by Dan O'Brien
“What if this is the killer?” she returned.
She could not see his surprise, but she could hear him exhale irritably. “This isn’t a man. There is no way some creature could have broken into homes and committed crimes over several decades and not be seen, especially something this fucking big.”
And then as quickly as it appeared, it bounded onto the top of the car, rocking the heavy frame of the police vehicle before crashing into the wilderness. Lauren ran, sliding across the hood of the car.
Montgomery was there to stop her, grabbing her arm hard. “What do you think you are doing?” he hissed, nearly in her face.
She struggled against him, her gun arm held down by the sheriff. “That was out of the ordinary. You cannot look at me in the face and tell me that was not insane. I have never seen something like that, ever.”
He backed off slightly, but was still in her path.
“It was a bear or something.”
She breathed heavily, her breath coming out in bursts of billowy clouds. “That was something alright, but not a bear.” She turned to him. There was a fierce determination in her eyes. Pointing into the woods, she started again. “We have to go after it.”
He shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. We are not going into those woods with something that big roaming and god knows what else. Haven’t you ever seen a horror movie? This does not end well.”
Lauren opened the door of the vehicle and grabbed another coat, a puffy one with the Locke Police insignia emblazoned on the front. She wrapped it around her shoulders and pulled a heavy black wool cap over her hair and ears, giving her the appearance of a much younger woman.
“Am I taking your shotgun or are coming with me?”
Montgomery looked at the woods and then at Westlake. He knew she would not waver.
Chapter X
The woods were colder than the road, at least Lauren thought so. The coat protected her body from angry limbs, destitute and hungry in the snow-drenched forest. Montgomery was just behind her, not quite keeping up, grumbling with each step. Despite years of training, he swung the butt of his shotgun against limbs, knocking them to and fro.
“This is bullshit. Walking in two feet of snow looking for fuck all in these cold woods,” groaned the sheriff, his wool cap flopping against his skull; the oversized ear muffs were drenched from snow that had fallen from the tree branches above. “I can’t see anything in this mess.”
Lauren watched the ground carefully. The creature was not difficult to track: broken branches, up-rooted trees, and valleys of snow where mass met earth. The cold was invasive, reaching into her lungs, feeling as if it were a coiled snake unraveling within her chest.
“A blind man could follow these fucking tracks. You know what that tells me?”
Lauren sighed, but did not falter, vaulting over a frozen log like an Olympic hurdler. “That what we are chasing is so insanely strong and powerful that it is leaving a trail and waiting for some loudmouth motherfucker to come tramping through the woods after it?”
“Well, yeah, but….”
Lauren stopped in the small clearing into which the haphazard trail barreled; a wide space where the snow was significantly deeper, a fact she realized with a simple step forward. She could see the woods beyond, but they looked undisturbed. “Where did it go?” she spoke exasperatedly, breath hissing from her mouth like dragon’s fire.
Montgomery reached the clearing as well, flashlight lopping about and his heavy feet tearing into the fresh snow. “I don’t see any tracks. Did it fly away?”
Westlake took a few more steps forward. Lifting her legs out of the snow and high-stepping, she searched for some semblance of markings. There were a few scattered footprints, some that looked like boot tracks from hunters. “These don’t look like animal prints. Pretty fresh though.”
“Maybe we got some night hunters out.”
The night was strangely bright. The moon overhead was quite full, though still a day away from completion. Looking south, she saw that the sparse human tracks continued in that direction. But the creature, whatever it was, had disappeared without a trace.
“We follow the hunter’s tracks,” she spoke.
Montgomery shook his head. “First, we chase some bear mutant thing into the forest at night and now you want to follow generic footprints farther into the darkness. Are you suicidal, Agent Westlake?”
She stifled a laugh. His irritation and discomfort made him an amusing traveling companion. “Just curious, sheriff. Night hunting is illegal, is it not?”
He lowered his head in defeat. “Lead on.”
The woods thinned out, dead branches giving way to waist-high brush and a discernible trail. After a hundred yards or so, the snow even began to recede as if it had been maintained, manicured for travel. A wooden fence line appeared inside the brush, running parallel to where the agent and sheriff walked in silence.
The smell of a wood stove filled the air; smoke drifting into the early morning sky. And then the presence of a building, squat and simple hidden by a copse of trees, low and gnarled as a protective wall against outsiders.
“What is this place?” Lauren asked, looking over her shoulder to Montgomery.
He shrugged. “There are a lot of old timers living out here like it was the turn of the century. No plumbing, limited water. Maybe running on generators, if they’re lucky. Tread carefully. These cave dwellers don’t care for city folks or government types.”
A variety of old objects were stacked and thrown about like a country museum. Statues and old cast-iron tubs as large as boats stood against the mounting weather. Miles and miles of wire unraveled and littered about. Birdcages filled with marbles and black feathers. Smoke rose from the stone chimney, chugging into the air like steam from a train engine of years past.
“Should I knock? Announce myself?”
There was the characteristic shrug returned.
“Isn’t going to be appreciated either way.”
