what was happening. The beast, she didn't know what else to call it, stood on its hind legs. like a human. Its face had a snout like a dog's and its body was covered in corded muscle and silvery black hair shining in the moonlight.

She beeped the horn several times. Get the fuck off him! She yelled at the... the werewolf. There was no other way to describe it. It was a goddamn werewolf. The beast roared and leapt onto the hood of the car with a metallic clang on impact, its snarling face a mere inch from the windshield. She watched as saliva dripped from its canines as long as a thumb. Tears streaked across her face and she wiped her hand across her brow.

Behind the werewolf she could see Brandon getting to his knees in the headlights. She waved her hands around trying to keep the creature's attention, its yellow eyes darting back and forth, watching her movements. Snarls escaped its mouth as it watched her. A clawed hand, so much like a human's, pounded on the glass, making tiny cracks in the windshield. Brandon darted around towards the passenger side of the SUV. The movement caught the werewolf's eye, and with inhuman speed, it dove on top of Brandon.

Daria watched as its clawed hand sunk into Brandon's back like a hot knife through butter. Blood began to seep from the wounds as Brandon screamed out in pain. So much like the screams she had heard earlier. Frantic, she looked around the front seat looking for anything to help, but she came up empty. Go! Brandon managed to say between screams. She didn't want to leave him here. She put the car in gear and backed it up a little.

The headlights illuminated a grisly scene in front of her. Brandon was lying face down. His back was covered in blood. The werewolf still had its claws embedded in her boyfriend's back. She beeped the horn to get its attention. Fuck you, Teen Wolf, she said and floored it. The car struck the beast on the left hip, spinning it around as the car drove across the narrow dirt logging road and struck a tree.

Smoke rose from the dented hood in the headlights. Shit, she said and looked in the rearview mirror. She saw Brandon lying there in the road, but she didn't see the beast. Maybe she'd taken it out. She tried to back the car up, but it was stuck. The tires spun in the ditch the front end had fallen into. Brandon moved an arm. He was still alive. She had to help him. She craned her neck around and saw no sign of the monster.

She opened the car door and raced to her boyfriend. Why didn't you go? He asked between gurgles as blood escaped his mouth. She lifted the blue flannel shirt he was wearing and saw the hole in his back. She had expected a few puncture wounds, but this was a gaping hole. I'm not leaving you behind, she said. Can you get up? No. Just go, he said. I can't feel my legs. She looked at his injury again, and it suddenly became clear.

The hole in his back was where his spine should have been. A good nine inches of it was missing. She heard a snarl behind her, and she turned. The beast was backlit from the crashed car. She looked at its clawed hand. It held Brandon's spine. It approached her and swung it at her, striking her in the face with her boyfriend's backbone. She fell over backwards on the far side of Brandon, who screamed again.

The beast stood on top of him and sniffed toward her. It was her blood that had brought the beast to their campsite, she thought. It snarled at her and put one hairy, clawed finger on the back of her boyfriend's neck, as if teasing her. The werewolf's intelligence was apparent in its cruel eyes from this close. Please, she begged between sobs. Please leave us alone. The werewolf looked down at Brandon, then back at her, as if deciding who it wanted more.

Leave him alone, you son of a bitch! She yelled out, and the werewolf sent her tumbling with a backhand slap. She rolled into a pine tree, and it knocked the wind out of her. She tried to get to her feet, but her body wouldn't yet respond. She heard a wet snapping sound coming from the road, and she winced, knowing it came from her boyfriend. A moment later, she could finally move. She stood unsteadily, using the tree to help her up. the werewolf had its back to her as it snacked on Brandon gnawing into his upper arm Brandon wasn't screaming anymore he had to be dead, she thought she wiped her hair out of her face and took a step towards the monster it didn't seem to notice her yet two more steps and she watched in horror as the monster devoured the love of her life her fright started to fade miraculously and a calm.

It took over her. Cold and calculating, her mind thought of all the stories she'd heard about werewolves and how to kill them. There were no silver bullets, or silver anything around for that matter. She wondered if fire would kill it, but the campfire had gone out and she doubted the werewolf would wait for her to start another. Another step. She could smell the animal. She could smell Brandon's blood on the beast as it huffed and growled its blood-lusted ecstasy.

A glint in the moonlight caught her eye, and she couldn't believe her luck. Just behind the beast, by Brandon's feet, was the knife. She crouched carefully and grabbed it in her hand. With a surge of courage, she jumped on the creature's back, swinging the knife around and plunging it into its neck. A scream ruptured from the beast. She felt it reverberate through the werewolf's body. It tried to stand, and she held on with everything she had.

As the beast thrashed around, she heard ripping as the knife cut deeper into it. It swung its arms around, trying to grab her, but failed. It did manage to cut her legs and hips up with its wild swings, though. It stood at its full height and started to back up while trying to swing its head around to bite her. She put her free hand around the thing's neck, under the jaw, but not before it nipped her.

She screamed in pain and could see the blood pour from her forearm. With a better grip, she pulled the knife towards her, ripping into the werewolf's flesh, carving her way around it. She could see a gap in its flesh. She pulled harder. The beast backed its way into a tree, trying to crush her beneath its weight and the hard surface. She nearly lost her grip on the knife as it grew so slippery from all the blood.

It howled in pain and fell down to all fours. Daria sat on its back, pulling on its dog-like ears to expose the throat better. She pictured what it looked like from down the road and smiled, thinking about someone finding her riding on the back of a werewolf. It's funny how the mind wanders at the weirdest times, she thought. She reached around as far as she could and replanted the knife into the werewolf's throat.

Its frantic movements had begun to slow, and she finally had some hope she might come out of this alive. The werewolf fell over on its side, and she lost her grip. The knife was under the body. Disgusted with even the thought of doing so, she wrapped her undamaged arm under the jaw of the beast and yanked upwards as hard as she could. Tissue ripped and gave way, and the beast wasn't fighting anymore.

She adjusted and got a grip with both hands and yanked. She heard a loud pop, and the head came loose. She fell over backwards, still clutching the severed head in her hands. She dropped it and got back to her feet. She stumbled around the body, back to Brandon. But it was too late. He was dead. She wiped blood from her arm on his flannel shirt and removed his belt for a tourniquet.

She looked at the monster that had ruined her life in the light from the full moon and spit on it. A few moments later, she'd started the fire up again and walked back to the road to grab the body of the monster to burn. When she arrived, there was no creature. A naked, middle-aged man's severed head stared back at her as she dragged its body to the fire. She wasn't taking any chances.

The smell of the burning body was too much to bear and she headed back to the road to see if she could get her car unstuck. She tried to rock it back and forth, but it wasn't going to budge. She gave up and looked down the logging road. It was about two miles to the highway. She could walk that and hope to hitch for a ride back to the city. She put one foot in front of the other and started out down the road.

The winding path was illuminated from the full moon through the break in the trees above. After about three minutes, she saw a fire and hope swelled up inside her. There was another camp. She could hitch a ride with them and get out of here. As she approached the site, she could smell a sweet smell. It was nearly intoxicating. What was that? she thought. Was it s'mores? It was more enticing than anything she'd smelled before.

She approached the campsite slowly, peering through the trees at the campers within. Ow, Thomas! That really hurt! Look, look, I'm bleeding! came a female voice from within. I'm sorry, babe, I was only joking. She heard a male voice call out. She licked her lips at the smell and was startled to find her canine teeth felt so much bigger. She felt something moving under her skin and watched in surprised horror as her nose grew into a snout.

What was that noise? Daria heard the woman say. It was hard to make it out, now that all the other forest sounds were suddenly louder. She stepped into a clearing, trying to calm the campers. But the woman's scream surprised her. Werewolf! The woman screamed and pointed at her. But she didn't notice, because she was focused on the woman's bleeding wound. Well, that story made me want to bark at the moon. You know, I have two dogs, actually.

I have Chicano, the one who's dealing with an illness right now, and Henwolf. Henwolf is the dog that is literally laying next to my feet right now and pretty much every time I record any podcast. Occasionally, I'll blow a take while I'm recording a story simply because Henwolf will suddenly sneeze or cough or decide she just simply needs to bark. It definitely keeps me on my toes. I sure love these little fur balls.

And I want to mention again, I know, I know, I'm a broken record. But if you want to help me with the veterinary bills for Chicano's cancer treatments, go to weeklyspooky.com and click on Help My Dog. But now let's keep the four-legged celebration going with this tale of a middle school werewolf after these quick words from our sponsors. Eh, Real Monsters from NEPA by Michelle Adler. I don't know about the new kid.

Don't you think he's a little weird? Tom McCullough whispered, leaning slightly over his desk to get closer to his friend. A little weird? Come on, He's a freak! Jacob nodded. They both snickered. In front of them sat Patrick Marshall Sherwood III, the aforementioned new kid. His incredibly formal-sounding name wasn't really befitting his posture. Hunched over, staring at his desk and wincing at their laughter. His dyed black shoulder-length hair, eyeliner, and all-black wardrobe should have succeeded in making him look dangerous, but in reality, it just made him look tired and pale.

I have to admit, I felt bad for the kid. The rumor around school was that his dad had been killed by a pack of feral dogs while he and Patrick were camping somewhere in the mountains of Georgia. Patrick had somehow escaped meeting his end there, but he hadn't gotten away easily. His face and arms were covered in a multitude of deep, gnarly scars from the event, a permanent reminder that he, and only he, had survived something truly horrible, and not by much.

