by Rick Hautala
Julie’s hands were shaking. Her long fingernails clicked together as she swung the red cord behind her back, looped it over once, and tied it in a loose knot that hung on her left side. Except for the braided red sash, she was naked as she stood beneath the tree in her front yard and looked up at the moon.
Tonight, she thought, tonight is the most blessed and holy of nights. All Hallows Eve! The beginning of Samhain!
Shivering, she ran her hands over her body, teasing her nipples until they stood out like spikes. She kept her eyes fixed on the moon, a thin fingernail-pairing that was hanging low in the sky out over the lake.
Slowly, her hands opened as though to grab something. She reached up over her head and lowered them three times.
“Feel the rising strength of our sister moon,” she muttered softly. “Feel it build. Feel it grow like the unwinding power of a coiled serpent. Come! Give me power!”
Turning quickly, she walked into her house, snapped off all the lights, locked the door, and walked ceremoniously down the steps to her cellar.
She had drawn the pentangle earlier. Five small yellow candles burned, one in each point of the star. A worn leather bag and a jar had been placed in the center of the star. Carefully, so as not to smudge the lines, Julie stepped within the magic diagram.
“Come! Aid me! Give me power!” she said in a voice loud and hard with authority. She turned slowly counterclockwise as she uttered a brief prayer for protection. When this was done, she brushed the hair from her eyes and dropped to her knees in front of the leather pouch and the jar.
Eyes closed, she sat for a long time with her hands placed lightly on her thighs. Her skin glistened with sweat, even though the room was cool and damp. Her breathing sounded almost as if she were asleep, but it began to increase in tempo as she began to move her hands over her body, caressing herself. She held her heavy breasts in her hands and moaned softly as she massaged them.
Opening her eyes, she looked around at the dark corners of the cellar. Then, sighing, she reached into the leather bag, withdrawing a small rectangle of cloth, a torn pocket from a man’s shirt. In the light of the candles, the piece of cloth seemed almost to glow.
Carefully, she flattened the faded cloth out on the earthen floor. Then, uncovering the jar, she poured a small amount of its contents onto the piece of cloth, her nose wrinkling from the thick stench of belladonna, ash, sweet flag, and chicken fat. The mixture poured like coagulated India ink.
She rubbed the gooey liquid into the cloth with her index finger, then sat back on her heels with satisfaction. After a moment, she reached into the leather bag again and withdrew a square of bristly gray fur, like that of a dog.
She repeated the procedure of pouring out a small amount of the black mixture and rubbing it into the piece of fur. Taking the cloth in one hand, the fur in the other, she stood up and raised them over her head.
“On the open field shines the moon, the silver goddess,” she said shrilly. The noxious odor of the substance grew stronger, and she had to fight back her gag reflex.
“On the ashen stump, in the greenwood, runs the shaggy wolf into the moonlit night.” Her voice grew firmer, stronger.
She held the two pieces of material overhead and slowly brought them together. Grunting, she pressed them against each other and watched as the black mixture oozed out from between them and ran down her arms. A thrill coursed through her body.
“Under his teeth are all the beasts of the wild!” she shrilled. Her breathing grew shorter, sharper. Lines of sweat rolled from her armpits down her sides. The now joined pieces made a faint squishing sound as she rubbed them together.
She knelt down again and carefully, so as not to burn the cloth and fur, held them over the candle at the top point of the star. Just as they started to singe, she pulled them back and sat on her heels.
“Moon! Moon! Silver horns! Melt the bullet and blunt the knife that none may take the life. Strike fear into the hearts of men, beast, and reptile! None may kill the gray wolf nor steal from him his warm hide!”
Her voice broke as air came into her throat like fire. She jabbed her index finger into the black mixture and, in one quick slash, drew a thick line across her forehead. The mixture seemed to burn her skin and she began to sway wildly back and forth as though intoxicated.
She raised her hands over her head and made two fists, which she shook at the ceiling. “My word is as firm as the death of the world!”
