by Rick Hautala
“Damn!” she shouted, when she saw that the door was locked. She stood back with frustrated anger for a moment, staring at the padlock on the door. Looking to her left, she saw a fire extinguisher. She grabbed it, raised it over her head, and smashed the padlock. The door was old and rotten, and the padlock didn’t hold. The door flung wide open, and Lisa ducked inside.
She reached blindly for the light switch, found it, and snapped it on. Frantically, she searched for the can of gasoline and, over in the corner beside the snowblower and the lawn mower, she found it. Two gallons. Full.
She raced out to her car and drove off.
.VII.
Bob left his car down by the deserted mine-office. The road to that point had been rough enough, and he didn’t want to take a chance of bottoming out his car on the rutted road up the falls. He walked over to the edge of the river and looked at the swiftly moving water. The river was swollen with the spring flood.
Looking up toward the falls, he saw the billowing plume of spray illuminated by the light of the full moon. The roar of the falling water was deafening, and Bob realized that he would have to be doubly on alert.
He turned and started up the road, past the mine offices to the top of the falls. He knew that at the top was an old footbridge. He had decided to cross over there and follow the river downstream on the opposite shore until he could cross back on the Old Mill Bridge, about two miles downstream.
The road up to the top of the falls was steeper than it looked, and by the time he had made it to the top, Bob was just about out of breath. He stopped and rested, leaning against the rusted hulk of an old tractor that had been deposited about ten feet from the edge of the cliff. To his left, he could see the footbridge; down below, about thirty feet, he could dimly see his parked car and the abandoned mine-buildings.
Suddenly, faintly, he became aware of a sound rising from beneath the hissing of the falls. He frowned, listening with concentration, trying to distinguish the sound. It was faint and hollow, but then—he heard it clearly—the wavering, rising howl pierced the night.
It’s nearby! Bob thought, squeezing his rifle. His thumb flicked off the safety catch, and he walked cautiously to the cliff edge and looked down.
Something is out tonight! Something is hunting!
A sudden panic rose in him, and Bob thought he might be safer if he made it to his car. It would offer him some protection, and would be better than standing out in plain sight at the edge of the cliff. It would also be a quick means of escape if he needed it.
He crossed his rifle over his chest and started down the steep incline. He had taken no more than a dozen steps when the howling rose again on the night wind. It swelled, eventually drowning out the sound of the falls.
Bob stopped short, almost falling down. His breath came in ragged gulps as his eyes darted about, trying to fix the direction of the howling. It would help to know from which direction the beast was coming, but with the roaring of the falls and the echoing ravine, it was impossible to tell.
The sound was closer; of that Bob was sure. The rifle with the three silver bullets didn’t give him as much reassurance as he had hoped it would. Suddenly, Bob felt very vulnerable. Some primitive alarm warned him that he was now the hunted!
Looking down at this car, he saw a rapid, shadowy motion. It was the beast! He watched as the animal ran over to where his car was parked, sniffed at the tires, and then threw its head back and howled. Bob crouched above, watching.
Judging from the direction the animal had come from, Bob figured that it had to have come from the mine. That was the only answer. He almost chuckled at the irony of a werewolf using an abandoned silver-mine as a lair.
The werewolf glared up at Bob, then howled again. This time the sound rose clearly on the night, wavering wildly, like a siren.
Bob snapped the rifle to his shoulder, drew a bead, and fired. The rifle exploded, slamming back into his shoulder painfully. Bob knew he would have a horrible bruise there, if he was alive in the morning.
The shot cut short the animal’s howling, but Bob knew he had missed because the beast dodged easily to the side. It crouched down beside Bob’s car, staying hidden in the shadow.
Suddenly, the werewolf rose to its feet and turned on the car. A steady growling sound rose as the beast savaged one of the tires. Bob saw the car suddenly shift to the side, dropping down on the flat tire.
Now that it had prevented his escape, the werewolf turned and started stalking up the rutted dirt road to where Bob waited, crouching with his rifle in his lap.
.VIII.