To be fair, he'd have been an ugly kid even without the scars. He was just a little too lanky and awkward for me to believe he'd ever been cool. Life ain't really fair, I guess. I didn't know how much, if any, of the story was just dumb rumors. I wasn't even sure if Georgia had mountains, but if it was true, he'd pick just about the worst town to move to if he and his mom were trying to escape their tragic past.

Our town, located in a quiet corner of northeastern Pennsylvania, was mostly rural, encompassing part of the valley and a lot of the surrounding woods. That might sound fine, though maybe boring on paper, but incidents involving feral dogs had always been common here. Usually it was just pets and small animals that went missing, but lately some cows had been found halfway eaten dotting the nearby farms. So more people were on edge than usual.

Not really a vacation from their grief is what I mean. So, back to the story. Those chuckleheads kept up with their insults for a while, calling him every name they could think of. Poking him, sticking gum on his back, you name it. You'd probably have thought that our English teacher, Mrs. Alder, just kept blathering on about Shakespeare during all this. I wish she'd take notice, but she was so hard of hearing that I wasn't sure she could even hear what she was saying half the time.

She was so old and fragile-looking that I often wondered if she'd escaped a nursing home every morning just to come and teach us. It wasn't fair, though. I sat directly behind Tom in the last row of desks against the window like a true delinquent I was, bouncing my leg, waiting for, I don't know, a sign that I should jump in. I'm not proud of the fact that it took Patrick brushing teardrops off his desk for me to do something.

I reached forward and punched the back of Tom's chair hard enough to get everyone, including our teacher's, attention. Stop making fun of him or the next thing I punch will be your face, I shouted. I saw Tom and Jacob flinch from behind. Marisa, Mrs. Alder spat sternly, miraculously cured of her partial deafness for a moment. How many outbursts do we really need to have this week? But they were... I tried. No one will be picking on poor Patrick in my classroom.

It's not his fault he's covered with horrible scars, she continued. I watched Patrick cringe, and the whole class began to giggle. There I go again, making matters worse. I left school late that day, long after the buses and carpools had gone. Basically my normal routine. Gotta make sure I don't run into any trouble. You see, like our scarred-up sad boy, I too was the subject of the other kid's hatred. But unlike him, I actually knew how to stand up for myself, and I could hold my own in a fight.

Still, I didn't like to start trouble. I just relished in it when it came calling. But even if I won, bites and scratches do hurt after all, so it was better to avoid the rest of the student body when we were unsupervised, especially in the middle of the afternoon, in broad daylight. Who needs that kind of attention? However, on this particular day, waiting until my usual time, 4pm, to leave wasn't enough.

I pushed open the side entrance, and there was Patrick. He sat on the curb, his posture the same as earlier, the cool autumn breeze blowing his hair over his face. I held my breath, trying to be comically quiet and sneak away before he noticed. I just wanted to get home and not do my homework. Until again, I realized he was crying. I sighed and plopped myself down next to him. Waiting for your folks to pick you up?

Oh right, I forgot. What? Dead dad? Your mom running late? I corrected myself. I don't think she's coming, he said softly, continuing to focus on the puddle of tears collecting on the asphalt. I realized this was the first time I'd heard him speak. She's been different since... I can tell she doesn't like to look at me. Sometimes I think she forgets me on purpose. I would just try to walk back, but I don't know how to get home from here.

I can't even look it up because a couple of kids from class pushed me and my phone broke my fall. You just gonna sit here all night then? I was hoping to. I like the dark. I honestly couldn't tell if that line was supposed to be sarcastic. Come on, tell me where you live. I'll walk you home. I offered as I stood up and brushed myself off. you're not going to trick me and leave me halfway and steal my wallet right he asked expectantly well geez not anymore i'm not patrick let out a little chuckle okay maybe we could make this work i'm marisa i said helping him up and i promise i won't hurt you us freaks gotta stick together as it turned out patrick only lived one block over from me in the cute little cape cod that old Mr.

Patel owned before he got sick and had to move in with his kids. It was great because I didn't really have to go out of my way, but also a little sad because I only live six blocks from the school. He was crying over a ten minute walk. I agreed to help him find his way back to school the next morning and walk home with him again the following afternoon. Like I said, freaks need to stick together.

So, is it true about what happened to your dad? I asked on our walk home the following afternoon. Patrick stopped dead in the center of the sidewalk. Isn't it obvious it is? He touched one of the scars on his arm tenderly. My dad is dead. My mom probably blames me, and I look like some villain from a slasher film. My life is totally ruined. Oh, that's a little dark dude. I'm sorry.

No, it's better if I just lean into it. I'm a monster now and I have to get used to it, he sighed. Us monsters gotta stick together, I said like it was my tagline or something. Marisa, he said bluntly, you are not a monster. I furrowed my brow. He was silent the rest of the walk home. I felt bad for bringing up his dad and wouldn't have blamed him if I didn't even get a goodbye.

But when he was halfway up his driveway, he stopped. Marisa, I need to tell you something, he began without turning around. Can you keep a secret? What did I say five minutes ago about us sticking together? Patrick paused for a long time, like he was having trouble finding the right words. Listen, you're gonna think I'm crazy, but that's okay, even I think I'm crazy sometimes. he clenched his fists tightly at his sides but when we were camping when those dogs showed up they attacked me first my dad fought so hard to stop them and lure them away from me that's why he's dead and i'm just this thing now it's not your fault no that's not what i mean when I was lying there, when they were tearing my dad to shreds, I could have sworn I heard them talking to each other.

I could have sworn they were laughing. What does that even mean? I guess it's possible that I was delirious from blood loss, but if that's true, then how come even now, when it's really quiet, I can almost still hear them laughing? His voice was shaking. At this point, he was staring directly at me again, his eyes full of fear. Are you saying, I don't think they were dogs. I think they were something else.

Wolves maybe, I offered. Patrick let out a little pitiful laugh. No, not wolves. So, now you know the truth. I'm crazy. Nice knowing you. I don't think you're crazy, Patrick, I said. not sure if I was lying or not. Either way, I don't think that's a good enough reason for us to stop hanging out. He smiled in a mix of confusion and relief. Thanks, Marisa. It seemed that letting someone else share his secret took a lot of weight off the poor guy's shoulders because after that, he was a lot more outgoing around me.

The edges of his sadness had been sanded down a little and he actually let me get to know him. And as it turned out, Patrick was a pretty good kid. We were into the same comics and video games and even got each other's humor. We walked to and from school together every day for the next couple of weeks, and my mom let him stay for dinner most nights and sleep over on the weekends.

As much as I considered myself something of a lone wolf, I had to admit it felt good to have someone around that really got me. I guess this is what it's like to have friends, huh? Things stayed good for a while. When the other kids realized that I had taken him under my wing, a lot of the bullying stopped. And when he was picked on, he had gotten pretty good at standing up for himself.

This, however, leads us to the incident that threatened to shatter the small bit of peace we'd begun to carve out for ourselves. Tom and Jacob, the only two kids still brazen enough to constantly mess with Patrick, had come up with a new way to get under his skin. You see, whenever Patrick tried to speak in class or passed them in the hallway or even entered a room, they'd howl like wolves. Because it was a relatively easy and safe way to upset him, they were usually able to get whoever else was around to howl along with them.

I know it doesn't sound that bad, but after three days of it, Patrick wasn't looking too good. It happened in Mrs. Alder's class, as most bad things did. Man, she was a terrible teacher and was discussing another terrible book that they tell you is a classic and has all this symbolism, but was just written by some dumb guy who probably didn't even know what symbolism was. So, who can tell me why they think the author decided to make the badge red, she asked.

Everyone stayed perfectly still, dead-eyed, hoping to avoid being called on and having to discuss colors. Well, everyone except Patrick. He actually raised his hand. Ah, yes, Mr. Marshall Sherwood, please enlighten us. You see, there's not actual, was all I could hear before a cacophony of howling delinquents overtook his quiet voice. Now students, settle down and let him finish. You can howl all you want on the bus home, she said sternly in her traditionally tone-deaf sort of way.

Silence returned to the room. Patrick tried again. There's not actually a, the howling returned, then quickly abated. Go on. not actually a re howling then silence again a reason that howling then silence this pattern continued for a tragically long time i thought maybe he'd be struggling to say that one sentence for the rest of the class until during that last interruption i saw something change in his eyes patrick had finally snapped he waited patiently for the noise to calm and took a deep breath let me start over there's not actually a reason this time he didn't stop when they began again he just slowly turned to tom who was directly behind him grabbed him by the collar and punched him in the face repeatedly all the while continuing to relay his point about the book when he was done tom's face was a mess and there was no more howling ever again the rest isn't really important.

Patrick went to the principal's office and got detention for the rest of the week, and Tom went to the nurse and got everyone's sympathy. Even though he'd gotten in trouble, Patrick's attitude drastically improved. Detention was a small price to pay for being able to speak again. This did mean that we couldn't walk home together for a while, though. On Fridays, he would usually pack an overnight bag and come straight home with me for the weekend, but with detention and his mom grounding him for beating Tom to a bloody pulp, Patrick told me we'd have to skip our normal weekend hangouts.

I was actually relieved to hear it. It was a weird time of the month for me, and our hangout would have been super awkward. I felt I'd dodged a major bullet and was also thrilled that his mom was paying enough attention to know he'd gotten in trouble, and that she actually seemed to care. I expected an easy Friday night, so I was surprised that as I finished washing dishes from dinner and turned off the water, I was alerted to a frantic knocking at our front door.

Maybe Patrick's mom had changed her mind, I figured. Disregarding the overwhelming panic that seemed to loom in the constant banging, I was totally shocked when the opening door revealed none other than the devil himself, Tom McCullough, still bruised from his run-in earlier in the week, panting hard. Why are you here? I asked. I really couldn't think of a single reason he'd want anything to do with me. He tried to catch his breath.