The front of the shack was dominated by two broad windows covered in overlapping tarps that hid the light of the interior. A door hung off its hinges. A remodeling stood apart from the house as if it were a hat or scarf to the entity that was the shack. Amber light, flickering and polluted in color, emanated from below the door. A shadow passed, expunging the illumination.
“Federal Agent. Is anyone home?” she called, struggling to get her voice to have the resonance she wished. Her body was so cold that the simple act of yelling was damn near painful. The shadow remained and then the sound of scratching, crooning hinges that were not used to being opened filled the night.
The door swung open, digging into the frozen earth and revealing the shadowed interior of the shack. A form stood in the door frame. Tendrils of hair cascaded down. Westlake could not make out the features, except that it stood on two feet.
“Can you step into the light please?” Lauren called.
Her hand drifted to her weapon slowly.
Montgomery walked close; his back to railroad ties stacked five high. He held his shotgun down low, but had a strong grip on it, ready to bring it up at any moment. His hands flexed open and closed, anticipation biting at his heels.
The form lifted a lantern, the swath of light revealing a middle-aged woman. Not homely, but intriguing with long black hair tinted with gray streaks, wavy and down her back. It splashed across her ample chest and long coat that she wore over a torn, lacy black dress. Green eyes, haunting and direct, looked at Lauren with recognition.
“You have come about the creature.”
Her statement was precise, knowledgeable.
Lauren moved toward the woman, letting her hand drift from her weapon back into her pocket once more. “We were following it into the woods, lost it at the clearing about a half-mile back. Did it come this way?”
The woman turned back into her house, the trail of the lantern’s light going with her. Lauren walked toward the door, but Montgomery was there quick. A heavy hand on her arm st
opped her. “Maybe we should think about going in there,” he cautioned.
“She knows about that thing.”
Montgomery tilted the shotgun back over his shoulder, hand still gripping the handle tightly. “Maybe. Whatever that thing was, it was not normal and this strange woman doesn’t feel right either. This whole situation doesn’t feel right. We should turn back now.”
“Turn back?” she replied incredulously. “We can’t turn back now. We are here. She has answers. And you know it.”
Montgomery had learned the one simple truth about Lauren Westlake: she was committed. When she began down a path, forever was she condemned to it until she saw its end. This case was no different. Their foray into the night was an extension of her determination. She would not be deterred.
And again, he conceded.
“Fine, let’s see what the nut-bag has to say.”
Lauren smiled tightly and slapped him on the chest. Gripping the door frame, Agent Westlake stepped into the shack. As her feet cleared the threshold, the door slammed behind her, sealing itself from the outside world. The night disappeared and there was only the sweet and lingering smells of the shack. She could hear Montgomery banging on the door.
The woman re-emerged.
Lantern set on a table in the distance, the fireplace crackled with soft light and twisting whips of smoke and scent. “I mean you no harm, lady warrior. There can be no men in the shack. He must wait outside,” she spoke in a clear, crisp tone.
A shell being loaded drew Lauren’s attention. “Sheriff Montgomery,” she called. She could hear his feet move just outside.
“Agent Westlake? What happened? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. She said you have to wait outside.”
“Outside?”
He sounded outraged and a little disappointed.
“I’m afraid so. I will be okay, just sit tight.”
There was a low grumble and then some definite mumbling before he responded. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll be here.”
The woman motioned for Lauren to follow her deeper into the shack. From the outside it appeared to have only one room, but once inside it was far more spacious. The walls were covered in dry parchment and scribbling text in a language the agent did not know. There were paintings and drawings, some in frames and some drawn directly on the walls.
“What are you doing all the way out here?”
The woman did not answer, but gestured for Lauren to take a seat in a large chair covered in blankets and shawls. They were wrapped and draped over one another such that it created a warm cushion.
She obliged and sat down into it, feeling safety and comfort immediately. Her eyes were drawn to the shelves upon shelves of books with no names on their spines and canning jars filled with liquids and gelatinous masses comprised of a rainbow of colors.
“This is an interesting home you have.”
The woman sat across from Lauren, spreading out her dress on her chair like a raptor spreading its wings. There were two tables, one on either side of the woman. Bottles and glasses, some full and others empty were stacked against one another. An open book, aged and marked with a long crimson ribbon, sat beside the bottles.
“The shack is very old. Ancient. Many have called it home,” she answered.
Lauren felt both frightened and engulfed. There was an overwhelming force that insulated the room. “I am Agent…”
“Agent Lauren Westlake. Yes, I know about you Agent Westlake. What are you an agent of I wonder?” posited the woman quizzically.
“Right. So yeah, anyways. About the creature?”
The woman folded her hands across her lap and sat back. “There are many creatures in this world, Lauren of the Lake Tribes of the West. My question is what are you an agent of? We all represent something in this world. What do you represent?”
Lauren looked at the woman strangely, feeling claustrophobic. “I am an agent of the federal government,” she replied mechanically.
The woman was not convinced with the answer. “That is to say you are an agent of a rock, Lauren of the Lake Tribes of the West. Would you like me to read your life?”
“My life? Lake Tribes of the West? I thought you had information about the creature.”