Lisa’s mind was clicking fast and furiously. In an effort to calm herself, she switched on the radio. A song by The Eagles, “Hotel California,” was playing. Lisa had always liked the song, but she heard some lines that made her freeze.
She turned the radio off and stepped down harder on the accelerator.
Suddenly, a winking blue light reflected in her rearview mirror, hurting her eyes. She pulled over to the side of the road.
“No! No! No!” she whined, banging her fists on the steering wheel. She squinted every time the revolving blue light hit her eyes. Then she heard a tapping on her window and looked up to see Ted Seavey leaning down. She rolled the window down and nodded a wordless greeting.
“Evenin’, Mrs. Carter,” Seavey said. “Just a bit late to be out drivin’ like a bat outta hell, ain’t it?” There was more than a trace of mockery in his voice. “Now what’s the rush?”
Lisa looked up at him but was unable to speak.
“’S there a fire somewhere we don’t know about?” Seavey said.
“It’s Bob, Bob Wentworth. I’ve got to find him.” She knew she wasn’t disguising the agitation in her voice. “It’s very important.”
“Important enough to be drivin’ through town at least twenty miles over the posted speed limit?”
“Yes,” Lisa said. “It is.”
“’N just what would that something so all-fire important be?” Seavey asked with a grin. Lisa suspected that he thought the fire was in her pants.
“It’s personal,” she said. She glanced on the floor of the car and saw the two-gallon can of gasoline. She pushed it back with her foot, hoping Seavey hadn’t noticed it.
You have to burn the werewolf! she wanted to yell.
“Personal, huh?” Seavey said. “Well, Mrs. Carter, now I know you’re an honest, tax-paying citizen, but I’m afraid I’m gonna have to write you a ticket. The law is the law,” he said with a firm, scolding tone. “Now if you’ll just hand me your license and registration.”
Lisa opened her purse, took out her license, then snapped open the glove compartment and got her registration. She handed both to Seavey.
Fuming, she sat drumming her fingers on the steering wheel as Seavey went back to his cruiser and wrote her out the ticket. Her eyes kept glancing at the two gallon can of gasoline.
Only fire will stop the evil!
.IX.
Bob watched tensely, stood up, and took a few steps backward as he watched the werewolf stalk up the road toward him. He vowed to make the next shot count, to have it lined up perfectly before using his second silver bullet.
As the beast advanced slowly up the hill, Bob saw in the moonlight that its face was split with a wide grin. Long, shiny teeth caught and reflected the moonlight. Carefully, Bob snapped the lever back and let the second silver bullet enter the chamber. Above the roar of the falls, he could hear a low, steady growling. Bob kept backing up the hill, watching, waiting. The closer the beast got to him, the slower it moved. It was toying with him, he was sure.
“Come on, you bastard,” Bob said with a sneer. “This is your last—” Something sharp jabbed into his back, cutting him with a quick tearing pain. He wheeled around and saw that he had backed up into the rusted fender of the derelict tractor.
He realized that if he hadn’t hit the tractor, he might have backed up right over the cliff edge. He sighed softly. A trickle of blood ran down the
small of his back.
“Come on, you bastard!” he shouted, waving the rifle at the animal. “Come on!” The echo of his voice bounced back from the distant cliff side and then faded beneath the hiss of the falls.
The werewolf raised its hackles but still approached at a slow, menacing pace. Bob scrambled around the tractor, using it as a shield. He crouched and took a careful, steady aim. The werewolf was about twenty feet from him. He held his breath and squeezed the trigger.
With the crack of the rifle, the werewolf leaped wildly to the side. Bob saw the bullet hit the ground, kicking up a clod of dirt. With an ear-piercing howl the beast charged.
The jump carried the werewolf over the side of the tractor. It turned and jabbed at Bob, its jaws open wide. The beast jumped on him, pressing Bob to the ground. He was engulfed by a flurry of slashing claws and teeth.
They kicked and scrambled in the dirt, rolling back and forth, too close for either to seriously harm the other. The animal was twisting, trying to fasten its jaws on Bob’s throat. Bob fought against the crushing weight of the animal, trying to get clear or at least to get enough room to fire the last silver bullet.