I... Where's Patrick? He pleaded. What? You want a rematch? No, no, listen. I think I messed up. He was still trying to catch his breath. Had he ran all the way here? You want to apologize? Well, he isn't here. He's at home. Grounded. I was ready to close the door and get back to my evening. No, he isn't. I went there first. His mom said he never came home after detention. I was hoping I was wrong and that he's here, but...

Oh no, I really messed up. His voice trembled. What are you trying to say, Tom? Maybe I already knew. My dad was pretty upset that I got beat up and I was really angry, so I said some things about Patrick that maybe I shouldn't have. You know we own the farm on Schuylkill Road, right? And you know some of our animals have been killed lately, right? Well, he... He thinks... Tom struggled with how to say the next part.

I could feel adrenaline creeping into my limbs. I heard him talking to his friends this afternoon, and I saw him load silver bullets into his shotgun. Marisa, he knows. Everything felt fuzzy. Where would they take him? I had to think clearly. There's woods on our property, 15 acres of it. We can basically do anything we want out there. Okay. I pushed him out of the way and proceeded down my steps. The sky was already turning pink and purple with the coming of evening.

There was no more time. There was going to be a full moon. Tonight. Wait, I'll come with. No, it's dangerous and you've messed up enough. I thundered, not bothering to look back. This is why we don't tell adults things. They always get all murdery. Marisa, you have to understand, I didn't mean for this to happen. Sure, I've been messing with Patrick, but I would never want him to get... He paused. Hurt.

I tried to stop my dad, tried to pretend I was lying about the whole thing, but he's so set on, well, you know, that he wouldn't listen to me. I turned toward the direction of the farm and took off running. Marisa! Tom called out, but he was far behind me now. There was no way I could be there before the sun went down, but maybe I could still get there in time to stop them.

By the time I reached Tom's family farm, the last threads of daylight were fading from the sky. I was exhausted but confident that I was about to get my second wind. The woods were dark and cool, and I could feel myself returning to my senses. I picked up speed, heading in the direction I was now confident I would find them. Please let me make it in time. Eventually, distant chatter alerted me to Patrick's location.

I approached quietly, hiding myself in the underbrush while I gauged the situation. Crickets and frogs had begun to sing in the blackness of the evening. Seven adults with flashlights were gathered in a circle. I couldn't see him, but I knew Patrick was in the center. Each man was carrying a firearm on his shoulder or holding one in his hand. I was not relieved to confirm that Tom had been telling the truth.

Please, I don't understand what you're talking about. What would I want with cows? I'm a vegetarian, a voice that had to be Patrick's pleaded. In the back of my mind, I got a weird feeling that something wasn't right, but brushed it off. Listen, we know it was you. I mean, a kid who's been attacked by feral dogs shows up and we just coincidentally start losing livestock? I don't need to be a statistician to see the connection, a man that was probably Tom's dad was saying.

Confess now, and maybe we'll be kind enough to let you live out the rest of your life in a cage. I swear, I didn't do anything bad. I don't know what you've heard, but please, I'm telling you the truth, Patrick begged. We'll see about that in a minute. Any minute now, Mr. Mercola said, looking up at the sky. One of the other men cocked his rifle. I'm tired of waiting. Let's get this over with.

I'm missing my shows. A few of them began to argue about the merits of killing my friend now as opposed to later, and that was really enough for me. I moved forward slightly, twigs snapping under my weight, and let out a loud, guttural cry that just about shook the earth. The entire forest went completely silent and stayed that way. I saw fear overtake the murderous group as they tried to find the source of the noise.

I emerged confidently from my hiding place. Let him go! I howled. The blood collectively drained from their faces as they got a good look at me. I positioned myself to look as large as possible, my dense wiry hair standing on end, teeth exposed in a snarl, saliva dripping from my jagged mouth. They pointed their guns in my direction, but I charged forward and latched onto the closest one, pulling it away from its owner and smacking him in the head with it.

He hit the ground with the resounding thud. I bit into the rifle and broke it into pieces with my massive jaws as easily as if it had been a cracker. You really think your tiny bullets can stop me? I wailed. They inched back, still surrounding Patrick, but I was winning. Just one more push. Guys, shoot him already. Oh, thanks, Mr. McCullough. I've had enough. I lunged at them, ready to do whatever I had to, but that was enough to send them running for their lives, scurrying away like the cockroaches they were.

Cowards, I huffed. Patrick was still on the ground. His hands were tied, and he looked a little beaten up. He stared up at me, his whole body shaking in fear. I poked my nose in closer and sniffed at his face, trying to wrap my mind around the situation. Then went for his hands. He flinched at my hot breath, not seeming to realize that I was chewing through the ropes and not his fingers.

It's okay. You're okay, I assured him, but he was just hopelessly confused. Suddenly, his posture shifted. Marisa? You're... Why are you a werewolf? Patrick, why are you not a werewolf? I don't know how to answer that. You aren't going to eat me, are you? Well, not anymore I'm not, I groaned. Us monsters gotta stick together after all. I love a good werewolf with an attitude. And that one was actually written by our very own Michelle Antisocial, my co-host on Monthly Spooky, our month-end wrap-up show, which you'll be hearing this Monday.

And we're doing all of this in order to help raise funds for my dog Chicano's cancer treatment. So remember, weeklyspooky.com. Click on Help My Dog. Any amount you can contribute makes a difference. I know I sound like a broken record, but they're family to me. But now it's time for a story about the other end. Just how loyal can a dog get? And how bloody can that loyalty be after these quick words?

A Dog and His Boy by David O'Hanlon Rocco eyed the bag suspiciously as his boy brought them through the living room. He recognized the Starburst logo of Discount Demolition's Fireworks Emporium and shivered slightly. This was his third Fourth of July since the adoption, and he'd already decided where he'd be cowering for most of the evening. When the big artillery shells went off, he would make his way to Ryan's closet where he could burrow into the safety of all the extra blankets.

Rocco laid his head on his paw and snorted. Stupid humans, Rocco thought. Just because you can't bark doesn't mean you have to overcompensate with the big noisemakers. We still love you even though you're frail and feeble. Rocco climbed down from the couch and stretched away his morning nap in preparation of the coming game of fetch. Ryan always played fetch with him when he came home from school. Rocco wasn't sure why his human enjoyed throwing a ball or stick so many times, but if it brought him joy, then Rocco would gladly oblige the simple creature.

There were more pressing issues to attend to first, however. Rocco dragged his butt across the living room floor all the way to the point the carpet ended and the linoleum began. It was a simple act, but one that required great skill nonetheless. If he misjudged his distance, even slightly, he wouldn't get the whole itch before he ran out of plush, comfortable shag. Rocco trotted into the kitchen and Ryan dropped to his knees and held his arms open.

Come here, boy, his human called. Rocco jogged promptly to him and let the ten-year-old hug him and scratch him behind the ears and under his chin. Ryan asked him the usual questions, same every day. Who's a good dog? Did you miss me while I was gone? Are you ready to go play? Would you like a milk bone? Humans matured slower than dogs, so Rocco barked with increasing excitement to each question, and twice as much to make sure Ryan understood his willingness to accept a milk bone.

There were few things as good as those delicious bone-shaped morsels. Real bones were nice, but all the flavor was on the outside, and Ryan's mother sprayed him with a hose the last time he attempted to acquire some from a squirrel that forgot its place in the food chain. Ryan's arms stretched to the kitchen table and the bag of fireworks swung like a clock pendulum in his chubby little fist. Rocco's head sagged at the sight.

Ryan dumped out the contents. Look what we've got, boy! Ryan waved his hand at the stockpile. I know you don't like the loud ones. I gotta smoke balls, sparklers, and Roman candles so we can still have fireworks without it scaring you. The collie's eyebrow raised slightly. Humans weren't even polite enough to sniff each other's butts, but his boy had been considerate enough to get dog-friendly ordinance for his yearly war on peace and quiet.

Rocco buried his head into Ryan's chest and nuzzled him softly. I love my human. Rocco licked the boy's mouth to a chorus of excited giggles, especially when he doesn't wash off all the pizza from his face. Rocco chewed a mouthful of grass under his favorite tree. Two games of fetch and six milk bones were playing hell on his stomach. The chocolate Ryan's mom dropped while making brownies might not have helped matters either.

Rocco swallowed the weeds thoughtfully. He'd never seen Ryan eating those brownies. She kept her own personal stash and Rocco couldn't blame her. They made him feel great. And hungry. Why do humans eat things that make them want to eat more things, he pondered. Bacon doesn't make you want to eat anything other than more bacon. Bacon seems much healthier. Rocco vomited precisely as he intended and then sprinted to Ryan's side. His boy was striking the fire maker next to a colorful ball.

The fuse sparkled brilliantly and Ryan tossed it a few feet away. A plume of smoke rose from the orb with a soft hiss and a horrible stench. Too bad you can't see the color, Rocco, Ryan said. It's blue, kid. Rocco wasn't sure who decided dogs couldn't see color. He could see all three of them just fine. Ryan threw another of the smoke balls. It was brown. It was also anticlimactic. Rocco appreciated Ryan's efforts to include him in the festivities, but felt a little bad for him.

The other kids were already starting in with their screeching rockets and boom sticks. Rocco's butt tucked in as he scurried closer to the boy and away from the ungodly explosion on the other side of the fence. Heathens. Rocco would try to tolerate it a bit longer so Ryan could enjoy his other goodies. The boy lit a pair of sparklers and danced about merrily, twirling patterns into the dimming sky. Rocco watched the device's spit gouts of color-changing flame and found himself impressed with the show.

