Werewolves: A Horror Short Story Collection (3 Tales to Chill Your Bones Book 8)

by Mav Skye

  Ernie sensed it before he saw it.

  The hairy beast was close. It hid behind a rise of sand and sage.

  “Lottie, come here, child.”

  She paused her song and looked at him. “What, Papa? I can’t hear what you’re saying.”

  He began to move towards her, but his feet felt like they had cement blocks on them. “Lottie! Come to me, Lottie!” He stretched his arms toward her, tried to move faster, but instead he fell to the ground. He crawled towards her as she hummed and patted a perfect mud pie.

  He could hear the beast scrape its claws impatiently behind the mound, ready to pounce.

  Lottie held up the mud pie in her little hands and beamed. “Half for you and half for—”

  The beast sprung from behind the rise on all fours, growling and gnashing its teeth.

  Startled, Lottie dropped her mud pie and began to scream.

  The monster dove into the hot springs, submerging completely underwater.

  Ernie desperately tried to crawl towards his daughter. He called out for her, but she couldn’t hear him, just trembled as she watched giant air bubbles rise to the surface of the hot spring.

  Those few seconds felt suspended in time as bubble after bubble popped in slow motion, the clear water collapsing in on itself.

  And then the shadow of the beast appeared below the water’s surface, followed by its yellow eyes, horrendous snout, sharp canine teeth.

  The beast roared and his little daughter cried.

  It was as if he were glued to the sand, he could no longer move a single inch. All he could do was reach his arms for his daughter as the beast sprung upon her.

  There was nothing Ernie could do to prevent the slaughter. And he was forced to watch before the dream ended.

  All went dark. In the perfect black midnight, he could hear his daughter’s voice, older now, a young woman. Lottie recited the words from their conversation they had the night before she ran off with that twerp Collins’ boy.

  “I am joining the Daughters of the Revolution, Papa, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

  He heard his own voice, “The war is over, Lottie. Let it alone. We can make a little off this ol’ copper mine, not much, but enough to get by. There is peace here, child.”

  “I want to be a part of the change. Can’t you see? This country still needs us. Daughters of the Revolution have a voice—I have a voice, Papa, and I intend to use it.”

  “Of course, you have a voice, Lottie.” Ernie had remembered how he shook his head, feeling exasperated. His daughter was eighteen and yet still a child in many, many ways. He admired her spirit, her desire to be a part of something larger than herself. Lottie was just like her mother, too much. His wife’s free spirit was what attracted him to her in the first place. It was also why she had lost her life. Ernie had always wanted a simple, cautious existence. A life where he could work, sleep and enjoy the peace and the contentment that comes with it. But his wife had always wanted more, she believed in the constitution, the right for all mankind to pursue happiness. She wanted to save the world, but Ernie had wanted her all to himself. He had begged her to stay vigilant, to not risk herself so much for the sake of others. Why on earth poke an angry wasp’s nest, when you know what’s inside? This risk taking was how he had lost her. There had been a Sunday picnic in the town square after church, a fire broke out at the courthouse. He and his wife had heard children screaming inside, when Ernie turned to make sure Lottie was still beside him, his wife had rushed inside the burning inferno to save the children. The fire had consumed them all.

  All these thoughts swam in his mind as his daughter placed her hands firmly on her hips and said, “Billy Collins has promised to take me to meet Mary Smith Lockwood, and then he’s gonna make me his wife.”

  That is when Ernie turned dark. He knew the Collins’ family well. They were crooks—the whole lot of them. Billy had been involved in horse thievery. He was able to get off the hook since the witnesses had up and, supposedly, moved during the night. Ernie wasn’t so sure of that. A young family doesn’t move in the middle of winter around these parts, too much risk of illness for the youngins. But what he did know was this: there was plenty of places that one could be buried in the vast plains of endless dirt and blue sky. He suspected the young family’s graves where far off in the desert. No doubt the young Collins’ boy had been a part of the cover up.

  Ernie remembered well what he had told Lottie next, what he had done. He’d said, “Lottie, I would sooner handcuff you to your bed than let you run off with that horse swindler.”

  Fire had raged in her eyes. “He didn’t steal those horses, Papa. His older brother, Paul, did it. Besides, there were no witnesses. And I believe Billy! Now you need to stop this nonsense about Billy and own up. It’s about what my mother believed in and about you being a coward.”

  Ernie inhaled sharply. As the words sank in, his mouth had fallen open in shock.

  She said, “I lost my mother that day because you were too coward to go in that courthouse and save those kids yourself.”

  He shook his head, “I was looking for you! If I had known she’d do that…”

  “Of course, you knew!”

  And hadn’t he?

  Lottie said, “You’ve always been too coward to do anything worth a damn. At least Billy believes in the Daughters of the Revolution. He believes in me. He believes in me the way you never have!”

  That was when Ernie lost it. He did exactly what he’d threatened to do. He bound her wrists and locked her in her room.

  The next morning, she was gone.

