“Shut up, Herb!” Dallas and Lois snapped, still staring at each other.
“Okey doke. Sorry.”
Dallas heaved a heavy sigh. “Look, all I’m sayin’ is that my Society pals aren’t the types to let this slide. If I go back and tell them you’re a witch and you brought back a vampire and stuck him in a beer can, they’re gonna be pissed, and they’re gonna come after you. Both of you. It’s what they do, because humans belong here and monsters don’t.”
“You haven’t heard a word that I’ve said, have you?” Lois asked, amazed. “Monsters don’t belong here? Since when do you get to decide who does and doesn’t belong here?” she sneered. Picking up a small book and throwing it at Dallas, she continued.
“Before you run back to your friends and grab the pitchforks, maybe you should read this.”
Dallas caught the book like it was a bundle of scorpions.
“Good god, Dallas. It’s just a book,” Lois sighed, rolling her eyes. “My grandma wasn’t the first witch in these parts, and Herb wasn’t the first vampire. Supernatural creatures have found their way here for hundreds, even thousands of years. They’re a part of Wisconsin, Dallas. Just as much as you are, so you can’t go around killing them all. If there are bad ones, sure, do what you have to do, but they aren’t,” she looked at the can containing Herb, “we aren’t all bad.”
Still eyeing the book suspiciously, he asked, “What’s this, then?”
“Just look,” Lois said, followed by a forced, “Please.”
Dallas turned the small book over in his hands, fingers tracing its soft, leather cover. It had decorative tooling along the edges and was tied shut with a leather thong wrapped around a small button sewn into the cover. Unwrapping the thong, he opened it and looked at scrawling, handwritten script covering the yellowed pages in tight, flowing lines. The first page had a date written at the top, marking the beginning of what was apparently a very old journal.
“Seventeenth, July, eighteen ninety six. This is like,” Dallas crunched the numbers, failed, and crunched again. “Over a hundred years old. Whose is it?”
Herb answered, his soft and tinny voice still giving Dallas the willies.
“Remember Jerry, my old neighbor? It’s his great-granddad’s diary. He was a travelling medicinal… am I saying that right?”
“Yes,” Lois affirmed.
“Okay, good. So, turns out Jerry’s great-granddad was a travelling medicinal salesman. The first few entries are pretty dull. Notes about the weather, how hard it is to get quality tape worm weight loss tonics, some kind of mushy stuff about a girl named Mable. Skip ahead to the page Lois marked.”
Curiosity piqued, Dallas sat back down and did as instructed. Clearing his throat, he began to read the entry aloud.
“Twenty-third, August, eighteen ninety six. This journey has taken a most unusual turn.”
Chapter 22
23rd, August, 1896
This journey has taken a most unusual turn.
My Ojibwa guide assured me there is rich trading to be done with French-Canadian trappers near the state’s northernmost border. ‘Many furs,’ he promised, and so I traverse the wild expanse of this Wisconsin, braving its multitude of discomforts in hopes of future riches. While not pleasant, our travels had been uneventful until two nights prior.
We camped near a swiftly flowing stream in a small valley. As I reclined on a bed of fallen leaves and a heavy wool blanket, my mind began to drift. Perhaps, I thought, some industrious fellow could develop this valley. Spacious lodgings, fine dining, a variety of entertainers. A haven for weary travelers such as myself. Drifting on the edge of sleep, I even gave it a name. Wisconsin Dells. It was a pleasant fiction that was cut short by a most unnatural noise.
Imagine, if you will, a hog in passionate search of a carrot in a deep, mud-filled trough. That is the only image that can even remotely do justice to the sound. While I am not perhaps the most stalwart of adventurers, I am still a proud man and refused to cry out. Instead, I lay quietly, cracking my eyes to peer out upon the moonlit expanse of our modest campsite. Expecting a wild animal, I instead saw a child by the water’s edge.
Rising from my makeshift bed, I moved toward the stream and called out softly, “Hello, are you lost?”
As I drew closer, I realized it was no ordinary child. What child wears beaver furs adorned with leaves and pinecones and walks by itself through the woods at night? What child has leathery skin and a full beard? If it was a child, I was suddenly quite sympathetic toward the parents’ decision to abandon it in the woods. Such an ugly creature!