It seemed a useless invention, but it was making Ryan happy, so Rocco thought it was great. Almost as great as cartoons. Rocco's tail wagged excitedly. If Ryan had pizza at school, that meant it was Friday, which meant tomorrow was Saturday, and that meant it was cartoons and Lucky Charms Day. It also meant he got to sleep on the bed all day. A sudden explosion brought him back to the present, and he yelped before curling into a ball at Ryan's feet.

Ryan knelt next to him and stroked his ears. It's starting to get loud now, I guess. That means it's time for the big finale, Rocco. Let's do some Roman candles and then we'll go inside where it's quiet and safe. Rocco sprang up and danced in a happy circle. The sooner they went inside, the sooner it would be tomorrow. Ryan lifted one of the long sticks and pointed it into the air. Rocco observed the rest of them in their cellophane packaging while Ryan tried to light the fuse.

The collie cocked his head at the tiny human words written on the side. He looked up at Ryan and then back at the warning. I'm pretty sure this says not to hold it, kid. Rocco barked to get his attention. Really, it says right there in plain human. Rocco picked up one of the tubes and poked at Ryan's leg. It's not for fetch, silly. The boy laughed and struck the lighter again. The fuse sparkled to life.

I'm not trying to play fetch. Rocco growled urgently. You're not supposed to. The bang wasn't that loud. It was muffled by Ryan's closed fist. Rocco whined mournfully as his boy collapsed to the grass. Rocco sighed. Damn it. Ryan's mom came running outside to answer the child's screams. The shattered cardboard tube sputtered and smoked beside him. She scooped her son up and ran back to the house. Rocco started to follow when he remembered something that seemed important.

He turned back to retrieve Ryan's thumb and bolted after them with the dismembered digit clutched gingerly between his teeth. The back door smacked him in the nose and he toppled off the steps. A series of explosions made him cower and he turned his eyes up to the fiery skyflowers blossoming overhead. He laid Ryan's thumb gently on the steps and scampered to his tree. He was locked out. His boy was injured on his watch.

He failed to keep Ryan safe and now he was trapped outside. With the fireworks. It was a fitting punishment. He looked at the finger with its scorched knuckle and whimpered. Please be okay, boy. Rocco curled into a ball beneath the tree's canopy. I don't have thumbs, and I do all right. I'll teach you how to read human so it'll never happen again. It was well past dark, and the fireworks were coming faster than Rocco could count.

Even the squirrels, the mental halfwits that they were, knew to hide from the human thunder. Rocco took it upon himself to personally destroy the remaining weapons of mass destruction. They tasted terrible, but it was a small price to pay to protect his boy. Ryan only had one thumb left, after all. Hey, look it! A shrill adolescent voice said through the knothole in the fence. It's that stupid dog with the girly hair!

Rocco recognized the voice. Rocco hated Timmy Treadwell as much as he hated those damn Roman candle things. It's a mane, you simpleton. Like a lion, but better because I'm not a cat. I saw that little wimp and his mom leave a while ago, another boy said. Let's have some fun. If Timmy was outside, that meant Bud and Lenny were with him. After all, you can't have a dick without two balls hanging about.

The high school trio was a scourge to the kids in the neighborhood. They chased Ryan home on more than one occasion until Rocco managed to get over the fence. A warm, fuzzy feeling hit the collie's stomach as he fondly remembered Bud urinating on himself. They knew better than to mess with his boy, after all. Let's have some fun, Timmy said. Rocco heard the telltale hiss of a fuse lighting just before the whiz of the rocket-propelled firecracker shot overhead His ears rang from the sharp explosion Another one came streaking through the knot hole a second later Rocco snaked around his tree as the teens laughed maniacally on the other side of the fence Go with something bigger, Lenny cheered The big bad wolf is scared of a little pop-pop, Timmy goaded You know what, kid?

You're right. We should have a little fun. Rocco stretched out behind the wide trunk of the tree and steeled his nerves. I've had it up to here with you stupid, sniveling, hairless fuckknuckles and your thumb-wrecking fireworks. Enough is enough. The rising Phoenix Freedom Rocket with red, white, and blue effects screamed through the hole with the ferocity its name implied. Rocco was too sick of it all to care. He bolted from behind the tree, dipping under the boisterous bombardment as the device detonated overhead.

An eye flicked in from the knot hole. Rocco ran straight at it and then angled to the left, scurrying up the incline of Ryan's slide and launching himself into the air. Rocco's hair blew in the wind like the cloak of some masked Avenger as he flew through the sky and landed on the sidewalk next to the three delinquents. I've always wondered. Which part of human tastes like bacon? Rocco lowered his head and growled.

I'll give you a head start. He barked once and sent the boys running. Rocco watched them sprinting along the sidewalk and wished he could laugh like Ryan. Teenage humans were by far the most awkward and uncoordinated prey he'd ever seen. He remembered when Ryan adopted him from the animal shelter. There were no needles or diodes or kooky old men in white coats like his old home. those men weren't nice to him, like Ryan.

They never let him watch cartoons either. And Rocco was a much better name than domestic infiltration canine, or Dick, as the old men called him, even if he was named after an animated wallaby. But as bad as the old men treated him, they did let him hunt. Three years was a long time for a dog. He hoped he still had it in him as his claws scraped across the concrete in anticipation of the kill.

Lenny had gained weight since their last encounter. He would be well marbled and it seemed a shame to not enjoy the spoils of the hunt, so Rocco decided to give him a momentary reprieve. He sprinted past the portly youth and focused his pursuit on Bud. Bud's hip chain swung wildly as he fought to keep his wide-legged jeans up over his hips. He failed miserably and fell on his face. Rocco slowed down a little and gave him some hope.

Bud kicked his pants off and abandoned them as he shot across the street. Rocco hurtled the hood of a passing car to the bleeding of its horn. Even their conveyances needed something to make up for their inability to bark, it seemed. Humans were such self-conscious animals. Bud ran around the corner and made a beeline toward the playground. Rocco never realized how close Ryan's school was to home. He could have been coming to see him this whole time.

He'd do that when Ryan came home. And they had a merry-go-round, too. Rocco loved riding the one at the park with his boy. Focus. You have work to do, he reminded himself. Rocco watched Bud clamber over the fence and spill, bare-assed, into the playground. The dog stopped at the gate. Stupid dog! You can't get over this fence as easy, can you? Rocco lifted the hasp with his nose and sauntered through the gate.

This Bud's for me, Rocco thought with an amused bark. Oh, as far as last words go, Bud could have chosen better. The chase was over right there. A quick lunge and a quicker bite. Fireworks bloomed overhead as Rocco worked his muzzle inside the hoodlum's ribcage. He pulled his head back and licked his lips. Smoker lungs. Yuck. He sniffed the air. Where'd you get to, Lenny? Bud, where'd you go, pal? Lenny called out in his nasal whine.

Don't make it too hard on me or anything. Come on, bud, quit goofing around, Timmy added. Rocco looked at the corpse and grabbed an ankle, dragging it into the culvert. Tiny lights shimmered in the darkness of the man-made cave. Rocco barked at the critters. The rotund little bandits scampered from the darkened corners and gathered around Bud's remains. Rocco vocalized some more and the creatures chittered happily. Raccoons and dogs have a similar language and similar tastes.

They went to work of disposing his garbage while he returned to the hunt. Rocco crept along the houses trying to avoid the street lamps. The cacophonous celebration of independence made his ears ring and his head pound. He sniffed the air, trying to ascertain his quarry's direction. The sulfurous fallout of the firecrackers drifted across the neighborhood in a fog that masked their pungent stench. He was sure they were near. A tube rolled across the sidewalk.

Rocco looked at it quizzically. It looked just like the rolls Ryan's butt paper came on, except it had a fuse. oh the homemade firecracker detonated with a ferocity that drowned out everything else in the neighborhood bits of concrete pelted Rocco's fur and the force of the blast made the street swirl chaotically before his eyes he slumped over in the grass and stared up at the mulberry bush leaning over him the scent of his smoldering mane drifted across his nose we got him Lenny Timmy hollered.

Go make sure he's dead! Lenny slid a long cardboard tube from his backpack and held the lighter close to the fuse. Roman candle. Rocco suppressed a growl. Sons of bitches brought the Roman candles! Rocco played dead and watched the teen draw closer. He waited for the moment to move. The porch light kicked on and the screen door's aluminum frame banged against the house as the homeowner came storming outside. Lenny looked up at the shouting old man wearing nothing but an open bathrobe and froze in place.

Rocco's head popped up and his lips curled back away from his fangs, well-maintained and pearly white thanks to his special dental treats. Lenny yelped and struck the lighter. You little bastards want to shoot your dang nab bangarangs at my house? I'll learn you something? The geriatric shouted with his fist pumping in the air. Rocco lunged forward, multicolored fireballs blasted from the tube in sequence. Rocco juked left, then right. He zigzagged between the pyrotechnic pummeling of the handheld terror.

Lenny dropped the tube before it was even finished expending its payload and turned to run. Another explosion filled the air and Lenny howled in pain before collapsing to the ground. Rocco stood over the sobbing boy. His butt was bleeding and the subtle scent of salt tickled Rocco's nose. Jostling human manhood wiggled next to his head. The collie looked up slowly to see the homeowner standing next to him with the shotgun resting on his shoulder.

That's a good boy. This mean little crotch dumpling was chasing you with those stupid old fireworks, wasn't he? The old man patted Rocco's head. A bum full of rock salt will learn him right quick. Yes, sir. Rocco wasn't sure how he felt about the sudden turn of events, but Timmy was getting away. He licked the old man's hand in gratitude, and the bitter tinge of Ben Gay made his tongue go numb and lull from the side of his mouth.

