by Rick Hautala
“But the more men we have out hunting, the sooner we stand a chance of getting this animal. We can—”
“We got plenty of good men right here in town,” Doyle said. “I think we can take care of it.”
“That’s right,” Thurston said. “Now, with a holiday tomorrow, most everyone’ll have the day off. Why don’t we get together this afternoon and work out a plan?”
Seavey shifted uneasily. “Lots of folks got plans for the holiday. Bess and I were thinkin’ of going out to Vermont to see Jeffrey.”
“OK. OK,” Thurston said. “Then let’s make it Friday. Friday evening we’ll meet here. Ask around. Try to get as many people with guns as you can get.” Thurston stood rubbing his hands together.
“Sounds good,” Seavey said, rising. McCann and Doyle followed close behind him.
Granger cleared his throat. “Just one thing before you go, fellas. I think you’re making a serious mistake. As police chief of the town, I have the authority to call in anyone I want to help us. If this doesn’t work, if by the end of the week we haven’t turned up one dead dog, I’m gonna get in touch with Major Normal at the Armory. And”—he took off his badge and dropped it on his desk—“right after that, you can find yourself a new police chief.”
Thurston shook his head. “Don’t worry, Roy. We’ll get him.”
.II.
Ned peered ahead intently as he followed the circle of light trail along the walls and floor of the abandoned silver mine. The dried-out wooden support-beams that traversed the ceiling were thick with cobwebs. Everywhere he looked he was reminded of at least a dozen movies in which the beams would sway and creak, a little shower of dirt and gravel would sprinkle down, the ceiling would moan, and then the whole thing would come crashing down, trapping the miners underneath the mountain.
He stopped short and looked back around at the pale blue patch of sky still visible at the mouth of the mine. He had to fight back the impulse to flee the mine. He swallowed hard and pushed on into the darkness, following the dot of light.
After another hundred yards, he came to where the mine branched off in two directions. He knew that he had to take the left passage, but before continuing, he checked for the red slash of paint he had put on one of the beams.
The bundle he was carrying—a down-filled sleeping bag rolled thick with extra clothing, a heavy winter jacket, and a dozen cans of food—was beginning to hurt his arm. He wedged the flashlight under his armpit and shifted his burden until it was comfortable then continued on his way.
His sharp breathing echoed hollowly in the empty darkness. His feet scuffed dully in the loose gravel.
After a few more twists and turns in the tunnel, his flashlight beam caught a gleam of metal and threw it back at him. He knew he had made it. After a few more times in, he thought, he would be able to do it without thinking, maybe even without a flashlight, if he had to.
His light beam danced over the old wooden crate upon which he had placed one of the kerosene lanterns he had taken from the barn. His mother would never miss it, and, hell, kerosene was much cheaper than flashlight batteries. Next to the wooden crate an old mattress was spread out on the floor. Beside the mattress were two gallon wine-jugs filled with water, a pile of empty cans, and the remnants of the campfire he had had last night. He reminded himself that he would have to gather more firewood soon.
Ned sighed deeply as he snapped a match under his thumbnail and bent down to light the lantern. The warm orange glow quickly spread out to the walls and ceiling, pushing the shadows back but not dissolving them.
He dropped the bedroll down and then flopped face-first onto the mattress. The musty odor assailed his nostrils, but he let himself enjoy the brief rest. He realized that for more than a week now he had felt run-down, exhausted. He needed rest, rest and something more to help him regain his strength.
He knew now with certainty that the dreams were real. How, he had no idea, but he had been there when his brother Frank, and again when Alan Tate, had died. He was probably there when Wendy Stillman had died too, but that memory of the dream was too deep. But with Frank and Alan, he knew. He had felt the soft, yielding flesh grind between his teeth. He had tasted the hot blood as it gushed into his mouth. He had crunched the bones, snapping them between his jaws. It had been real!
Damn, but it had been real!
Suddenly he jumped to his feet and began pacing back and forth across the hard-packed floor. All the while he rubbed the back of his neck at the top of his spine.
