The Wavering Werewolf: A Monsterrific Tale (Monsterrific Tales)

by David Lubar

  “Norman Weed?” the man asked, extending a hand. His voice was deep and full of confidence. This was not a man who worried about the small things in life.

  I nodded and watched as my own hand vanished within his grip. I sensed that he could crush my fingers to mush if he wanted to.

  “Teridakian,” he said. “Zoltan Teridakian. My brother spoke to me of you. I am a hunter, also. But of another sort. I believe you can help me.”

  “How?” I stared into his eyes. Whatever bumbling ran through the Teridakian bloodline, this man had received none of it. He looked very competent. He looked dead serious.

  Seven

  THE HUNTER

  “My brother has wasted his life chasing after fantasies,” Teridakian said. “He seems to believe the world is awash with vampires. Even when he was a child, his mind ran away with him. The other children and I would hide behind trees and then jump out to scare him.” He paused and smiled, as if reliving fond memories. Then he shook his head and continued. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have done it. Perhaps that is why he is what he is. But I am not here to talk about my poor brother. Unlike Husker, I hunt what is real.” He raised his hands, as if holding a rifle, and sighted down the barrel at me.

  For an instant, I felt my body freeze. For another instant, I had the urge to slash at his hands and knock the invisible gun from his grip. My right hand started to curl into a claw. I could feel my back muscles grow tight as I prepared to lash out. But that was crazy. I couldn’t believe I was about to slash at an invisible gun.

  Teridakian lowered his hands. “I hunt what is real,” he repeated, “but not what is natural. There are creatures beyond those most people are aware of—creatures of the night and of the shadows. I know they are real. Legends do not spring from thin air. Behind each myth is a reality. There is something in your town. I’ve seen the signs and followed trails. You, too, may have seen something. You may not even realize what it is you’ve seen.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, struggling to keep my voice calm.

  “The strange, the unusual, the unexplained,” he said. “The trail has led me to your town. Others may believe there is nothing here beyond rumors and imagination, but the cause is real, very real.”

  I shook my head. “I still don’t know what you mean.”

  He placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. “That does not matter for now. Just be alert. You are an observer. You see. You think. You can help me find what I seek. This will be my finest moment, my greatest challenge. I was born for this hunt.” He paused and nodded his head, almost bowing. “I will be in touch with you.”

  With that he spun away and strode down the steps, leaving me to stand and watch him walk off.

  As I started to close the door, I caught a glimpse of motion from across the street. Someone was crouched behind a tree on the other curb, watching me. I heard a car coming down from the corner and glanced in its direction. In the wash of the headlights, I expected to catch a better view of the watcher, but when I looked again, there was nobody there.

  This situation could become very bad. The last time a Teridakian had come to town, there was all sorts of trouble. I had to tell Splat about this. “I’m going out,” I called to my parents.

  “Have fun. Don’t be too late,” Mom said from the kitchen.

  “Bye,” Dad called.

  I went down the steps and headed for Splat’s house. The next thing I saw made me wonder if I really was losing my grip on reality. Up ahead, there was a clown doing something to a telephone pole. It all looked so out of place that I closed my eyes for a moment. When I looked again, he was still there, facing the pole, leaning over. I got closer and the scene didn’t change. It was a clown. He was holding a flashlight in one hand and a marking pen in the other. He was mumbling something. Before I reached the pole, he straightened up and walked down the street to the next pole. I caught some of his words and realized it wasn’t the sort of language a kid was supposed to hear, and it certainly wasn’t the sort of language a clown was supposed to use.

  I stopped to look at what he’d done. There was a circus poster on the pole. At the bottom, in the spot that listed the big attractions, the clown had crossed out the part about the Monkey Boy. I moved ahead. With the clown stopping at every pole, the distance between us grew shorter and shorter. I passed him several poles later.