Oh, you're a sweet boy. You better get on home before your kiddos start missing you. Shit. He gave a bark of agreement. Good call, crazy naked man. Ryan will be home soon. Rocco dashed along the sidewalk honing in on Timmy's cologne and the bag full of high explosives. They didn't smell like Ryan's fireworks. They were more pungent. He remembered his time at the lab. Sometimes the hunts were augmented with different smells.

The crackpots made him chase a group, but he could only attack the guy that smelled like drugs and bombs. Hey, wait a second. The memory of the scents came crashing back to him. That's why those brownies smelled so familiar. Rocco decided not to worry about the ingredients in the baked goods and to focus on the scent of gunpowder instead. Timmy was fast, for a human. The gravel driveway led him to the quaint little house and the odor of odious ordinances hung heavily over the yard.

Rocco looked across the expanse for any sign of his prey, but it seemed as empty as it was vast. There was a shed sitting closer to the house, and he eased toward it when the silhouette of a backpack caught his eye. Rocco observed the shed again. A heavy lock hung from the door. No, that's not right, he realized. Timmy couldn't lock it back from the inside. He turned away and went to the bag.

A structure rose from the middle of the yard a dozen feet away. Rocco circled the round stone tube sticking out of the ground. He put his paws on the lip and peered over the edge into the well. Timmy Treadwell hung over the edge and cried loudly at the sight of Rocco's mane blowing in the midnight breeze. The dog's dark eyes glanced at Timmy's hands, clinging desperately to the stonework. Not just at his hands, his thumbs.

Rocco clamped down on Timmy's opposable digits one after the other and the boy slipped away with a screech that disappeared as the water engulfed him. Gurgles and frenzied splashing echoed up the shaft. Until they didn't. Oh no, somebody help, Rocco trotted away jolly. Timmy's fallen down the well. The blue sedan pulled into the driveway shortly after sunup. Rocco looked up, expecting another false alarm, but saw the puffy plume of hair bobbing on top of the driver's head and knew it was Ryan's mom.

He gave the air a sniff to verify and found the stench of her Aquanet, a welcome torment. He discarded his bone over the side of the porch. The best part was on the outside anyway. She opened the back of the car and Ryan stepped out with his hand tightly wrapped in an oversized bandage. His face was sad. Until he saw the ball of fur running to meet him, Ryan dropped to his knees as Rocco rushed into his arms.

I knew you'd be worried, boy. Of course I was. You're my human. I'll always worry about you. We're never having fireworks again. Ryan kissed the dog's snout. I love you, Rocco. I love you too. Ryan's mom screamed and it made both of them jump. Rocco spun quickly and relaxed. She was staring down at the thumbs he'd brought home to replace Ryan's. One of them was sure to fit. Good boy. that story was actually inspired by the true scenario that I go through every 4th of July because my dog Chicano is terrified of fireworks.

It just spooks him really bad so I have to slip him a couple of puppy chill pills if you will and then he's right as rain ready to take naps and eat food. But I do need to remind you this entire show is to help raise funds for his cancer treatment So go to weeklyspooky.com and click on Help My Dog. I'm going to be a broken record here, but now it's time to head off of Highway 421 with a beastly story unlike any other.

After these quick words. Wilson Road by Charles Campbell There is nothing like a dirt road in the deep south. the dust kicked up by your truck when you race up the hill after a long day of hard work the occasional deer that looks back at you curiously when you round the corner is a sight to behold there are snakes that slither across the dirt road to get to the other side of the woods you will see hawks scoping out prey from the trees as you move down the dirt road There are many surprises when you go up or down an old-fashioned, in-the-woods, authentic dirt road.

I should know, I grew up in a big house at the top of the hill of one of these roads. A road that was named after my family. Wilson Road. There is one story above the many that stands above them all. It was late summer, and my cousin came running up the road. he was out of breath and it was a night none of us would ever forget Danny you gotta come down the hill Tanner hollered he had his hands on his knees and he sucked in air like no tomorrow what happened Danny asked as he rose from his seat on the back steps I saw something down there it took off in the woods go in the house and get the shotgun real quick Tanner said finally catching his breath.

Was it a deer? You know we can't shoot deer with a shotgun, Danny said, and began to sit back down. Don't get back on your ass. Get in the house and grab the shotgun. It wasn't any deer. I don't know what it was exactly. I just caught a flash of it, but it was big, and it was an animal. You probably just saw a dog, Danny replied as he turned to open the door.

He'd grabbed the Remington that sat just inside the doorway. What the big house was not low on was shotguns. There were a few Winchesters, a couple of Mossbergs, and four Remingtons. Danny grabbed the box of shells and Tanner was waiting for him at the edge of the dirt road. Come on, I'll show you where I saw it. I ain't shooting a dog, Tanner. Just telling you that now. It weren't no dog.

Come on. Tanner wasn't a small guy. He was a 17-year-old that had hit his growth spurred at 13. He was 6'3 and still had a little growing left in him. Danny was much smaller in stature by comparison, standing at just 5'6 with a slender frame which made it kind of funny that he was the one in charge of the shotgun. Tanner lumbered down the hill like Sasquatch with Danny following close behind.

Tanner pointed. It was down there near the bottom of the hill off close to the creek bed. All right then. Danny racked the Remington and stepped off the dirt road and led the way in front of Tanner. The two of them made their way down the creek bed and Danny noticed something right off the back. There was a litany of broken branches lying about. It was as if someone tossed them about haphazardly all over the ground.

They were definitely out of place as the tree line was approximately 15 yards or so from the edge of the creek bed. you see anybody dumping their sticks down here Danny asked Tanner no there ain't no tire tracks I don't know why they'd lug all these branches down here by foot be easier to run them over to Langley dump Tanner answered well these limbs didn't magically fly from the trees we ain't had no big winds in a couple of months at least and I was down here at the creek two days ago and these weren't here danny said he did a 360 to see if anything else jumped out at him tanner acted as if the limbs weren't a big deal the big deal was the something he swore he saw i don't know nothing about the stupid sticks but what i saw was standing about where we are now you see any prints danny asked tanner was looking at the ground looking for that very thing no but you know how this ground is.

It don't hold prints that good. True, Danny said. Let's walk up the creek a bit. Danny took the lead and Tanner followed. It was going to be dark soon, but the two of them knew these woods better than they knew just about anything else in the world. Keep your eye out for moccasins, Danny warned. Tanner rolled his eyes to signify that Danny must have forgotten who he was talking to. Tanner fancied himself as the moccasin king.

He had so many skins hanging on his walls that he lost count of them. I don't know where it could have gone. We're almost up the old finishing plant, Tanner said. You think it might have went in the plant? Danny asked. Could be. I just got a quick glance before it took off. It was big and dark. You'd think I was going crazy, but I know what I saw, and I ain't smoked any weed in the last week, if that's what you're thinking.

That bad shit I got from Frog last time taught me the error of my ways. Tanner said with a nervous chuckle. Yeah, I don't know where he got that shit. He must have grown that out by Langley Pond. It messed you up pretty bad. Glad it didn't kill you, Danny said and chuckled himself. Darkness was creeping up around them. They could see the lights from the big house, but it was quickly receding.

Wish I would have grabbed the flashlight out of my truck, Danny said. You want me to run up there and get it real quick? Tanner asked. No, you about died when you ran up there a little while ago. I'm not telling Nana you died of a heart attack while we chased your fake monster to the finishing plant. You got your lighter, don't you? Yeah. We'll just light a few sticks if we need to.

We know our way around here. That we do. There was a crash. It sounded like a boulder was dropped from the second story of the finishing plant. The two of them looked at one another. They knew they were going to find out where the noise came from. Danny broke into a jog and Tanner fell a little behind the boys came up on the tricky part of the track they had to cross a narrow pipe on foot one misstep and they would go tumbling into the creek below Danny could walk it in his sleep Tanner could move quickly across it in the stark light of day but he took measured steps in the narrow light he could tell that he would probably have to take the long way back to the hill when they were done at the plant No way could he balance back across the pipe in complete darkness.

Good news is that Danny would take the long way with him. Danny stood at the end of the pipe, patiently waiting on Tanner to finish crossing. He stayed quiet as not to startle his large cousin. All right, let's go, Danny said once Tanner cleared the pipe. The boys walked the grooved path to the old plant. There was a redneck Hansel and Gretel trail of tossed cigarette butts and rolling papers. The abandoned plant was a cool place for the valley kids to break shit.

Danny suspected the crashing sound they heard on approach was one or more of those said kids screwing around the decrepit building. And it was probably one of those kids that Tanner saw at the creek bed. The sun was almost fully set with only the last haze disappearing, surrendering the day. It was a good thing they were wearing shoes with heavy soles because the crunch of broken glass under their feet as they got closer to the building was now prominent with every step.

The darkness finally enveloped them completely, and the night sky was star-filled with a full moon that provided adequate light. There were no clouds in the sky, and that was good. What the boys didn't need was to be stomping around the inside of the gutted plant with zero visibility. Danny was very good directionally, but complete darkness would definitely test his skill. Let's just stop for a minute and listen, Danny said as he held the shotgun by his side.

I think you saw a buck, Tanner. It weren't no deer. I know what a damn deer looks like, Tanner whispered angrily. All right, shh, Danny replied. The boys got quiet. and listened. The wind had ceased, and the crickets weren't as noisy. They could hear some of them, but not the overwhelming chorus that was common for this time of the day in this part of the woods. Danny finally broke the silence. Well, Tanner, I ain't going in there unless we hear something.