The beast’s jaws shagged Bob’s jacket, and then the needle sharp teeth raked his flesh, tearing his coat and his arm from the elbow to the wrist. Warm blood gushed over him as he kicked the animal in the belly.
Finally, he managed to get his foot firmly planted just under the beast’s ribcage and, grunting loudly, he heaved up with everything he had. The snarling beast went flying through the air and hit the ground with a pained yelp, its legs crumbling beneath the impact.
Bob rolled over and got to his feet. He felt dizzy from blood loss as he dashed up the slope toward the wooden bridge. He gripped his rifle as though it was his last hold on life. It was.
His feet clattered on the loose board, and the old structure swung wildly, threatening to fall apart with every step. Bob looked down at the dizzying swift water. Before he gained the opposite shore, he expected to feel the weight of the werewolf bring him down, to feel the jaws clamped on his neck.
Miraculously, the werewolf didn’t rush into the attack. It stood at the foot of the bridge, panting. Its teeth glinted with moonlight and saliva. Bob felt a measure of relief. At least there was the swift river between them. He looked down at his arm, torn and hanging uselessly at his side. The pain was not yet too intense. Bob knew he would have to kill the beast before he passed out from loss of blood.
Bob thought of what to do next. Keeping his eyes fixed on the werewolf, he began to tear at the bridge’s support boards. If the beast couldn’t get at him, he figured, he could take his time for the third and final shot. If he missed that…
The nails in the bridge were rusted and refused to give to his efforts. With his good arm, he swung the butt of the rifle at the boards, hammering them loose. One board loosened and dropped into the water. It was quickly swept away.
Bob looked up and saw the moonlit shape of the beast at the foot of the bridge, preparing to spring. Beyond the wolf, down by the abandoned office-buildings, Bob saw headlights coming up the road. The car jostled wildly, bouncing in the ruts, and then pulled to a stop beside his parked car. Someone got out and started running up the slope of the hill.
The werewolf turned, saw the new intruder, and snarled. The animal bared its teeth, then looked back at Bob. The steady rumbling of the beast rose up above the roar of the falls.
“Come on and get me, you bastard!” Bob taunted. Whoever this person was who had arrived, Bob wanted the werewolf to keep his attention on him.
“Ned! Ned Simmons! I know that it’s you!” Bob shouted. He looked beyond the beast and felt a sudden sinking in his stomach. Lisa was running toward them, carrying something in one hand.
“I know it’s you, Ned,” Bob shouted, hoping to keep the werewolf distracted.
“Fire!” Lisa shouted as she ran up to them. “Bob! Fire!”
The werewolf started across the bridge. The growling rose steadily, breaking now and again into a sharp barking sound.
With his good arm, Bob raised the rifle to his shoulder. He had trouble aiming; the rifle kept sweeping in wide circles as he tried to draw a good bead on the beast.
Lisa was at the other end of the bridge now, holding up whatever it was she was carrying. Bob couldn’t see clearly enough. He was growing faint from loss of blood.
“Fire!” Lisa shouted again, waving the object in her hand that Bob saw now. It looked like a gasoline can. Lisa bent down and screwed off the top of the can. The werewolf, caught between the two people, one at either end of the bridge, looked back and forth from one to the other, snarling.
“Well, you bastard,” Bob said with a hiss. He pointed to the river. “It’s either that or this.” He shook his rifle.
Lisa stepped forward cautiously, splattering the bridge with gasoline. She got close enough to splash the werewolf.
Bob wondered why the beast didn’t turn and attack Lisa. He had the gun. She was unarmed.
“All right!” Bob shouted, when he saw that Lisa was holding her silver cross in one hand. It was glowing with blue light.
“Ned,” Bob shouted, feeling a wave of pity for whomever, whatever the beast confronting him was. “Ned! I don’t want to do this!”
The werewolf snarled loudly and suddenly leapt into the air. The rifle shot split the night, and the silver bullet slammed into the beast, stopping it in mid-flight. It landed, crumpled, on the bridge, laying on its side.