Seeing me, it spoke, but the words meant nothing. Just a collection of sounds like pebbles falling on still water, like rain on a canvas tarp. My confusion must have shown on my face, for the little creature grinned and spoke again in perfect English.
“Hello,” it said. “Only children, simpletons, or medicine men are able to see me. Are you a child?”
It was such a strange question, I couldn’t help but answer.
“I’m Reginald. Purveyor of wondrous curements for dreadful ailments and potent panaceas for persistent pains.”
“Ah. A simple medicine man. So.”
An awkward pause followed before finally I asked, “So, what?”
A twig snapped, and the ugly thing’s bright eyes looked toward the sound.
“I must go, Reginald. Here. Take this.”
It plucked a freshwater leech from its leg and held it out between two grubby fingers.
“It has feasted on my blood. It might help someone. Or not. Just like the rest of your ‘potent panaceas.’”
A spark of indignation was quickly quashed by curiosity. Taking the leech in my shaking hand, I transferred it to a damp leaf, applied a dollop of mud, and wrapped the leech up securely.
“Thank you,” I managed.
“Thank you,” the thing replied before hopping into the water and vanishing beneath the surface. Soon, a few concentric ripples reflecting the moon’s light were the only remaining evidence of its existence.
At that moment, my Ojibwa guide stepped through the brush.
“Who is here?” he asked.
Haltingly, I started to explain the ugly, bearded child. As I spoke, my guide’s normally stern face folded into a terrified mask.
“Memegwesi?” he asked.
Not having the faintest idea what he’d said, I shrugged. My lack of understanding must have been plain, for he continued.
“You say,” he groped for the word, “spirit. Dangerous. Tricks. It give you a…?” again, he struggled for the right word. “A gift?”
I’d never seen my guide so distraught, which suddenly and firmly convinced me that the leech I’d received could be immensely valuable.
I managed a smile and a shrug.
“No,” I lied easily. “It made some strange noises and vanished into the stream.”
In the ensuing two days, my guide has barely spoken to me. I suspect he knows I have a secret, but I honestly don’t care.
***
30th, August, 1896
Where to begin? Oh, Mable. Where to even begin?
We arrived at the trading camp on the Wolf River three days ago. I was well received by the French-Canadian trappers that call this small gathering of tents and semi-permanent sheds home. While modest, it was a remarkable improvement from my complete lack of accommodations thus far. There was even some discussion of it becoming a formal township. I suggested it be called Trapperstown, but my suggestion was met with laughter and shaking heads.
Overall, the trappers are a jovial lot and expressed an instant interest in my wares. By the end of my first day at camp, I had amassed a significant credit for fresh pelts. Settling into an actual tent (oh what bliss!), I opened a penny dreadful, sipped on rough Canadian whiskey, and eventually slept. A more auspicious start to my venture I could not have hoped for.
That is, a more auspicious start to my venture I could not have hoped for, until I was robbed.
&nbs
p; I awoke the next morning to find my chest of medicinals vandalized. Someone had snuck in during the night, and no less than five of my vials were gone, including the one I had stored the small leech in. Short moments later, I heard screaming.
“Vous devez venir! Venez vite!”
I burst from my tent, looking for someone to translate the commotion.
“Come quickly,” a burly trapper said, frowning and moving toward a ragged tent on the far side of camp. I hurried to match his long strides.
Arriving at the tent, the man who’d called for help stood back and held the flap open. The first thing I saw was one of my missing vials, empty and discarded on the dirt floor of the tent. I confess, I felt a tingle of glee. Of the missing vials, one was a potent diarrhetic. Bursting into the tent, I prepared to give the thief what-for and laugh at his misfortune. However, I quickly realized that what I saw was not a man writhing with pained bowels. Instead, what I saw was man-sized and man-shaped, but was most decidedly not a man.