  And then, in that same stifling dark, Ernie heard the beast howl…

  He opened his eyes to dim moonlight above him. His legs were cramped and he shivered in the cool night air.

  A branch snapped nearby.

  Ernie held his breath, listening.

  A cool breeze blew over the hot spring, a tumble weed rolled in the distance.

  Snap! Ernie jumped with its close proximity.

  He scooted up the base of the mesquite tree, his hand rested on the hilt of his gun. He looked out over the water, expecting a monster to leap out of it at any moment, when he felt a hard thrusting poke in his shoulder.

  He froze.

  It poked again, and he heard a voice, quiet but strong, speak to him in a language he didn’t understand.

  Ernie put his hands up and slowly turned around to find three men. One of them aimed a spear at his throat.

  “Easy now,” He whispered as he sized them up. Each had tanned skin, long, dark hair and wore buffalo hide. Apaches. The one that held a spear at his throat was younger than the other two, he had a ferocity in his eyes that burned with an almost religious fervor. He also had one hell of a knife tucked into the belt of his hide.

  The Indian jutted his chin and whispered a harsh word.

  Ernie raised his hands higher.

  Another of the men further back had an arrow drawn and aimed at Ernie’s heart. Wrinkles crowed out from the edge of his dark eyes, and he appeared to have red paint or blood smeared on each of his cheekbones. He spat at the ground.

  Ernie closed his eyes, knowing that he’d reached the end of the road. He had heard, hell, seen what the Apache’s did to their perceived enemy.

  A gentle word caused him to open his eyes.

  The third man held a confidence about him worthy of a commander. His eyes were thoughtful. He folded his arms, sizing Ernie up, his powerful shoulders rolled back in the moonlight. He stepped forward, repeating the word.

  The younger Indian pressed the spear against the skin of Ernie’s throat, emphasizing the other’s command.

  Ernie stepped back, causing the one with the spear to draw out his giant blade.

  “Dear Lord, have mercy,” Ernie prayed and held his hands up higher. He tried to remain calm, but inside his chest his heart throbbed like a race horse. Would they scalp him like they had others?

  He squeezed his eyes shut once more, thoug
ht of the telegram in his pocket, touched it. What would become of Lottie?

  The Indian in command spoke impatiently.

  Ernie opened his eyes. The young Indian had replaced the blade and drew back the spear from his throat. He growled a threat at Ernie, warning him not to make any sudden moves.

  The Indian without the weapon, obviously the man in charge, turned, took a few steps forward and motioned for Ernie to follow.

  Ernie took a step forward. The Indian nodded, and motioned him again, then began to walk. The elderly man with the blood painted on his face fell back with his bow, eyes on Ernie.

  The young Indian moved around behind Ernie with the spear at his back. Ernie began to walk. The man with the bow followed behind.

  He wondered if the man he was following was the fabled Geronimo. Was this the man who, as a child, had eaten the beating heart of his first kill? Was this the same man who had roamed the wilderness after the slaughter of his family and had heard the voice from the sky saying a bullet would never pierce his skin?

  When the man glanced back, Ernie noticed a single scar ran down the length of his cheekbone.

  It was indeed, the fierce Apache chief.

  Ernie could have fainted right then and there if it weren’t for the spear at his back.

  They walked for some time, the chief led him away from the spring and the green vegetation around it, into the dry desert sand where nothing but tumble weeds and paddle cactus dotted the land as far as the eye could see.

  A howl pricked the night sky. The chief paused, raising his hand in the air. All of them halted.

  The chief turned, walked back to Ernie and spoke. He held his hand in front of him, palm up. Ernie had no idea what he was saying, but he understood the hand motion. Stay.

  The other Indians stepped out from behind Ernie, and stood with Geronimo.

  Ernie had a sneaky suspicion what they were up to. The chief held out his palm once more. Stay. Then he pointed at the moon, spoke a word, then fanned his hand towards the desert, away from the hot springs.

  Ernie followed his gaze, then looked back at Geronimo. He held up both hands? I don’t understand.

  The chief took one step towards him, raised a finger beside his nose. This Ernie understood: Be watchful. The chief directed his gaze towards the full moon and then again to the desert.

  Ernie nodded. He understood that he was supposed to watch the moon and the desert. For what or why? He didn’t know.

  Perhaps, it was because they were letting him live, they wanted him to remain out here until sunrise and then he could be on his way. It sounded relatively reasonable. Except. Except there was something else out there.

  The Indians turned and had began to walk away when the beast howled again.

  They paused and glanced around.

  Ernie said, “There! There, did you hear that? It’s out there. It wants me, I know it.”

  The young Indian jumped towards Ernie with the spear and put a finger to his lips.

  Ernie shut up.

  The chief once again waved his palm towards the moon, then the desert, then laid his finger beside his nose.

  Ernie nodded and gulped. He didn’t even have his gun on him. How could he defend himself?

  The Indians, as they walked further and further away, faded as ghosts and melted into the night. They were gone.