  I was going to say something, but despite the big smile painted on his face, he didn’t seem very happy. I guess I wouldn’t be happy either if I had to walk all over town dressed as a clown, spending my evening scratching off the Monkey Boy from a couple of hundred posters. So I kept my mouth shut and went on toward Splat’s house.

  Angelina answered the door. She’s Splat’s older sister. As far as I can tell, her main reason for existence is to keep the malls in business. I mean, she’s reasonably bright, and she seems to have a talent for poetry, but she’s more interested in appearances than anything else.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said, apparently annoyed that I dared to exist. She walked away, leaving the door open.

  I went up to Splat’s room. He was looking at comic books with Rory, who couldn’t quite read yet, but was learning to pick out a few words.

  “Norman,” Rory said, giving me a big smile. “I’m reading comics.”

  “That’s great. Listen, Splat, you won’t believe who I met.”

  “Another wolf?” Splat asked, not bothering to raise his gaze from his copy of Swollen Rat People.

  “Nope,” I said, trying to ignore his taunt, “another Teridakian.”

  “What?” That got his attention. The comic dropped out of his hands and fluttered to his lap.

  I nodded. “This one doesn’t chase vampires. He’s a hunter.”

  “What does he hunt?” Splat asked.

  “He…” I realized Teridakian had never told me. “I don’t know.”

  “So what are you worried about?” he asked.

  I didn’t know the answer to that, either. All I could do was shrug.

  “You think too much. That’s your problem. Here,” Splat said, pointing to a stack of comics, “help yourself.”

  “Thanks.” I took a copy of Ultimate Conqueror and joined Splat and Rory in the pursuit of fine literature. As much as I love great books, sometimes there’s nothing like a good comic to get your mind settled. While I immersed myself in the adventures described on the colorful pages in my hands, I actually forgot about the hunter. But this slice of regular life, reading comics with my buddies, was just about the last normal experience I would have before things turned very strange.

  Eight

  FACE-TO-FACE

  On the way home from Splat’s house, I believe I ran again. I don’t know for sure. One moment, I was walking down his porch steps, the next, I found myself near my own porch, slightly out of breath, though less winded than the last time. My skin felt chilled, as if I had been standing in a breeze or moving through the air.

  There have been times when I’ve been deep in thought and lost track of what was happening around me. Once, when I was trying to figure out a very tricky physics problem, I actually rode my bike all the way to the park without really being aware of where I was going. Several times, I know I’ve walked all the way home from school without noticing where I was going.

  But during those other times, I’d been thinking about stuff. This time, I couldn’t recall any thoughts.

  “Excuse me.…”

  The voice caught me by surprise. I let out one of my less-intelligent-sounding grunts, along the lines of “Huh?”

  Someone stepped up from the shadows, moving toward the edge of the dim circle cast by the streetlight down the block, but kept his head hunched down so I couldn’t make out his face. “Is there a bus station in town?” he asked. He spoke slowly, as if it was difficult for him to form the words. He appeared to be about my height, but his voice was that of an adult.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  There was a pause; th
en he said, “Anywhere. Away. Just away.”

  I realized I’d had no business asking that question. I’d been the victim of enough curiosity to know it wasn’t right to pry into the problems of another person. The thought of someone who was so desperate to leave a place that he would settle for going anywhere else—anywhere at all—was a very sad thought. He was still waiting for directions. I pointed toward the center of Lewington. “Go straight up this street for two blocks, then turn right at the corner. That will take you all the way to the middle of town. The bus station is across the street from the supermarket.”

  “Thank you.” He walked toward me, his head still down.

  He was wrapped in strangeness, almost as if it were a layer of bandages he could never remove. As he went past, I felt myself grow tense. But I wasn’t tensing from fear. I sensed a difference in him that made me uncomfortable. I wondered if this was the way Splat felt around insects.

  The man must have sensed something, too. He stopped and turned back to face me. Then he lifted his head. At that instant, there was no doubt who he was. His hair-covered face, twisted and deformed, showed no sign of expression as he stared at me.