His skin had turned a glistening grey-brown, striped and patterned with black lines and closely spaced dots. His arms and legs bent and twisted like four snakes all trying to flee the torso in different directions. No human appendages could ever move in such a fashion. Most alarming was the fellow’s face. As I watched, his eyes sank into the grey-brown, mottled skin, nose following closely behind. His mouth stretched into a near perfect circle. Such a thing should not be possible, but after seeing his writhing limbs, my brain did not challenge the obvious reshaping of his jaw and cheeks. Some teeth had already fallen out and more were following. At the same time, row upon circular row of sharply pointed, glistening fangs pushed out in their place. Even the poor fellow’s tongue was changing into a fleshy proboscis, round and hollow and lashing back and forth.
I swear, Mable. Each word I write is God’s own truth. I stood transfixed by the horror, unable to move or make a sound. Despite all rational thought insisting the contrary, I was witnessing the transformation of a man into a man-sized leech. It bucked and twisted and flopped onto its belly. Moving like a collection of water snakes but with a speed that belied its size and assumed awkwardness, the monster slithered out of the tent. Men screamed and jumped out of its path as it pushed its way through the camp and toward the river. Reaching the banks, it plunged into the water and disappeared from sight.
Shaken to the core, I scanned the water, trying to find some indication of where the poor trapper-turned-monster had gone, but saw nothing. Nothing, that is, except a small, huddled shape on the far bank. There, blending almost perfectly with the rocks and mud, was the Memegwesi. It looked directly at me and waved in a manner that I can only describe as congenial before it too slipped into the water and was gone.
Chapter 23
“Lemme get this straight,” Dallas said, closing the journal. “Jerry’s great-granddaddy was a travelling salesman, he met a meme-whatsit, transported some magical leech across Wisconsin, and accidentally turned some poor guy into a monster? Come on, Lois. That’s ridiculous. What are the odds of that happening?”
Lois just shrugged. “Think about it, Dallas. That journal is over one hundred years old, and it tells us that, even then, there were supernatural creatures interacting with people right here, right where we live today. Also, it wasn’t just a fluke. Reginald’s Native American guide knew about the Memegwesi, so their people must’ve had contact with them for generations.”
“Right, which is why the Society exists. We kill ‘em dead, no offense Herb.”
“It’s okay, Dallas. I mean, it wouldn’t have been, but Lois brought me back, and we’re gonna get me my body back too, so we’re good,” Herb replied, tinny voice chipper with anticipation.
Dallas looked hard at Lois. “What’s he talking about, getting his body back?”
Lois hurried over to a bookshelf against the far wall and retrieved a large, black book with metal bindings, excitement plain in every step.
“It’s all in here. It’s where I learned the spell to reclaim the spirit of a lost one. If Herb still had a body, I could have put his spirit right back into it and brought him back to life. Pretty great, right?”
Lois started to flip through the pages.
“See? It’s old English, so it reads a little funny, but it really is like a recipe. Take the flesh, usually the body of the deceased, and place it in the circle with an object precious to the deceased. Everything else is just ingredients in the right amounts at the right time, a few arcane symbols,” she pointed at the strange geometric shapes drawn on the surface of the coffee table, “and the right incantations. In Herb’s case, all I had was some ash from the karaoke bar, so I had to find a vessel for his spirit and something precious. As it turned out, Milwaukee’s Best was precious to Herb, and the can was the perfect size to hold a soul.”
“You know me, Dal. I’ve loved that beer since I was old enough to reach the top of the bar,” Herb added.
“So,” Lois continued. “I put his ashes in the can, stoppered it with wax, and anchored his spirit within. Not ideal, I know.”
“Could be worse. At least now I don’t have to worry about matching my socks.”
Lois smiled. “But it would still be nice to get you back into a body.” Looking back to Dallas, she pleaded with her eyes.
“I know this is a lot to take in, but I really can bring Herb all the way back. I just need a body. According to the spell, it doesn’t even really matter what body. The spirit will shape it when it is returned.”
Dallas exhaled slowly. “For real? Like, for real for real? You can make Herb Herb again?” He looked at the beer can on the table that held his best friend and fought back tears.
“Herby, does that mean it could be like it was? You, me, Stanley, drinking beers and bowling, and everything could be normal again?”
“Oh heck yeah,” Herb replied. “I mean, pretty much, yeah. Just like it was before, um. Mostly. I guess.”
Dallas frowned. “Whadaya mean ‘mostly?’ What’s the catch?”