He had been there, he knew. But he had been there in a different body, a body that was hunched and sleek, strong, close to the ground. In that body he had killed his brother and Alan!
The muscles in his neck twisted with tension as he paced back and forth. He worked his fingers harder to relive the pain.
He didn’t understand it, but he knew that somehow he had been transformed.
Transformed!
The word burst in his mind with fireball brilliance.
“Transformed,” he whispered shrilly as he stared unblinkingly into the orange glow of the kerosene lamp. “Transformed! I became the animal! I am the wolf!”
With a sudden sharp cry, he spun around and stared down into the darkness of the mineshaft. With the lantern behind him, the light threw his enlarged shadow down the dark corridor.
That was it! he realized with astonishment. I am the shadow, the black shadow that is formed by the light of the full moon! In the light of the full moon, I am the wolf!
He knew, fully. When the moon was full, he had the power, and he could kill whomever he wanted to kill; absolutely anyone he wanted to kill would come under his shadow!
Cocking his head back, he stared into the thick blackness of the mine until it seemed to reach out and enfold him. A low, hollow laugh built in his chest and escaped from his mouth, rising higher and higher. The laughter echoed back from the depths of the mine with a hollow booming.
“I am the wolf!”
.III.
“The body’s hardly cold in the ground!” Bob shouted angrily. He and Lisa were standing together in the church parking lot. Lisa had her coat buttoned up tightly to her chin and her arms folded protectively across her chest. Her breath was a fine mist on the night air.
Bob had his hands stuck in coat pockets. When he wasn’t speaking, he paced back and forth in front of her.
“Well, don’t you think it’s a little bit savage?” he asked, making an effort to keep his voice down. “I mean, we’ve been divorced about three months now and already she’s rushing back to the altar. I couldn’t believe it! Calling me up and inviting me to her wedding!”
He stopped pacing and looked at Lisa intently.
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “I guess it is a bit early to remarry.”
Bob snickered and shook his head.
“Cripes, Bob, maybe you just don’t realize. She might be a very insecure person who needs to be married. A lot of people feel as though they—”
“There you go with you psychoanalyzing again,” Bob snapped. “She’s the one who ended it for us. She left me, not the other way around!”
“Don’t sound so defensive, for crying out loud,” Lisa said. “You’re getting too worked up about it. Think about it. This might be the best thing in the world for her. Maybe it’ll work out. Maybe this time she found the right guy.”
“Oh, thanks. Thanks a lot.” He slapped his thighs with frustration.
“You know what I mean,” Lisa said mildly. “She’s doing what she wants to do, right? You should want what’s best for her, too.”
They both turned and looked up at the stained-glass windows when the booming notes of the organ suddenly swelled. The bright lights inside lit up the colored patterns, throwing their designs onto the snow-covered ground.
The parking lot was full now. A few stragglers hurried past them, nodding greetings as they went. Bob huffed, looked at Lisa, and resumed his pacing.
“You just have to take it e
asy,” Lisa said smiling. “You’re putting yourself under way too much pressure lately. It’s not healthy.” The concern in her voice was genuine. Since his phone call about a week ago, Bob hadn’t mentioned the topic of witchcraft or werewolves again. But it had bothered Lisa quite a bit, and she wondered if he was still thinking along those lines. He had sounded pretty paranoid, and she hoped he wasn’t losing touch.
“Stop taking yourself so seriously,” she said gently. “Why don’t you come to church tonight. The Thanksgiving candlelight service is one of the prettiest of the year. It might do you some good.” She reached for his arm, but he pulled away.
“No. I don’t feel like it tonight. Maybe some other time.”
“You always say ‘some other time,’” Lisa pleaded. “I’ve been after you to come to church with me for months.”
“I told you,” Bob replied, and there was hostility in his voice, “that I just don’t get into it! I’m not a churchgoer!”
Lisa turned and started for the church door without a word. Bob hurried and caught up with her. He looked at her earnestly. “Look, Lisa, I’m kind of uptight. I’m sorry I snapped.”