I don't feel like tripping over something and breaking my neck. We can take the main road back. I know you can't cross that pipe now, Danny said. Come on, man. I didn't make it up. Let's wait about five more minutes, and if we don't hear nothing, then we can scoot back. Just five more, okay? All right, then. Five more, and then we're out of here, Danny replied. Five minutes, then, Tanner said, and no sooner did he get the words out of his mouth.

There was another loud crash, and it definitely came from the second floor of the plant. Let's go, Danny said flatly. The boys entered the plant from what would have been the back entrance when it was functioning. Now there were entry points everywhere that the walls had crumbled. It certainly wasn't a safe place to be screwing around, especially at night. What remained of the old stairs near the back entrance was a precarious stack of bricks that resembled stairs. but there were chunks missing where you would have to really stretch to reach the next usable step this wasn't a problem for tanner but presented a challenge for the shorter legged danny let me hold your lighter real quick danny motioned for tanner to hand it over danny flicked the bick and carefully took the lead tanner stayed close behind so he could grab danny if he fell backwards the boys paused when another crash broke the silence.

Shit, it's up there all right, Tanner whispered. It's not an it. It's just some kids and they'll piss their pants when they see us coming up there, Danny said. Cuz I hope you're right. What I saw weren't no kids. Make sure that shotgun is ready, Tanner said. There was no jest in his voice. There was a calm clarity that Danny didn't recognize in his cousin. Tanner was never clear about anything, so this gave Danny some inner pause to hear this unfamiliar tone in his voice.

The two of them got to the second floor. Abandoned spindles were spread all around, and the light from the night sky peeked through the many holes and craters in the walls. There were a number of large holes in the floor that would send you on a rapid descent to the first floor if you stepped fully into one. Unintended booby traps that the boys would have to navigate in order to get to the sound source.

There was another crash, bricks exploding back in the darkest corner of the second floor. It was completely engulfed in darkness, and Danny was beginning to second-guess their decision to chase Tanner's beast. Maybe it wasn't as imaginary as he'd thought just moments before. It's back there, Tanner said and pointed. He had no reservation in his voice. It was more determination. Determination that they were going to find out what he saw, and if they needed to pump it full of shotgun shells, then so be it.

Watch your step, Danny whispered back. Stay close and follow my exact steps. It might still be some kids screwing around back there, and I'm not shooting anything until I can see it. Gotcha, Tanner replied. agreement and understanding. The wind picked up just a bit. The boys got closer to the dark side of the second floor, and there was another explosion of brick against wall. Danny flicked the bick again and held it out in front of him for just a second.

He would have to give it to Tanner to hold the shotgun properly, but he wanted to see if anything would reveal itself before they completely walked into the darkness. The boys heard the shuffling of what could have been claws, but they still couldn't see anything. Okay then, Danny said and handed the lighter back to his cousin. Keep it lit. Danny paused for a couple of seconds, held the shotgun out in front, ready to fire, and hollered out, who's back there?

Come on out now! Tanner was steady with the lighter and his breath was measured. Danny couldn't believe how calm his cousin was. Danny didn't scare easy but he was beginning to feel something approaching fright, but he fought the urge to be trigger-happy. The boys stepped completely into the darkness, and that's when the red eyes turned to look at them. Oh shit, shoot it, Danny! You don't need to see it! Danny fired the Remington into the darkness just below the red eyes.

There was a growl of anger that shook the boys to their core. Danny chambered another shell, and it screamed out of the muzzle with nothing but death as its intent. The red eyes were still there, and the beast moved quickly. Danny was in the process of racking the third shell when the barrel of the Remington was sliced in half. The beast was in front of them now. Danny couldn't believe his eyes.

It was straight out of the movies. Only, it was so much worse. The creature's eyes were blood red, and its canines were bared. It stood a good foot taller than Tanner and twice as wide. It was haunched on its back legs. Tanner and Danny stepped back into the lit part of the plant, and the creature walked toward them. The boys couldn't just turn and run. They would surely step into one of those death traps.

They had to back away, slowly, and hope for the best. As they stepped, the creature continued to follow. They should have just left this thing alone in the dark. Finally, the boys got a full-body look at the monster. it was covered in black fur from head to toe there was burnt hair and scorched flesh from where the shotgun shells found their mark but did little but really piss this thing off it had the ears and snout of a wolf it was a creature of muscle and destruction it snarled in anger and had a hunger in its eyes but it also didn't attack it looked at the boys tanner and danny were silently making their peace with the Lord as the creature was almost on top of them.

They were going to die, no doubt about it. Tanner and Danny closed their eyes and wished for a quick death. Danny could feel the hot breath of the creature on his forehead, and then it moved to Tanner. The calmness Tanner displayed just moments before was all gone. He pissed himself. The creature jumped into one of the craters in the floor and disappeared into the woods. Tanner and Danny kept their eyes closed for another minute or two.

Tanner was the first one to open his eyes and he poked his cousin in the back. I think it's gone, Tanner said nervously. Danny opened his eyes. He was still holding the shotgun. The creature had turned it into the sawed-off variety. Let's just wait here for another couple of minutes before we go back out. Just in case he's out there waiting, Danny said. Let's not. If that thing wanted to kill us, he would have.

Let's just get out of here. Get to the road. Get back to the house. And don't say shit to anybody about this. That was a damn werewolf, Danny. Yeah. I wonder what he was doing back in that corner. Well, we are on a need-to-know basis, and we don't need to know. Let's go, Tanner shouted. And that's exactly what the boys did. They went home. They were asleep in their beds when Grandpa climbed up the back of the house and slipped into the attic.

He'd transform and be down for breakfast. Grandpa was a good man. He wouldn't kill someone unless he had to. When he transformed, he'd take out some of the deer around his property and then take his aggression out on the many bricks inside of the plant. It was better than ripping out throats and bringing the weight of the world down on his family. Grandpa was happy that the curse had skipped over Tanner. but Tanner's kid, if he ever had them, would be subject to the curse and maybe that kid would succumb to the animalistic urges of the hunt.

Fortunately for the valley, the man that currently lived at the top of Wilson Road did not. Written by the wonderful Charles Campbell And if you love listening to podcasts all about horror books, horror films, and great interviews, make sure to check out his podcast, Horror 421. I appeared on the first season and I'll be on the second as well, so make sure you give that a listen. Again, remember the reason for this marathon is to raise any amount of money possible to help pay off Chicano, my dog's veterinary bills. they ended up being over six thousand dollars that's been a lot of stress on top of worrying about if he's going to be sick from the chemotherapy and things like that so i really appreciate any help relieving the strain but now it's time for another terrifying tale and this one well you need to hear it to believe it and you will right after these quick words The Wolf of Fagin County by David O'Hanlon Maybe Whistler was a nice town once.

It seemed that way until the summer of 86. The old folks always whispered about certain places. About the places you don't go and the boogeymen that dwelled within. Everyone in Fagin County knew a local ghost story. Back then, I loved to hear those stories. Nowadays, not so much. My dad trucked crops from the farms into the neighboring states of Louisiana and Mississippi. I didn't see much of him. He left before dawn and got home after sunset.

The day before my 13th birthday, he took a load to Shreveport. I awoke to a stack of used horror comics the next morning with a note that read, you're old enough for the good ones now soldier i loved the way those pages smelled after all these years i still have a couple of them in the suitcases i live out of i'd read through the entire bundle in a week i flipped through them and found the one i'd enjoy the most for a second visit when my mother called from downstairs connie come quick she shouted i hated when she called me that It was bad enough being named Conrad.

The effeminate nickname caught on with my friends in second grade, and then with the rest of the student body by the end of recess. Something sounded off in her voice as I trudged down the narrow staircase that descended into the kitchen. Mom was sitting at the table with her elbows pressing into the vinyl top, and her hands hiding her face. My sister, Lisa, had her head down, shrouded in her arms. Her body convulsed as she bawled noisily inside.

I held my breath all the way to the table. No one spoke to me as I slid the chair away from the edge and eased my way into it. Mom reached over and put her hand on mine. Something terrible's happened, she whispered. Something terrible had happened a few weeks ago, too, and a few weeks before that. We'd discussed both of those events as a family. No one was crying then. Sure, Mom had been shaken up by the discovery of the first body, but it seemed like nothing to worry about.

We all knew old man Magera from around town. He would pop out like a magician's rabbit to grump about what a bunch of slack-jawed hippie spawn all the kids were whenever you least expected it. The police said it was a heart attack that took him, and that coyotes took to eating his remains. Grotesque and unseemly as it were, my folks delivered the news to my sister and me with just the facts and reminded us to stay away from the woods.

Coyotes rarely attacked people, but Dad said there's something different about any animal, including man, once they got a taste for blood. The second time we were called to the table, it was clearly more bothersome. Mom wasn't handling it well, but she remained calm as she told us about the bodies found along Country Road 63. A couple of teens gone to make out got cut up real bad. Chief Hardesty said it was just a freak occurrence, a crime of opportunity, and that the killer was likely long gone.

Our parents told us to be home 30 minutes before sundown after that, and to never go anywhere alone. Just in case. This time was different. Connie? She started tugging at the silver locket dangling from her thin neck. Her voice trembled. It's Brenda. My stomach nodded. Brenda Knowles had been Lisa's best friend since kindergarten. She'd babysat for me on a few occasions and came to eat dinner with us every Wednesday. She was my first crush, too.