She dipped her hand into the mixture again and this time scooped up a large glop. Spreading her legs, she applied it to her vagina. Gently, she started to rock forward and backward until the tempo gradually increased. She ran her black coated finger inside herself and groaned with a deep passion.
There was a sudden rush, a roaring in her ears like a blast of wind. Dripping sweat, her body shook with a prolonged shudder. The flames of the candles in the room seemed to sputter and flicker. Julie watched, dumb with fright, unsure if the raging wind was just in her ears or really there in the closed confines of her cellar.
Her hands fluttered to her face, covering her mouth as it twisted with soundless words. Then, falling backward on the hard floor, she passed out. Her hand was still clutching the black-stained cloth and fur.
.V.
The coffee was still warm in his belly as Lisa pulled her car into the high school parking lot. The lot was empty except for Bob’s car. The school was dark and quiet. It had, surprisingly, suffered little of the usual Halloween damage.
“Thanks for all of your help,” Lisa said, as she pulled up beside Bob’s car and shifted into neutral. “I’m, I’m sorry if I upset you with anything I said.”
“It wasn’t you,” Bob replied soothingly. “But I’ll tell you one thing, I sure hope to hell old Jeff wakes up with a terrific hangover and the taste of parakeet shit in his mouth.”
Lisa grunted.
“Well, I’ll give you a call tomorrow to see how everything is. You’re not afraid he’ll, he’ll hurt you, are you?”
Lisa shook her head. “He probably won’t even remember it.”
“Good for him!” Bob said. He got out and went over to his car. He waited while Lisa drove out of the parking lot, and then followed behind her, giving her a quick toot on his horn.
Lisa turned right, heading back into town. Bob turned left toward Old Jepson’s Road. Then, on an impulse, instead of taking another left toward home, he turned right and headed out to the cemetery. He was thinking that a quick swing past the cemetery would, would—“What?” he asked himself out loud. “What the hell are you doing?”
He bit down on his lower lip as he slowed for the turn. On his right he could see the grove of cedars standing out dark against the starry sky. As he drove along one side of the graveyard, he chanced an occasional glance at the rows of tombstones.
“Well,” he said to himself, “what better place to be on Halloween night?” He was driving slowly along the length of the cemetery, looking for—for what? Vandals? The white cat? A dog that looks like a wolf, with human hands?
He shuddered, and then grunted with surprise when he saw something sitting, hunched up by one of the granite gates.
Too big to be the white cat! he thought as he peered ahead at the indistinct form. He drew up close to the gate and swung his car up so the light fell full upon the driveway into the graveyard.
Sitting in the ground, leaning against the granite gatepost, stripped naked and tied with more than a dozen loops of rope was Ned Simmons.
Bob sat behind the steering wheel staring openmouthed for a moment. “Good Lord,” he muttered, switching off the car and getting out.
Ned, apparently unsure who had driven up, squinted into the glaring headlights with a mixture of hope and fear. Bob walked over quickly to the trussed-up boy and started working to loosen the knots.
“Who did this to you?” Bob asked.
Ned didn’t reply, but Bob thought he had a pretty good idea who was to blame for this humiliation. As Bob worked to un
tie Ned, Ned let his chin hang loosely on his chest. Bob moved the boy around and he was surprised at how loose and flaccid the boy’s body seemed.
“I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me who did this?” Bob asked gently. He had Ned’s hands free and started to work on the ropes that bound his ankles.
“Well,” he said, “if you won’t tell me, I’ll—”
“You don’t know who did this?” Ned said suddenly, in a voice cracked and raw from screaming. “Go on, take a guess.”
Once he got Ned’s feet free, Bob helped the boy to his feet. He had to support him until the circulation returned to his legs.
“Where’d they leave your clothes?” Bob asked.
“Over there,” Ned replied, indicating the ditch on the other side of the road. Bob started to coil up the rope.
“Well, go and get them. Get dressed, and I’ll give you a ride home.”