“I have information on a great many things, Agent Westlake. What information do you have for me? Nothing in this life is free. A cycle of reciprocity surrounds and envelopes us, even if we do not see it.”
Lauren gripped the edges of the chair, lifting her body. “I think there has been a misunderstanding. I thought you had something to tell me…”
The woman waved the agent down with a quick movement of her hands. “Let me begin then. I am called Hecate. I serve as a guide for this world. Not the only guide mind you, but a guide nonetheless. I am an agent of wisdom and of truth. And you, daughter of the Lake Tribes of the West, what are you an agent of?”
Lauren started to speak and then stopped. There seemed to be one way to move the conversation forward, to play Hecate’s game. “I am an agent of justice. I seek a killer.”
Hecate seemed pleased, her green eyes like that of a satiated cat. “I can see that about you. This creature you seek is two creatures. One is of the supernatural and one of the mortal realms.”
“Mortal realms?”
Hecate reached for a small table, wooden with burned runic dressings. She pulled it between Lauren and herself. A teapot, ornate and riddled with Chinese characters, emitted a steady, sweet-smelling steam.
“Would you care for some tea?”
Lauren nodded. “You said mortal realms, what does that mean? And two killers? Are there two killers in Locke?”
Hecate poured the tea slowly into two pearl teacups that had not previously been there. “You seek two creatures. One is a man afflicted with something he cannot control, but embraces it with his mind and body. And the other is ancient and sorrowful, condemned to a life in which he watches all he loves fade away. These creatures are at the center of your investigation.”
Lauren reached forward and grasped the tea with both hands. It was warm, but not scalding. She touched it to her lips and drank it slowly. As she placed it down, the room fuzzed at the edges.
“Is there something in the tea?”
Hecate smiled. For a strange woman of the woods, she had great teeth. It occurred to Lauren that perhaps crones of the deep woods of Minnesota had great dental care. “A variety of herbs. Some are meant to open your mind; some are meant to relax you. What you need to understand cannot be found among the blind and oblivious of the mortal realms.”
Sounds amplified. The world slowed and Lauren could swear that there was suddenly sense to the senseless. The jars came to life, strange little creatures with wings of yarn and prisms winked at her. She felt a great giggle build deep within her. “Blind because we cannot see,” she whispered, feeling euphoric and sleepy at once.
Hecate had changed as well. Her green eyes were deep wells of burning embers, flames that licked and danced behind glassy mirrors. Her voice had begun to sing instead of speak. It was like she was singing to the audience of an opera house.
“The realm of the supernatural, much like the mortal realms, has rules. Rules that are obeyed and rules that are broken. One of the creatures you seek is but a man become creature and the other a creature that longs to be a man.”
Agent Westlake saw the world transform. There were great sprawling lakes, rivers and streams and golden hills that crashed into snow-capped mountains. The back wall of the room was like a grand screen through which she could watch the world unfold. “Which creature killed the two women and the young man? Which one do I seek?”
“You must understand the creature and the man. He is a creature of the night, a son of the moon. He is werewolf.”
Lauren laughed, a girlish laughter that made her curl up, drawing her knees to her chest. “A werewolf?” she asked incredulously, her head rolling back as laughter overtook her. “There are no such things as werewolves.” And then s
he proceeded to make her faces, her renditions of what a werewolf was: teeth made of fingers, ears were cupped hands, open mouth and stuck-out tongue.
Hecate drank from her teacup slowly, her composure retained. “There is much more in this world than werewolves. Creatures and beings the likes of which would frighten your blind brothers and sisters to death, give them nightmares for all their days. There is a werewolf in this sleepy little town; seeking refuge, seeking anonymity.”
Lauren felt suddenly rigid: aware, frightened to the core. “If the werewolf did not kill these people, then who did? And how did the human become a creature?”
Hecate sat back and pulled the old book to her lap. She opened it and the pages, which previously had indecipherable script, flowed with paintings of ancient settings. Pointing to the first image, it was a beautiful woman holding a small child. She was buxom and olive-skinned with piercing gray eyes.
“There was a woman called Helena who bore a male child she named Michael. Michael was werewolf. It is not known why he was born werewolf, yet he was. There was talk that she had consulted the High Druids of her time and asked for a special child. It matters little as thus the line of werewolves was born four thousand years ago. Michael fathered another man-child with a human woman and thus it went for many centuries.”
Lauren had crossed her legs underneath her body and leaned forward, engrossed. “So werewolves are born? Nothing more? Nothing mystical?”
Hecate smiled a wicked grin of wisdom and lunacy. “Birth is mystical, daughter of the Lake Tribes of the West. A werewolf birth is doubly so. Magic-less humans are so silly. Only born? As if such things were so mundane.”
Lauren felt a deep sense of regret and knew that it was amplified by whatever had been in the tea, which only increased her anxiety. “So it isn’t biting or attacking? Just sex? Just like humans?”
“Werewolves stand on the precipice of the two worlds. They are human, mostly men, and few women. Though they are very powerful and leaders of packs. They are also of the magicks and the supernatural. They can never truly find a place to belong, constantly searching for balance.”