I sniffled but held back any other reaction until Mom could finish. Maybe it wasn't what I thought. Maybe those old Tales from the Crypt comics were poisoning my imagination the way Father Dean said they would at youth service. Maybe she was just moving away. That would explain why they were so upset. Chief Hardesty found her this morning, Mom continued. Nope, it was exactly what I thought it was. I don't remember the exact moment that I realized the killings were exactly one month apart.

But I do remember Lisa raising her face to stare at mom and then me in turn. Her lips quivered and then she stood up fast enough to knock the chair to the floor. She slammed her fists onto the table and screamed. That I'll never forget. That look. And those words. She was eaten. Lisa cried until she passed out that night. I watched the news with Mom to see if the police had anything to say.

The station's newest reporter, Rex Willits, looked like he'd been sick as he raised the microphone close to his chin. His hand shook slightly and his trademark smile was nothing but a thin line of white teeth below his bushy mustache. Rex nodded slowly and started his report when the phone rang in the kitchen, and Mom went to answer. I'm here at the Ridley Funeral Home in Fagan County to report on a grisly, unimaginable crime, Rex started.

He swallowed hard. The body of 15-year-old Brenda Knowles was found just before dawn this morning. Brenda had been babysitting for family friends the prior evening. She started the short walk to her home just before 11 p.m. I turned my attention to mom's shouting in the kitchen. What do you mean two days, Paul? She growled. It doesn't take two damn days to get a mechanic. Dad's truck broke down. That happened a lot when he was hauling rice to Shreveport.

Only then, though. Mom noticed too. She had a pretty good idea of what was going on. What about the kids? She wailed. You know what's going on here. You're leaving us alone, so you... Her voice became muffled and I scooted closer to the television to hear what Rex had to say. I heard the phone slam against the receiver several times and Mom stomping up the steps. I've seen the body. My God in heaven.

I'll never unsee it now, Rex said when movement caught his attention. He snapped his fingers and pointed his cameraman in the direction of the police chief. Other reporters rushed in around him. Rex elbowed one of them out of his way and reached in with his mic. Don't you buzzards have anything better to do? Chief Hardesty barked. A child's dead, for Christ's sake. How? Rex asked. How did she die? Violently, Hardesty answered in his low, gruff drawl.

Is this related to last month's double homicide? A woman asked. We don't have conclusive evidence linking the two this early in the investigation, Hardesty said. His shoulders sagged. There are... similarities. Were the other victims missing flesh and muscle? Rex quizzed him. Were there bite marks on them as well? Hardesty glared at Rex, and then spoke with forced restraint. At this time, I'm asking all residents of Whistler and the outlying areas to stay indoors at night.

The curfew is merely a request, however. The wail of sirens cut the report short. We wouldn't find out until the morning that they'd found another body. Crazy Dolores lived in a shack on the edge of town. She sold herbal remedies and told fortunes for a dollar. No one knew how long she'd been dead. I climbed into bed, but didn't dare go to sleep. I opened a comic and thought about Dad. Maybe the rig really broke down, but I didn't buy it.

He was spending time with some woman, in a strange way that made me feel better. He was more worried about getting laid than he was about the killer on the loose, so maybe it wasn't a big deal. My door creaked open and Lisa slipped through the gap. I laid the comic down. I didn't know what to say. Sorry your friend was brutally murdered and partially eaten really didn't seem like it helped the situation.

Then again, we're going to find Brenda's killers wasn't a winner either, but that's exactly what Lisa said as she leaned on my dresser. I gawked at her and waited for what felt like an eternity for her to say something else. Look, Connie, she started, then paused and chewed her bottom lip. Chief Hardesty is a scumbag. He's going to pin all this on the first person that ain't Baptist enough for him. Then the murderer is just going to drift away.

I was still too young to know how common that sort of thing was around there, or what kind of man Baxter Hardesty really was. I did want to make sure that Brenda's killer got caught, however. The killings are about a month apart, I said hesitantly, unsure of exactly what I'd discovered. I shrugged. What if the killer travels and just stops through here every few weeks? Or lives here and returns home once a month?

Lisa offered. Dad's friend Ted is a long-haul driver. I remembered. Ted tried to convince Dad to work with him all the time. I also remembered Ted coming to my birthday party. I shook my head. I'm pretty sure he's out of town right now. I scratched the two recently sprouted hairs on my chin. What about a delivery driver? Brown's only gets a few deliveries a month. Lisa thought it over and nodded. Okay, we'll go by and see when they got a delivery.

Thinking the conversation was done, I lifted my comic. What is that, Connie? Lisa asked shakily. What are you reading? I closed the issue and looked down at the cover. Bright yellow eyes stared up at me above the fangs, dripping blood over a broken skull. I looked up at my sister. I knew what she was thinking and I wanted to tell her that she was stupid. I wanted to, but I didn't. The same thought hit me when I looked at those fierce yellow orbs on the black cover.

My stomach pitched as I thought about the recent events. My eyes left the stare of the beast and met my sister's. It's a werewolf, I finally said. We tried to put the notion back into our imaginations, where werewolves were supposed to stay. Lisa and I rode our bikes to Brown's General Store just past noon. The curfew officially started at sundown and was no longer a request. Not that it mattered, the streets were already deserted.

The baseball card sputtering in the bike spokes signaled the arrival of Brad Breaker. Brad was between Lisa and myself and age, so we hung out with both of us. He was the definition of cool with his acid-washed jeans and his torn midriff Bruce Springsteen t-shirt. Brad could play guitar. and football. He was also muscular with aquiline features and sandy blonde hair that made him look like Patrick Swayze in Red Dawn and made Lisa's brain stop working.

My mom spazzed when I said I was leaving. Brad looked at the grocery store and turned back to us. But you said it was an emergency. You won't get in trouble, will you? Nah, Brad shrugged. My old man said experience builds character, and that I needed to bring back more Folgers. Lucky this is our first stop, I said. So why are we here? Lisa looked to me. Telling him our theory would have been the right thing to do, but she thought he was cute and hoped I, being closer to the childish age to believe such things, would do it for her.

I did not. We want to find Brenda's killer, I said and waved at the street. Everyone's scared to death, but we want to help. Why? Brad asked. I mean, why do you think you can do it faster than the police? I removed the wrinkled, somewhat neatly folded newspaper clippings and handed them to him. Mr. Magara died and his corpse was eaten by coyotes. That's what they say, anyhow. There's been a killing at the same time every month since.

Each of those victims was partially eaten as well, I said, rattling off the facts as quickly as I could. I think the killer comes to town once a month. We think the murderer might be a delivery person or a truck driver, so we want to ask the Browns if they've gotten any shipments this week, Lisa added. Gnarly, Brad nodded slowly. Let's get to work. The Browns deliveries turned up bupkis. We checked with every business in town for the same results.

That theory was as dead as Brenda, which left us with only one other possibility. A quarter till seven we stopped by the ice cream shop and got sundaes for a quick sugar rush before dinner. I debated sharing the werewolf idea. I'd been trying to dismantle it as we asked around. If it was a werewolf, why'd the killing start only recently? Was anyone acting differently around town? Was anyone new? What made someone a werewolf?

So many questions, but none of them ruled out the possibility. What if... It's stupid, Brad said, staring up at the now full moon. What if it's a werewolf? Lisa choked and stared at me, wide-eyed over puffed cheeks full of banana split. I mean, my pops tells me to stay away from Snyder Creek because some kids died back in the 20s. Everyone says that was a monster. Why couldn't this be one? Darn it!

I snapped my fingers and scooted my chair back with a screech of steel feet against the sidewalk. Why didn't I think of that? Think of what? Lisa asked. I've heard that story too, I answered. The Snyder Creek ghoul. They never found out what really happened. Lisa, we need to go to the library and see if we can find any old papers about it. Not a chance, Connie. She pointed at the Sherbert skyline.

We need to get home before dark. It's a long ride. The library's probably already closed anyway, Brad offered. The cops are never going to believe us, Lisa said. After tonight, he'll just be a man, I reassured her. We'll have a month to find out who the werewolf is and prove it. Crap! Brad let his head hang. Most non-triumphant. What? Lisa and I asked in unison. I forgot the coffee. He put a foot on a pedal.

I'm going to hustle to Brown's. See you later. He wouldn't. Brad's body wasn't found for six days. Worst of all, strange as it sounds to say it like a bad thing, he didn't get eaten. It would be a while before Lisa drew a startling conclusion from the fact. The curfew started an hour earlier after that. A citizen's patrol was organized as well. It wasn't much more than a dozen yokels with spotlights and guns driving the paved roads, however.

They wouldn't go down the miles of gravel paths where there weren't any streetlights to keep them safe. They didn't find the werewolf either. All they accomplished was shooting a drifter who was busking at the crispy chicken truck stop. Chief Hardesty tried to pin the murders on that poor soul like Lisa had suspected he would. No one was buying it. By that point, Dad had decided that between the new woman and a monster running roughshod back home, he had all the reason he needed to move to Louisiana.

He came while we were asleep to collect his things. We spent every day tracking down information and investigating whatever absurd idea came to us. It was two nights before the next full moon when Lisa told me her troublesome theory. He didn't eat Brad because he was warning us, she said somberly across the table. The local library had few books on lycanthropy. We'd been reading them every night and comparing them to the two clippings we had from 1926, when the Snyder Creek ghoul had struck.

I put the piece of paper I was using as a bookmark between the pages of the tome and closed it. What do you mean? I whispered. We were asking around about delivery schedules, about people from out of town. She shook her head. The wolf isn't a stranger. We know him. And he heard us talking. He wants us to leave him alone. I checked my watch and reached under the table, wrestling with the zipper from my fanny pack.