  “You … you’re with the circus.…”

  “I was with them. I’ve left.”

  With that, the Monkey Boy resumed his walk toward the bus that would carry him away from town. I wondered what torture it must be for him, a human trapped in that small body and cursed with a face that had driven him to a life in the circus. The next time I felt like complaining about some tiny problem or minor annoyance, I knew I would think of him—I would see him in my mind and be content with my own situation.

  I went into my house and up the stairs. But my body itched. I wondered whether I had rolled through poison ivy when I was in the woods. That would not be pleasant. I’d only touched poison ivy once, and it was a miserable experience. I showered, but that didn’t help the itching as much as I thought it would.

  As I was climbing into bed, I heard a rip. The sheet tore where I’d pulled it, shredding beneath my grip. My nails had grown longer than I’d realized. I cut them, then went to sleep.

  And ran.

  I ran in my dreams. I ran along a sandy beach, staying at the very edge between water and land. It wasn’t easy keeping in the middle—the water was constantly moving. But I managed. I ran along the beach and toward the moon.

  To my left, the water crashed in waves upon the beach, churning, changing, flowing. To my right, the land was solid and firm. Part of me wanted to dive into the wild freedom of the water and swim away. Another part of me wanted to climb to the safety and security of high ground and stand upon the rocks that rose above the beach. I couldn’t decide—to choose one way meant giving up the other—so I ran along the edge.

  The moon was huge, as large in size as I was. The light seemed warm and soft. It pulled at me. I ran for miles.

  When I woke, I remembered the dream. The thought excited me. My heart pounded. Mostly, I remembered that I did not run upright but on all fours. As I got ready for school, the memory of the dream faded.

  Mom was always telling me that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Sometimes I’m not hungry when I get up, but I certainly didn’t argue with her that morning. I was starving. I ate a hearty breakfast, then headed off to class.

  I was three blocks from school when I saw Spud Mellon walking toward me. You don’t know me, I thought, wishing hard that he wouldn’t recognize me. You’ve never seen me before. You don’t even see me now. I tried to keep a calm, steady pace and act as if there were nothing wrong. He drew closer. I avoided his eyes. He was almost up to me. Then he was next to me.

  I held my breath. He was behind me. I’d gotten past him. I let the breath out. Luck was with me this morning. He’d forgotten all about what I’d done in the movie. He didn’t recognize me.

  “Hey, I know you!” The shout blasted through me like a punch in the stomach.

  I heard the grinding of the soles of his shoes on the sidewalk as he spun back toward me. “Gonna get you.”

  I glanced back. Spud Mellon was racing toward me, his face glowing with the anticipation of the pain he was about to inflict.

  Nine

  HOWL ABOUT THAT?

  The best I could hope for, once he caught me, was that he’d lose interest in hurting me before he did any serious damage. With luck, he’d just hit me a couple of times and then decide I was too soft and small to be much fun as a punching bag. I didn’t see any way to escape. He was big and slow, but he was right behind me and I’m not a fast runner.

  I gave it my best shot. I tucked my head down and pumped my arms and sprinted. Any instant, I expected to be yanked to a halt as he grabbed the back of my jacket and lifted me in the air like a small bag of pretzels.

  Behind me, the sound of his footsteps grew fainter. Puzzled, I risked another glimpse back. I had actually managed to pull away from him by a half a block. I looked ahead. There was a house on the corner with a stone wall running along the front and sides of the yard. I wondered if I could gain some more distance by making a sharp turn. I shot to the left, hugging the wall. For an instant, I was out of his sight. Ahead of me, I noticed a huge oak tree by the curb to my right.

  I watched this next part. I mean, I did it, but it was almost as if I just watched it happen. I ran right at the tree—straight at it. Then, and this is the only way I can describe it, I hit the trunk with one foot and then the next and I was running up the tree. I didn’t run far, but my momentum carried me high enough to grab a branch. The next thing I knew, I was crouched on that branch, staring down at the street below me.