Ned’s lower lip was trembling furiously as he backed away from Bob and crossed the street. A low growl rattled in his throat. Then, suddenly, he dashed down into the ditch, scooped up his clothes, and started running down the street.
“Hey!” Bob yelled, surprised at how fast Ned ran. “Come on back! I’ll give you a ride!” He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted again, but had to stand there uselessly as Ned receded into the darkness that swallowed the road past the streetlight.
Bob turned and walked sullenly back to his car. He drove home and, feeling dejected, walked into the bathroom. He hadn’t noticed that, as he drove, he had picked at the scab that remained from the cat’s scratch. He looked in the mirror and saw a thick trickle of blood drying on his cheek.
PART II:
The Moonlight in His Cave
Chapter Nine
.I.
Monday, November 17
Frank Simmons was grateful for the light dusting of snow that had fallen overnight. It made it much easier to follow the trail of the wounded deer he was following. For over an hour he had been tracking the splotches of blood that diffused and turned pink in the snow.
He knew he was getting close to the animal, but he took no precautions to try to be silent. Judging by the amount of blood he had seen, the animal would have to weaken and die soon. He hoped so. It was getting dark and the last thing he wanted was a fine for hunting at night. But he had an obligation to end the wounded animal’s misery.
As he scuffled down a birch-tree-covered hill, he caught a glimpse of the full moon rising off to his left. It would provide enough light to find his way home, he thought, and then he didn’t feel quite so bad when the sun dipped down below the distant mountains.
Dusk gathered quickly, and the blood stains on the snow turned brick-red. Frank could tell by the tingling on the back of his neck that the wounded deer was nearby.
He stopped and listened. The forest was silent except for the hissing of the wind in the branches. The dark purple of the sky closed over the lighter bands of clouds. Adjusting his rifle in his armpit, he followed the deer’s footprints. They looked like small inkwells in the snow.
Frank chuckled softly to himself. Here it was, just one week into hunting season, and soon, very soon, he would be tagging his kill. What luck! Luck? No, Frank thought, shaking his head, skill. Skill! The others can set up their jack lights and salt licks, or hope to hit a deer while driving. He was the hunter, the stalker!
The trail turned abruptly to the right and ran down the slope to a small stream that wound its way through a boulder-strewn hollow. Frank could see where the deer had stopped and drunk from the still-running water. The ice on the edge of the stream was broken, and the trail continued on the other side.
Frank paused and scanned the other side. The deer might have fallen behind any of the large boulders. It couldn’t go much further, he knew. The wind picked up suddenly, and the branches of the birch trees behind him clattered wildly, like rattling dice.
Was that the deer over there? That rounded gray form? Frank raised his rifle and took careful aim. He couldn’t be sure in the darkness, so he waited, hoping it would move so he could finish it off with one clean shot.
He stood by the edge of the stream waiting, savoring the end of the hunt. Behind him, he heard a sound that made him jump. It was muffled, like the tearing of cloth. He flicked his eyes to the side, but kept the fallen deer directly in the sights of his rifle.
The wind, or a falling branch, he thought, but when the sound was repeated, he turned around and scanned the slope of the hill.
He saw what looked like the shadow of a cloud moving easily between the birch trees, gliding along the path Frank had made down the hill. As it got closer, the shadow took on a more distinct form.
“No. By Jesus, no!” Frank muttered, as he finally saw clearly the shape of a large dog. Without hurry and apparently without fear, the black shape drew closer.
Thin, pointed muzzle, hunched shoulders, spindly legs, and erect tail raised like a pennant—Frank recognized with mounting horror the shape of a wolf.
“Impossible,” he whispered. His rifle, forgotten, hung loosely in his hand.
Thirty feet from him, the animal stopped and rose to its full height.
Frank realized with a flood of fear that he was looking at the horror of his nightmare, the dream that had so frightened him that night at Julie’s house. The black shape glared at him, its green eyes flashing in the moonlight. It tilted back its head and let loose a long, mournful howl that throbbed in the still night.