“Stand back,” Lisa shouted. She dodged forward, Bob saw, with a lit match in her hand. She touched it to the beast, and an orange ball of flame roared into the sky. The animal’s pained howl filled the night. The wooden slats of the bridge caught fire too, lapping with flames.
The wounded beast scrambled across the bridge, trying to get at Bob. Bob stepped forward and, with one strong swing of the rifle, knocked over the side of the bridge.
The animal held on, its claws digging deeply into the burning, rotting wood. The snarling beast was consumed with flames, yet still it struggled to hold onto the bridge. Its flailing claws removed large chunks of wood as it tried to regain its footing.
Lisa had backed away. She was standing at the foot of the bridge, watching, horrified as Bob stepped closer to the burning animal. It looked up at him with death-clouded eyes and whined with pain. Its fierce rage was gone. Now it was just a suffering animal, about to die.
“Ned,” Bob said, watching as the animal grasped, weak now, at the burning bridge. “Ned.”
Bob stepped back, shocked, when he heard a deep, gravely voice say, “Help, help me.”
With sudden anger, Bob swung the rifle butt again. “Die! God damn you!” As he hammed at the gripping paws, Bob slowly became aware of the physical change that was gradually taking place.
The paws—thin, cruel, wolf’s feet—were getting thicker, as if the fire that engulfed the animal was burning away the gray fur. Soon, they were no longer animal paws at all, but human hands trying desperately to hold onto the bridge. The flesh turned black and began to bubble. The flames billowed, roaring, consuming the wooden beams of the bridge.
“Help—me, help—me—please.”
Bob looked down into the animal’s eyes, glowing dimly with dying green fire. The face was shifting, changing, becoming more human.
With one wrenching scream, Bob swung the rifle butt and hit the beast squarely in the face. There was a loud crack as bone shattered. The rifle butt splintered and fell off. The hands released their grip and the now almost completely human shape of Ned Simmons dropped into the water, trailing flames. Bob and Lisa watched as the twisting black shape rushed toward the edge of the falls and disappeared.
They looked at each other. The blazing bridge was between them. Lisa held her arms out to Bob and shouted, “You did, Bob! You did it!” Tears streamed down her face, which was glowing brightly as the flames consumed more of the bridge.
Bob’s knees buckled and he almost fell. He sat down h
eavily at the end of the bridge and let it all hit him. He had done it! He had stopped the evil! He watched as the charred timbers and planks of the bridge collapsed and fell hissing into the raging river.
“We did it!” he said, softly but loud enough for Lisa on the other side to hear him. “We did it!”
Epilogue
Sunday, April 18 (Easter)
“One last thing to do, and then we can be sure,” Bob said. He and Lisa were standing beside the abandoned mine-office, looking up at the open mineshaft. Lisa’s hand gripped Bob’s elbow.
“You don’t have to,” she said softly. “It’s over now. I know it is.” She looked up at the clear spring sky and inhaled deeply.
“I have to be sure,” Bob said. He patted the .45 revolver that was cradled in the sling that supported his wounded left arm. The cut was healing fast, but still throbbed with a deep pain.
“You have the fire burning,” he said. “If I find anything, we’ll have to burn and destroy it. If there’s the slightest chance that Ned survived the fall from the bridge, he’ll have his magic implements here in the mine. If we destroy them, he’ll be powerless.”
“Be careful,” Lisa whispered hoarsely.
“I will.” He started up the slope to the open cave-mouth and, with one backward glance, entered the thick darkness.
He was surprised at the numerous twists and turns of the mine. As he trained his flashlight beam along the mine floor, however, he could see a clear path in the dirt that Ned had made going into and out of the cave. Bob followed this path along the dark, echoing corridors.
Suddenly, he halted, staring. Up ahead, he saw a flickering light. It illuminated the walls and ceiling with a dull, cheery glow. He snapped off his flashlight, stuck it into his back pocket, and took the revolver from his sling. Cautiously, he stepped forward.
He entered a small room and knew immediately that this was Ned’s campsite. In the warm glow of a low burning fire, he saw the mattress spread on the floor, the folded up sleeping bag, and the remnants of several meals. The room smelled of rotting food and garbage, and more.