  Spud came around the corner a second later. At first, he kept running, not seeming to realize that I was no longer in front of him. Then he slowed. He stopped right beneath me. He stood, looking around like a dog does when you hide his favorite toy, trying to see where I had gone.

  From above, I focused on the back of his neck. It would be so easy to drop down on him. I had the advantage. I could take him out before he knew what hit him. I could knock him flat with almost no effort. I could—

  What was I thinking? I shook my head, trying to throw off the image of tackling this monster below me. I couldn’t believe I had seriously thought about leaping on him from the tree. I wasn’t even sure how I was going to get down. To tell the truth, I wasn’t even completely sure I knew how I had gotten up there.

  So I just waited. In a few minutes, he wandered off, muttering, “Gonna get him. Gonna get him real good. Pound him to pieces.”

  I held on to the branch and hung down. The ground seemed awfully far away, but I couldn’t think of any other way to get out of the tree. I let go and dropped. For an instant, I was weightless. Then my feet hit. My knees bent. I absorbed the shock.

  As far as I could tell, I was unhurt. None of my bones had snapped from the impact. I walked back to the corner and peeked out past the wall, making sure Spud Mellon wasn’t in sight. Then I hurried to school.

  The rest of the morning went by without incident. Lunch was fine, though I ate a lot more than usual. After that, things got even stranger.

  I was on my way to class from lunch when I passed by the music room. Several kids from the band were practicing, and I stopped outside the door to listen. In some ways, music is a lot like math. Maybe that’s why I like it. One of the kids was playing the clarinet. It sounded really good.

  I’m not very musical, myself. That particular skill seems to have eluded my family entirely. Mom and I leave the room whenever Dad starts singing. Mom claims I started crying every time she tried to sing me a lullaby when I was a baby.

  I’m no better. When they first let us learn an instrument in school, I thought I wanted to take the violin. I still remember what happened after I made my request. The music teacher, Ms. DiGamba, played a couple of notes on the piano and asked me to sing them. I guess I didn’t come very close. She made this squished-up face like she had just eaten a particularly crunchy insect, then said to
me, “Drums, lad, think about drums. I wouldn’t suggest you venture anywhere near the violin.” In other words, as much as I like listening to it, making music isn’t one of my strong points.

  But I couldn’t help singing along that afternoon. The clarinet just made me feel good. I had to join in. Each note stroked me like a warm breeze. I really started getting into the melody. I was with it. I was cool. I was happening. I became the music and the music became me. Then I heard another sound mixing with the instruments and realized I wasn’t alone. I was surrounded by a crowd of kids who were laughing and pointing.

  “Norman is really out of his skull this time,” someone said.

  “Maybe it’s an experiment,” someone else said.

  There were a few other comments of equally low wit and depth. I guess my singing must have been pretty bad. “Yeah, I was experimenting with harmonic resonance,” I said. “The acoustical nature of this hallway, when compared to a typical Venturi structure, is quite enlightening.” I continued to talk about the science of acoustics and the nature of sound. That did the trick.

  As the crowd melted away, I noticed Splat standing there, looking puzzled. “What were you doing?” he asked.

  I was about to answer when I realized I wasn’t really sure. I’d thought I’d been singing, but I couldn’t remember the words. “What do you think I was doing?” I asked.

  “Howling,” Splat said.

  “Howling?”

  He nodded. “Like a dog. Normy coyote. Just howling along.” He grinned, then went, “Awwwoooooooo.”

  “Are you sure I wasn’t singing?” Try as I might, I couldn’t remember what I had sounded like. I just knew I was singing out my soul along with the clarinet.

  “Positive. Believe me—you definitely weren’t singing.” He laughed; then he stared at me and said, “You look different. Did you get a haircut or something?”