Frank took a step backwards into the stream. His hands were shaking as he watched the animal lower its head and couch close to the ground. The wolf’s haunches worked back and forth as it prepared to attack. The beast’s growl rose, rumbling, keeping time with the pulsing beat in Frank’s ears.
The present reality and the memory of his dream merged. In blind panic, Frank raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired.
The report shattered the night. An orange flame leaped from the rifle barrel. The animal thrust its head forward and then charged.
Quickly, Frank cocked the rifle and took more careful aim. The wolf launched just as the rifle roared. The animal let out a yelp as Frank saw the jaws open to engulf him. The white teeth flashed in the moonlight and Frank felt the animal’s fetid breath on his face. Then the jaws clamped down on his shoulder with a tearing, ripping pain.
Frank was carried back by the weight of the animal. His arms pinwheeled wildly, looking for support behind him, and his rifle flew off into the darkness.
For a frenzied moment, Frank lay in the stream. The animal withdrew and paced on the shore, studying the wounded man. With his arm hanging uselessly at his side, Frank scrambled up the shore and finally collapsed beside one of the large boulders. He leaned back, letting his head rest against the cold stone as he watched the animal pacing back and forth on the other shore.
The warm flood of blood from his torn shoulder soaked through his shirt and seeped down his side and back. In a dull, dim way, he knew that even if the animal didn’t attack again, he would probably die from blood loss before he could get out of the woods.
The beast’s gravelly growl rose in intensity, and the green eyes glowed and pulsated in the dark. Then with remarkable ease, the wolf leapt the stream and in two bounds shot at Frank.
The jaws reached for Frank’s throat and clamped shut, severing Frank’s windpipe and neck arteries with the quick slash. A fountain of blood shot up from his neck, spattering the animal’s mane.
A dark, widening abyss slid open beneath Frank, and he drifted easily into a realm where, mercifully, the pain ceased to matter.
The wolf, crouching beside the dead man, was still slightly dazed from the bullet which had creased its skull. With its muzzle resting in the warm, spreading pool of blood, the animal waited until the body stopped twitching. Once silence had settled back on the forest, the wolf tore open the man’s belly and began to eat.
.II.
Later that night, as the full moon sank behind a bank of clouds, a wounded deer st
ruggled to its feet, took three wobbling steps, and then fell down dead. At least it had not died alone.
.III.
Tuesday, November 18
The sun was not yet up when Ned awoke with a start. The dream that had made him twist and groan on his bed all night slowly faded as the sky began to brighten. Slowly, reluctantly, the dream gave way to a dull ache that soon blossomed into a sharp headache. His eyes came to rest on the lightening gray square of the ceiling, and for a moment he felt better. Then the waves of pain increased with his pounding pulse.
Ned heard the scuffling of his mother’s bedroom slippers at the foot of the stairs. “Ned? Frank? Get up now!” she called.
Her voice made Ned jump, and the movement caused such great pain he almost screamed aloud. Finally, with some effort, he managed to say, “Yeah, yeah. Coming.”
He ran his fingers through his hair and found that on the left side of his head, the hair was matted into sticky clumps. He sat up and looked down at his pillow. The pillow case was smeared with blood.
The dream came back, clearer and more real. He leaped from bed and stood there looking at the bloody pillow, shaking.
“Ned! Frank! Right now!”
How can a dream make you bleed? Ned wondered madly. Can a dream be so real it can really have a physical effect?
Ned took three quick steps over to his bureau and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His skin was ashy pale in the morning light, and the left side of his face was crusted with blood. He felt the wound on his forehead with his fingers, gently at first; then he pulled the cut open. Blood ran down and fell onto the top of the bureau.
“Ned! Frank!”
“I’m coming,” Ned answered weakly, and then for the first time realized that Frank hadn’t answered.
“Frank?” his mother shouted.
Still no answer.
It didn’t really happen! Ned thought. It couldn’t! How could it? The pounding in his head increased as Ned stared intently at his reflection. As he focused on the small black circles of his pupils, he had a sudden sensation of being almost transparent, ghostlike.