“Yeah, well,” she said, shaking her head back and forth as though scolding a child, “just take it easy.”
“I promise you I’ll come to church on Christmas Eve. Really.” He raised his hand in the air. “Promise.”
“Shake on it,” Lisa said, holding out her hand.
“There,” Bob said as they shook.
Lisa said, “I don’t want to be late.” The choir was already starting the first hymn. She ran up the steps and went into the church.
.IV.
Lisa’s face was flushed as she walked up the side aisle, looking for an empty seat. She found one, two rows from the front, and eased her way in. Her fingers fumbled with pages of the hymnal, and she didn’t join in on the opening hymn until halfway through the last verse. Her voice sounded weak and flat to her as she sang.
When the hymn was finished, Reverend Alder strode to the front of the church and faced the dimly lit painting of Jesus praying in the garden. The music swelled to a crescendo and then dropped off abruptly. As it did, Reverend Alder let his shoulders sag slightly.
He turned and, pulling his sleeves up, faced the congregation. There was a loud explosion of creaking wood as everyone resumed their seats.
“Well,” Reverend Alder said, rubbing his hands together like a workman beginning a job. “I’m glad to see so many of you here.”
There was another, softer creaking of the pews as people shifted around, getting comfortable. Lisa was still too upset and nervous to feel at ease. Her conversation with Bob had ruined what she had hoped would be a joyful, peaceful night.
“And I think this Thanksgiving season, that we have a lot to be thankful for.” A smile stretched across the minister’s face, seeming to reach from ear to ear. He held his Bible behind his back with both hands and bounced lightly on his toes. “Of course, you realize this is the end of my dry season, my bad spell. With Christmas just around the corner, I expect to do a land-office business.”
There was scattered laughter through the congregation. Lisa, still uncomfortable, shifted in her seat and stared numbly at the minister.
“With Easter coming up, I expect to see plenty of faces that I haven’t seen, well, for a year at least.”
Again the reverend’s comment was followed by laughter. A knot of tension was growing stronger in Lisa’s shoulders, and she wiggled to try to relieve it.
Reverend Alder continued, “But you’re probably wondering what we have to be thankful for, here in Cooper Falls. Our town has been saddened recently by three tragic, senseless deaths.” He paused and looked into the silence that filled the church.
“And then there’s the wider scope,” he said suddenly, waving his arms wide. “What do we see in the world today? We see hunger, war, and pollution. Our newspapers are filled with stories about child abuse, wife beatings, kidnapping, and hostages. We see close-up and in-depth coverage of every plane crash and train derailment and any other human tragedy…”
The reverend went on, but Lisa was having a difficult time concentrating on what he was saying. Her mind was still on the man she had been talking to in the parking lot, a man she probably loved more than her husband, a man she could see was under too much pressure, putting himself under too much pressure, and who might be cracking up.
The reverend’s voice rose louder as he raised his arms dramatically over his head. “Like the tribes of Israel wandering in the desert, what do we have to be thankful for? Nothing but a promise! Like the Pilgrims who fled the religious oppression of Europe and braved the dangerous crossing of the Atlantic, what do we have to be thankful for? Only our hope! Only our faith in the Lord!”
Lisa looked up at Reverend Alder, and a thought suddenly struck her.
What if Bob is right? What if there really is something supernatural happening in town?
The thought startled her, and she jumped in her seat, looking around nervously at the faces watching the minister.
If you believe in the power of God, why not believe in the power of Satan? Doesn’t one need the other? Isn’t Satan the dark side of God? The shadow of God?
“Our life is a tenuous arrangement,” Reverend Alder said in conclusion. “And it can be terminated like that! So what do we have to be thankful for this Thanksgiving? Just this—our lives and our trust in the Lord our God! Let us now sing Hymn Two-hundred and thirty-seven.”
There was a brief organ prelude, and then the congregation burst into song. Lisa, standing hunched and angled away from the front of the church, found that she could not sing. There was a hot tightness that gripped her by the throat.