Then he shouldn't have killed our friends, I growled. I pulled my prize and set it where Lisa could see with a heavy thump. Her eyes widened at the sight of cold blue steel. Dad forgot it when he packed, I told her, and lifted the St. Christopher medallion our aunt had given me for my birthday. I've got this and six silver dollars. We can make two or three bullets with that. We don't know how to make bullets.

Otto Dickens does, I pointed out. We have time to get to his store and back home if we go right now. We're not hunting this damn thing, Connie. Lisa stood quickly and looked around at the mostly empty library. She lowered her voice. We should stop this. If he killed Brad to scare us off, then he knows who we are. We need the bullets regardless. Her face twisted with contempt. She knew I was right and scooped her backpack before heading to the exit.

We rode our bikes to the fork in the road, left to our house or right to Otto Dickens' gun shop. Lisa didn't speak as she leaned and pulled her Schwinn down the right-hand street. I smiled softly and followed. Most families in Whistler had lived no further away than the county line for generations. Otto just seemed to appear one day. Despite what you might have heard about southern hospitality, it doesn't apply to strangers.

Otto had an uncanny ability with firearms, however. Small towns of rural Arkansas might have hated strangers, but they certainly loved their guns. Otto was soon a welcomed member of the community and set up a shop on the far side of town, a couple of miles past the old cemetery. The tarnished bell over the door announced our arrival with whatever the hell a bell's version of a smoker's cough is. Otto looked up from the reloading station, his face twisted with curiosity as two teens entered his tiny store.

A long scar parted his wild white beard on the left side of his face. He held up the cartridge he was working on between his thumb and index finger. Best goddamn rifle round in history, he said in a voice that sent a shiver racing up my spine. 45-70. I kept a chopped down Winchester in this caliber for clearing tunnels. Can't hear much of shit anymore as a result, but it could turn old Victor Charlie inside out in those confined spaces.

You ever shot a man? Lisa and I exchanged bewildered glances. How many kids could say yes? Didn't think so. Otto deposited the finished cartridge into a cardboard box beside him. Well, what can I help you with then? Too early for hunting. Not where we're hunting, I said. Lisa elbowed me in the ribs and cleared her throat. You can make bullets, right? Reckon I can? Lisa held out her hand and I gave her the items from my fanny pack.

Otto left his stool and prowled to her. He bounced the coins and pendant in his palm. His amber eyes darted from one of us to the other before he snorted. You want silver bullets. He set the materials on his counter and shook his head. That's a shit idea. Silver's too dense. It won't take the rifling. Unless you plan on shooting at a barn, you won't be hitting nothing from more than a few feet.

Muzzle velocity with nosedive too because the round is heavier than your powder load. You won't mushroom either. They'll go clean in and clean out. Shot shells. That's what you need if you're looking to use silver. Lisa looked at me completely lost in the gunsmith's lesson in ballistic science. I didn't understand it either. We don't have a shotgun, I finally said. We have a Chief Special 38. A snub nose shooting silver bullets.

Otto burst with boisterous laughter. Hell, you kids might as well slather yourselves in barbecue sauce and yell, Here, puppy. If you plan on fighting a werewolf with that setup. My jaw fell open and I quickly glanced to my sister to find her in the same state. Otto put a hand on each of our shoulders. I hadn't noticed before, but three of his fingers were missing from the one resting on me. He hunkered slightly to look us in the eyes.

Don't look surprised. Ain't much else you could be doing with silver bullets. He went behind the counter and pulled a sawed-off shotgun from beneath the register. My eyes drifted to the black tape wrapped around the walnut stock and the rough scratches where a serial number had once been. Reckon you can borrow this one, going to take about an hour on the shelves. You believe us? I asked. Lots of things in this world we pretend not to believe in no more.

Pretend weren't real in the first place. He absently rubbed the scar on his cheek with the nubs of his fingers. We pretend until they start eating us. The sun was just an orange razor's slash by the time we got home. We dropped our bikes in the yard and ran inside. The shotgun mostly fit inside Lisa's backpack so we could sneak it past Mom. Not that it mattered. All the lights were off and she wasn't waiting for us like normal.

I headed for the living room while she stashed the gun and changed clothes. How are you, soldier? A gruff, ragged voice asked from a darkened corner. The hairs prickled on the back of my neck at my dad's pet name for me. He stepped out of the shadows. He looked different and naked as he gracefully scaled the back of the couch. and perched on the cushion. The weak glow of the mail-order torch lamps shimmered on the sweat-slick hairs growing longer from his tight flesh.

His elongated nails scratched at the thick orange fabric of the sofa. You can catch a lot from whores, he said. He spoke slowly, like each word was new to him. Long strands of drool slung from his mouth as he flexed his jaw with a series of loud, painful pops. Your ma knew. Tried to fix it with crazy Dolores. His obsidian eyes focused on the coffee table. I saw mom's locket sitting there next to the half-full ashtray, still wet with blood.

It's not just the bite, he grumbled, his words becoming deeper and more human. It's like the clap. I brought it home. Made her. Mr. McGarrow was... accident. He shifted on the cushion. Things moved inside his body, bones and muscles realigning, and he whined like a dog in a sticker bush. He sprang over the table and landed inches from me. His nose twitched as he took in my scent. His lips didn't touch anymore as the fangs locked together.

Stiff fur covered his once chubby cheeks. She couldn't control, he growled. His teeth snapped in front of me. I can. Join. Pack. Become. Come with me, soldier. I quivered with fear, with hurt, with anger. I never suspected my parents. I needed answers. Lisa screamed and broke me out of his hypnotic gaze. His hand clamped over my mouth. He watched the stairs waiting for Lisa to come down. I eased my hand to the fanny pack, wiggling my fingers to stretch the zipper without the noise.

Connie? Lisa called. Dad sniffed the air. I watched his pointed ear twitch. He whipped his head back around to me and his eyes widened as the barrel pressed against his chest. The 38 was louder than I remembered. The bullets weren't silver, but they did the trick. He fell backwards and crashed through the table. I fired the rest of them into his face while he was down. He screamed in pain behind me while I darted for the stairs.

I slammed into Lisa who was clutching the shotgun. I think there's two of them. I wasn't listening. I jerked the weapon from her hands and went to finish dad off. Only, he wasn't there. Two bloody bullets rolled in the debris of the coffee table. A shadow fell over me from the kitchen. I threw myself to the floor, narrowly dodging the swipe of my father's claws. I rolled onto my back, and he looked more monstrous than before.

His face had contorted into a snout. The front window shattered, startling me. My finger tensed on the trigger, and the silver buckshot tore through Dad's thigh, obliterating the wood paneling beyond. I clambered up the stairs and Lisa pulled me to my feet by my collar. We ran into our parents' bedroom and slammed the door behind us. I screamed when I saw the body on the bed. It was Mom. But just barely.

Her features were still deformed, her body still covered in the bristly fur of her new form, and her head hung from the gnawed throat by a few remaining strands of muscle. Everything Dad tried to tell me suddenly made sense. His new girlfriend turned him, and he turned Mom. That's how the werewolf knew we were snooping. Mom was doing the killing, while Dad joined his new pack in Louisiana. I vomited at the foot of the bed.

What's happening? Lisa asked. Downstairs sounded like a dogfight. Snarls, yips of pain, furious barks, things breaking. I threw the door open and whipped around the corner with the shotgun raised and ready. Dad pounced onto the stairs. Blood gushed from wounds and he bared his fangs as he crawled up the steps toward me. I pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. I remembered duck hunting with him and then my own folly. I hadn't chambered another round.

He drew closer as I racked the slide, but it was too late. His claws opened deep furrows in my thigh and I toppled backwards. Then the other wolf came into view. It grabbed my father's legs and pulled him down the steps before mounting his back. The beast howled victoriously and glared at me with amber eyes set in white fur. The monster clamped its fully formed jaws down on the back of Dad's neck.

I heard the wet snap of the spine as it shook its head from side to side. I stared at the long scar parting its fur, at the claws digging into its prey, and the missing fingers beside them. I pressed the barrel of the shotgun to the back of my father's skull and fired. The white wolf slunk away, brain matter and pieces of skull clung to its fur. I pumped the shotgun again.

And then, the beast was gone. By morning, the bodies had fully reverted to their human forms. Chief Hardesty didn't question anything. Dad was the killer, and Mom was just a victim. We let him run with that story. Before our aunt could come and pick us up, we needed to take care of one more thing. We rode our bikes to Otto Dickens' shop and found him assembling a pistol at his counter. Reckon the police seized that gun, he said simply.

Yeah, I answered. Sorry, I guess. I set my mother's locket on the counter and looked at the gunsmith questioningly. Wolfsbane, he licked his lips. It helps when you're young, when the moon is still your master. He finished the pistol he was working on and slipped it into a messenger bag. He pushed the kid over to me. I haven't killed anyone in a long time, in case you were wondering, he told us.

What do we do now? Lisa asked. Different breeds of wolf the world over. My kind don't have a pack here. He pointed at the gauze around my leg. Your old man's kind does. You took from them. They'll take from you. A wolf never forgets. You're just rabbits now, and there's nothing left to do for a scared bunny. But to run. We took the bag Otto prepared for us, and left his shop.

We didn't go back to the house and wait for our aunt, though. We rode our bikes to the outskirts of Fagan County, and hitched a ride at the Crispy Chicken. They caught up with us in St. Louis three years later. I buried Lisa behind a city park. I rest in one place until I hear the bays of the pack on those bright, moonlit nights. And then I disappear onto another stretch of asphalt.

Always moving. Always staying ahead of the wolves. Always ready to remind them that rabbits have teeth too.