Shapeshifters Anonymous
Excerpt from ORIGIN
Excerpt from THE LIST
Exclusive Ebooks by JA Konrath
I wrote this for the anthology Wolfsbane & Mistletoe, edited by Charlaine Harris and Toni L.P. Kelner. It was one of those stories that practically wrote itself. Werewolves have always been one of my favorite monsters, and I was thrilled to have a chance to cut loose and let my imagination run wild. Some quick notes: The Salvation Army is a wonderful organization with over 3.5 million volunteers, and I’m pretty sure none of them are cough syrup swilling psychotics. The names used in this story are all names of characters from famous werewolf movies. Unless someone tries to sue me, in which case I made all of them up. (L.L. Cool J also did a rocking version of “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.”) While the modern Bible is missing many of its original passages, the Book of Bob isn’t one of them. You’re probably getting it confused with the lost Book of Fred. Other than that, everything in this story is 100% true.
Robert Weston Smith walked across the snow-covered parking lot carrying a small plastic container of his poop.
Weston considered himself a healthy guy. At thirty-three years old he still had a six-pack, the result of working out three times a week. He followed a strict macrobiotic diet. He practiced yoga and tai chi. The last time he ate processed sugar was during the Reagan administration.
That’s why, when odd things began appearing in his bowel movements, he became more than a little alarmed. So alarmed that he sought out his general practitioner, making an appointment after a particularly embarrassing phone call to his office secretary.
Weston entered the office building with his head down and a blush on his ears, feeling like a kid sneaking out after curfew. He used the welcome mat to stamp the snow off his feet and walked through the lobby to the doctor’s office, taking a deep breath before going in. There were five people in the waiting room, two adults and a young boy, plus a nurse in pink paisley hospital scrubs who sat behind the counter.
Weston kept his head down and beelined for the nurse. The poop container was blue plastic, semi-opaque, but it might as well have been a police siren, blinking and howling. Everyone in the room must have known what it was. And if they didn’t at first, they sure knew after the nurse said in a loud voice, “Is that your stool sample?”
He nodded, trying to hand it to the woman. She made no effort to take it, and he couldn’t really blame her. He carried it, and a clipboard, over to a seat in the waiting room. Setting his poop on a table atop an ancient copy of Good Housekeeping, he got to work filling out his insurance information. When it came time to describe the nature of his ailment, he wrote down “intestinal problems.” Which was untrue---his intestines felt fine. It’s what came out of his intestines that caused alarm.
“What’s in the box?”
Weston looked up, staring into the big eyes of a child, perhaps five or six years old.
“It’s, um, something for the doctor.”
He glanced around the room, looking for someone to claim the boy. Three people had their noses stuck in magazines, one was watching a car commercial on the TV hanging from the ceiling, and the last appeared asleep. Any of them could have been his parent.
“Is it a cupcake?” the boy asked.
“Uh… yeah, a cupcake.”
“I like cupcakes.”
“You wouldn’t like this one.”
The boy reached for the container.
“Is it chocolate?”
Weston snatched it up and set it in his lap.
“No. It isn’t chocolate.”
“Show it to me.”
“No.”
The boy squinted at the sample. Weston considered putting it behind his back, out of the child’s sight, but there was no place to set it other than the chair. It didn’t seem wise to put it where he might lean back on it.
“It looks like chocolate. I think I can see peanuts.”
“Those aren’t peanuts.”
In fact, gross and disturbing as it sounded, Weston didn’t know what those lumps were. Which is why he was at the doctor’s office.
He glanced again at the three people in the waiting room, wondering why no one bothered to corral their son. Weston was single, no children. None of his friends had children. Being a mechanical engineer, he didn’t encounter children at his job. Perhaps today’s parents had no problems letting their kids walk up to strangers and beg for cupcakes.
“Mr. Smith?” the pink paisley nurse said. “Please come with me.”
Weston stood, taking his poop through the door, following the nurse down a short hallway and into an examining room.
“Please put on the gown. I’ll be back in a moment.”
She closed the door behind him. Weston stared at the folded paper garment, setting on the edge of a beige examination table also lined with paper. He set the container down on next to a jar of cotton swabs. Then he removed his coat, shoes, jeans, boxer shorts, and polo shirt, placed them in a neat pile on the floor, and slipped his arms through the gown’s sleeve holes. It felt like wearing a large, stiff napkin.
Weston shivered. It was cold in the room; examination rooms always seemed to be several degrees too cool for comfort. He stood there in his socks, rubbing his bare arms, waiting for the nurse to come back.