Chapter Eleven
.I.
Wednesday, December 17
Bob had his head resting in one hand as he ticked off the right and wrong answers on the test sheet he was correcting. He heard footsteps approaching his desk but did not look up until he saw a pale hand place a pink slip of paper on his desk beside the tests.
“Would you sign here, in period five?” a dry voice asked.
Bob looked up and saw Ned Simmons. The boy’s pale face showed a hint of a smile, but there was no humor in his darkened eyes.
Bob calmly placed his red pen on top of the test, sat back in his chair, and picked up the pink slip.
“Dropping out of school, huh?” he asked, scanning the slip. It had been folded and unfolded many times. It hung limply in Bob’s hand.
“Yeah,” Ned answered, looking away.
“You just need mine and Mr. Summers’ signatures and that’s it.”
Ned crossed his arms over his chest, fluttered his eyes at the ceiling, and sighed.
“Well,” Bob said, picking up his red pen and tapping it on the desk, “before I can sign any drop-slips, I like to have a chat with the student, see why he wants to drop out. It could be that he—”
“Would you just sign? Please?”
“Pull up a chair, Ned, I’d like to—”
“Mr. Wentworth,” Ned said tightly, “I’m kinda in a hurry, so would you just sign your name?” The hostility in his voice was restrained, just barely. Ned made a move to sit down then compromised by leaning against the desk.
Bob cleared his throat and looked at the boy. What he saw worried him. The boy’s pasty complexion had almost no spark of life. He looked underweight and tired.
“You know, Ned, I’ve been quite concerned about you lately. You’ve missed more than half the school days since September.”
The boy glared at him with glazed eyes. Bob felt slightly unnerved.
“You’re a bright boy, Ned. I hate to see you drop out. Heck, it’s your senior year. Couldn’t you just hang in there until June? A diploma would get you a lot more—”
“Mr. LaFleur already gave me that rap yesterday,” Ned said dully. “He earned his paycheck for the week. If you’d just sign on line five…”
“I will,” Bob snapped,
“when we’re through talking.”
Ned seemed to cringe back from Bob’s outburst. His eyebrows knitted together.
“Have you been feeling well lately?” Bob asked.
Ned looked at him with a frightened stare.
“You look like you could use a little food in your belly. Have you thought of seeing a doctor?”
“I feel fine,” Ned said, but the weakness in his voice contradicted him. “I’ll be OK in a couple of days or so.”
Bob leaned forward and folded his hands on the desktop. “You haven’t been having any fainting spells lately? Any dizziness or ringing in your ears? Anything that maybe should be checked out?”
“I’m doing fine,” Ned said angrily.
Bob knew he shouldn’t press, but he had to; his questions burned in his mind. “Have you had any times when, you know, you just lose touch? Where you wake up and you don’t know what’s happened? Anything? Anything that seems out of the ordinary?”
“I told you! I’ve been feeling fine!” Ned picked up the pink slip and held it almost under Bob’s nose. “Sign. Please.”
Bob stood up and walked slowly over to the window. He stared silently out onto the snow covered school yard. “So,” he said, addressing the window and watching Ned’s pale reflection, “what are your plans? You’ve got to do something with your time. Have you got a job?”
“Pomeroy said he might be able to work me in full-time.”
“Might! That’s not much of a promise to throw away your education for.”
In the reflection of the window, Bob could see Ned’s scowl deepen. “Yeah, well, besides, my mother needs a lot more help around the farm now that Frank’s dead.”
“Ummm. Yeah. I’m sorry about that. It still bothers me.”
Ned suddenly snapped his head up and shouted, “What business is it of yours, anyway? I don’t need you messing around with my life. Just leave me alone, will you?”
“It’s not that. It’s not that at all,” Bob said as he turned and walked back to the desk. His knees felt weak as he took the slip of paper from Ned. “Sure. Sure. I’ll sign,” he said with a crackle in his throat. He dashed his name on the fifth line and handed it back to Ned just as the last bell of the day rang.