“Ah, well. Hmmm. Well, there’s Lois, you know. I mean, me and her, we’re a thing, now, so there’d be that,” Herb started, causing Dallas to laugh.
“You got nothing to worry about. I’m not going to try and steal your girl. Hell, you two have earned each other, that’s a fact. I swear, Big D won’t get in the way.”
“How very generous of you,” Lois remarked dryly.
“Well, that’s good. Um, real good, Dallas. The other thing is... So, you and Stanley can definitely drink those beers up. As much as you want. Me, though... Well, here’s the thing. When Lois brings me all the way back, I’m still gonna be a vampire, Dallas. Same rules. No sun, no church bake sales, and I’m gonna have to, you know, drink blood.”
At the mention of blood, Dallas felt his face suffuse with it. As his face reddened, his quick temper flared.
“No, no, no! No way. Lois, what the hell? You said you could bring back Herb. Herb, not a vampire!”
“Dallas, that’s who Herb is.”
“No. Just shut up. Shut the hell up, both of you,” Dallas snapped, running his hands through his hair.
“I can’t believe this. Herb’s a vampire, you’re a witch, and now you’re a witch that wants to bring back a vampire. What’s next? You gonna bring some zombies over from the local cemetery and let ‘em snack on our brains? Maybe get a werewolf from the local pound? Moses on a molehill, Lois! This is insane!”
Panic drove Dallas toward the door and away from Lois’s pleas.
“I’m sorry, Lois, but that’s it. You and Herb, you gotta get out of town. I can buy you a day, maybe two, but Colton’s gonna find out about this. You pretty much guaranteed that when you started flinging spells at Tia.”
“She started it,” Lois protested, but Dallas wasn’t hearing it.
“So pack your shit,” he continued. “Toss Herb in your purse and leave. If you’re still here in a few days, there’s gonna be hell to pay, Lois. Hell. To. Pay.”
Dallas slammed the
door behind him and practically ran to his truck. Revving the engine, he whipped a tight U-turn and sped for the highway, for his house, for his waiting bottles and flasks. He’d killed Herb once and might have to do it again. Lois, too, if she didn’t shape the hell up. It wasn’t a thought he could face sober.
Pressing down on the accelerator, he tried to outrun his thoughts. Night had fallen while he was at Lois’s. The dashed lines of the highway were caught in his headlights and sped past in a blur as he raced toward home. When he reached his house, he stormed inside, a thundercloud of confused rage. What was he supposed to do? Pushing his way into his kitchen, he rummaged through the detritus of bachelor life, looking for a beer or bottle of whiskey. The fridge was unacceptably empty, and the countertops only held a collection of empty bottles and cans.
“Figures,” he griped aloud. “Of all the times a fella needed a drink, now’s a helluva time to run dry.”
Leaning back against the counter, he looked around the room in search of inspiration when his eyes landed on a mason jar. Picking it up, he looked at the small wood tick inside.
“I’d forgotten about you, ya little jackass.” Holding it up for a better look, he contemplated the bug inside. “So what would you do, huh? Any advice for your old buddy Dal?”
As if in response, the tick started to quiver and shake. Dallas peered at it, perplexed. The little bug seemed to be rippling, and its eight legs bent and twitched. As he watched, its torso bloated like a tiny balloon, and small, dark hairs began popping out across its back.
“What in the hell?” he managed to wonder aloud before a sledgehammer slugged him in the gut.
For a moment, Dallas was sure someone had just shot him with a Colt .45. Dropping the jar, he clutched his stomach and cried out in surprise at the sudden and unexpected pain. Pulling up his shirt, he started to frantically look for the bullet hole he was sure must be there. Dragging his hands across his abdomen, he experienced a short moment of relief when no bloody hole was discovered. The relief was short-lived though. As his fingernails raked across his flesh, they left deep, bloody gashes in their wake. Crying out again in response to this new and equally unexpected pain, he pulled his hands up. His fingernails were lengthening as he watched, growing into yellowed, pointed claws. The hair on his arms was darkening, thickening, and getting longer. Losing control of his hands, he watched them bend forward and back while his wrists made sickening popping sounds.
Monsters in the Midwest (Book 2): Northwoods Wolfman Page 14