She eventually did, taking his temperature and blood pressure, then left him again with the promise that Dr. Waggoner would be there shortly.
A minute passed. Two. Three. Weston stared at the ceiling tiles, thinking about the hours he’d spent on the Internet looking for some sort of clue to what strange disease he had. There was plenty of disturbing content about bowel movements, including a website where people actually sent in pictures of theirs so others could rate them, but he’d found nothing even remotely close to the problem he was having.
The door opened, derailing his train of thought.
“Mr. Smith? I’m Dr. Waggoner. Please, sit down.”
Weston sat on the table, the paper chilly under his buttocks. Dr. Waggoner was an older man, portly. Bald, but with enough gray hair growing out of his ears to manage a comb over. He had on trendy round eyeglasses with a faux tortoise shell frame, and a voice that was both deep and nasally.
“Your blood pressure is normal, but your temperature is 100.5 degrees.” He snapped on some latex gloves. “How are you feeling right now?”
“Fine.”
“Any aches, pains, problems, discomforts?”
“No. I’m a little chilly, but that’s all.”
Dr. Waggoner removed some sort of scope and checked Weston’s eyes and ears as they talked.
“How long have you been having these intestinal problems?”
“Um, on and off for about three months. But they aren’t really intestinal problems. I’m finding, uh, strange things in my bowel movements.”
“Can you describe them for me?”
“Like little stones. Or things that look like strips of fabric.”
Dr. Waggoner raised an eyebrow.
“Well, I have to ask the obvious question first.”
Weston waited.
“Have you been eating little stones or strips of fabric?”
The doctor grinned like a Halloween pumpkin. Weston managed a weak smile.
“Not that I’m aware of, Doctor.”
“Good to know. Tell me about your diet. Has it changed recently? Eating anything new or exotic?”
“Not really. I eat mostly health foods, have been for the last ten years.”
“Been out of the country in the last six months?”
“No.”
“Do you eat a lot of rare meat, or raw vegetables?”
“Sometimes. But I don’t think
I have a tapeworm.”
Dr. Waggoner chuckled.
“Ah, the Internet. It gives everyone a doctorate in medicine.”
Weston did the open his mouth and say “aaaaah” thing, then said, “I know I’m not a doctor, but I checked a lot of sites, and the things in my stool, they don’t look like tapeworm segments.”
“Stones and fabric, you said. Can you be more specific?”
“The stones are sort of white. Some very small, like flecks. Other times bigger.”
“How big?”
“About the size of my thumb.”
“And the fabric?”
“There have been different colors. Sometimes red. Sometimes black. Sometimes blue.”
“How closely have you examined these items?”
Weston frowned. “Not too closely. I mean, I never took them out of the toilet and picked them up or anything. Except for that.” Weston pointed to the stool on the table.
“We’ll have the lab take a look at that. In the meantime, I’m going to have to take a look myself. Can you bend over the table and lift up your gown, please?”
Weston hoped it wouldn’t have to come to this, but he assumed the position while Dr. Waggoner applied some chilly lubricating jelly to his hand and the point of entry.
“Just relax. You’ll feel some pressure.”
It was a hell of a lot worse than pressure, and impossible to relax. Weston clenched his eyes shut and tried to concentrate on something, anything, other than the fat fingers going up the down staircase.
“You said this began three months ago. Has it been non-stop? Intermittent?”
“Only two or three days out of the month,” Weston grunted. “Then it goes back to normal.”
“When during the month?”
“Usually the last week.”
“Have you… wait a second. Stay still for a moment. I think I feel something.”
Which is the absolute last thing you want to hear when a doctor has his hand inside you. Weston held his breath, scrunched up his face. He didn’t know which was worse, the pain or the humiliation. Blessedly, mercifully, the hand withdrew.
“What is it, Doctor?”
“Hold on. I think there’s more. I’m going in again.”
Weston groaned, hating his life and everyone in it. The doctor went back in four additional times, so often that Weston was becoming used to it, a fact that disturbed him somewhat.
“I think that’s the last of it.”
“The last of what?”
Weston turned around, saw the physician staring at several objects on his palm.
Dr. Waggoner said. “A coat button, part of a zipper, and sixty three cents in change. Apparently you’re not eating as healthy as you think.”
Weston blinked, as if the act would make the objects disappear. They remained.
“This is going to sound like a lie,” Weston said. “But I didn’t eat those.”
“I had a colleague who once examined a man who wanted to get into one of those world record books by eating a bicycle, one piece at a time. He removed a reflector from the man’s rectum.”
“I’m serious, Doctor. I’m not eating buttons or change. I certainly didn’t eat a zipper.”
“It looks like a fly from a pair of jeans.” Dr. Waggoner chuckled again. “I know an old lady who swallowed a fly.”
“I didn’t eat a fly.”
“Okay. Then there’s only one alternative. Are you sexually active?”
Weston sighed. “I’m straight. Currently between girlfriends. And the only person who has been up there in my entire life has been you.”
Dr. Waggoner placed the objects in a bedpan and said, “You can sit down now.”
Weston got off all fours, but preferred to stand. He didn’t think he’d ever sit again.
“You think I’m lying to you.”
“These things didn’t just materialize inside you from another dimension, Mr. Smith. And you probably don’t have a branch of the US Treasury inside you, minting coins.”
At least someone seemed to be enjoying this. Weston wondered when he’d ask him to break a dollar.
“I’m telling the truth.”
“Do you have a roommate? One who likes practical jokes?”
“I live alone.”
“Do you drink? Do any drugs?”
“I have an occasional beer.”
“Do you ever drink too much? Have black outs? Periods where you don’t remember what happened?”
Weston opened his mouth to say no, but stopped himself. There were a few moments during the last few weeks that seemed sort of fuzzy, memory-wise. He wouldn’t call them black-outs. But he’d go to bed, but wake up in a different part of the house. Naked.
“I think I might sleep walk,” he admitted.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Dr. Waggoner pulled off his gloves, put them in the hazardous materials bin. “I’m going to refer you to a specialist.”
Weston scratched his head. “So you think I’m eating buttons and spare change in my sleep?”
“They’re getting inside you, one way or another. Consider yourself lucky. I once had a patient who, while sleepwalking, logged onto an internet casino and blew seventy-eight thousand dollars.”
“So he came to see you for help with sleepwalking?”
“He came to see me to set his broken nose, after his wife found out. Don’t worry, Mr. Smith. I’m going to prescribe a sleep aid for you tonight, to help curb late-night snacking, and the specialist will get to the root of your problem. Sleepwalking is usually the result of stress, or depression.”
Weston frowned. “This doctor you’re referring me to. Is he a shrink
“His name is Dr. Glendon. He’s a psychiatrist. My nurse will set up an appointment for you. In the meantime, try to lock up all the small, swallowable objects in your home.”
Weston walked home feeling like an idiot. An idiot who sat on a cactus. His apartment, only a few blocks away from the doctor’s office, seemed like fifty miles because every step stung.
The sun was starting to set, and Naperville had its holiday clothes on. Strands of white lights hung alongside fresh evergreen wreaths and bows, decorating every lamp post and storefront window. The gently falling snow added to the effect, making the street look like a Christmas card.
None of it cheered Weston. Since his job moved him to Illinois, away from his family and friends in Asheville, North Carolina, he’d been down. But not actually depressed. All Weston knew about depression came from watching TV commercials for anti-depressants. He’d never seen a commercial where the depressed person ate nickels, but maybe Dr. Waggoner was on to something.
Fishing his keys from his jeans, he was about to stick them in the lock of the security door when it opened suddenly. Standing there, all four feet of her, was his mean next door neighbor. Weston didn’t know her name. She probably didn’t know his either. She simply called him “Loud Man.” Every twenty minutes she would bang on the wall between their apartments, screaming about him making noise. If he turned on the TV, she’d bang — even when it was at its lowest setting. If the phone rang, she’d bang. When the microwave beeped, she’d bang. She even banged while he was brushing his teeth.
He’d called the landlord about her, three times. Each occasion, Weston got the brush off.
“She’s eccentric,” he was told. “No family. You should ignore her.”
Easy for the landlord to say. How do you ignore someone who won’t let you into your own door?
Weston tried to step around her, but the old woman folded her arms and didn’t budge. She had light brown skin, and some sort of fabric tied to the top of her head. Weston couldn’t help staring at her ears, which had distinctive, gypsy-like gold hoops dangling from them. The ears themselves were huge, probably larger than Weston’s hands. Maybe if his ears were that big, he’d complain all the time about noise too.
Her dog, some sort of tiny toy breed with long fur and a mean disposition, saw Weston and began t
o yap at him, straining against his leash. It had a large gold tag on his collar that read “ROMI.”
“Excuse me,” Weston said, trying to get by.
The old woman stayed put. So did Romi.
“I said, excuse me.”
She pointed a crooked old finger at him.
“Loud Man! You keep noise down!”
“They have these things called earplugs,” Weston said. “I think they come in extra large.”
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