  Ernie desperately wanted to run back to the hot springs, but he knew that Geronimo would know if he took a single step in that direction, or any direction for that matter.

  He stood there for what seemed an hour or so, then two hours passed and Ernie sat down on the desert floor, wrapping his arms about his knees like a small child. The night had turned chilly and Ernie couldn’t help but shiver as he felt sleep try to overcome him once more.

  His eyelids dropped, but he remained alert to every sound the desert made. He heard the sound of crickets, the occasional call of a night bird, the scuttle of a scorpion, and slither of snake.

  It was when all the sounds collapsed in a sudden hush that his eyes flitted open. He didn’t flinch a muscle when he heard the padding of paws approaching him from behind.

  He told himself it was Geronimo and his men returning. He told himself it was a rodent scavenging for food, but he knew it was none of these things.

  It was the beast that sought him, the one he had killed the morning before. It had risen from the dead, and come to take its revenge.

  Ernie patted Lottie’s telegram that was in his pocket, rose to his feet and turned to face his enemy… which didn’t look monstrous at all.

  A midnight wolf approached him, just as the Indians had melted into the darkness, the wolf seemed to emerge from it.

  It trotted at an even pace. Its head hunched down, nose to the desert floor, yellow eyes glowing like orbs in the night, ears pricked forward, listening. Lobos, thought Ernie. He had never seen the Mexican wolves himself, but he’d heard stories about them. How in deep Mexico they were hunted, quartered and decapitated. The priest and warriors wore the wolf heads during rituals performed on full moons, believing they could shapeshift into the wolf themselves and hunt their enemy in the moonlight.

  Ernie’s skin prickled. Shapeshifter.

  As if reading his mind, the wolf paused and raised his head. It stared directly at Ernie.

  Had Gregory James been one of these? Ernie shook his head. It didn’t make sense.

  The wolf raised its dark head and howled at the moon.

  Ernie didn’t wait for it to finish. He raced in the direction of the hot spring, toward his gun.

  The wolf followed.

  He could hear its paws gallop against the desert floor, drawing nearer. Nearer.

  Ernie was soon amongst the mesquite trees and long green grass. He dodged cacti and tumbleweed. He could see the dark water of the spring now, then the burning coals of his campfire. His pack laid beside it.

  He was close, but not close enough. He felt the heat of the wolf’s breath at his back, the smell of rotting meat. He should have been between the wolf’s teeth by now, but no! Now he was rounding the spring, throwing himself at his gun belt, taking out his gun.

  He felt its jaw rip into the meat of his left upper arm and he swung his right hand, knocking the skull of the beast with his gun. As the gun connected with skull, Ernie was stunned to not see the wolf, but the beast from the night before. It was humanoid, covered in fur. It had the same yellow eyes, a pug nose (Gregory!) and sharp teeth dripping with his own blood.

  It whipped its head back and growled. Ernie drew back the hammer of his pistol, but the man beast attacked before he could shoot. I tried Lottie, he thought, just as an Indian cry echoed through the desert.

  The beast’s teeth scraped the skin of his neck before it fully collapsed on him, motionless, smothering Ernie’s face with its hairy chest.

  “Ah!” He shot his gun once into the night sky, then struggled to get the giant creature off of him. He didn’t struggle long.

  He felt his gun ripped out of his hand, and the beast yanked off of him. It was Geronimo who offered his hand to Ernie, and helped him stand up.

  The chief spoke a single word and kicked at the animal. He gave an order. The young man with the spear handed Ernie back his gun and knelt by the felled wolf. He tugged the giant knife from his belt.

  Ernie looked away as the Indian decapitated the creature. He turned back to the chief who was watching him with weary eye.

  Ernie said, “Thank you.” He nodded toward the beast whose head was now removed from his body. He wondered what Big Charlene would say when they found her husband’s headless corpse. He began to laugh out loud when he noticed Geronimo intently studying his shoulder. Ernie sobered. “I’m fine. I’ll be okay.”

  The chief snapped and the other Indian, the older one with crimson on his face, drew to his side. He placed his hand over the wound, smeared blood on his fingers and smelled it, then spoke rapidly. The chief pointed at the moon and the older Indian replied, shook his head and pulled a s
atchel from his pocket. The Indian poured it into his hand, then spit on it. Ernie could see it was a silvery type substance, almost like powder. It was then that Ernie realized that the elderly Indian was a medicine man.

  The medicine man barked an order.

  The young Indian who had begun to carve out the shapeshifter’s eyes, dropped the head and walked towards Ernie with his knife.

  Ernie held up his palms, I don’t want any trouble.

  He dropped his hands to his side, drew his gun and pulled back the hammer, ready to shoot, but the young Indian was faster. He grabbed away the gun, scolded Ernie, and threw it on the ground.

  The young Indian then yanked on Ernie’s shirt. The buttons popped off as if the Indian had instructed them, to. Ernie understood all of this was about the bite on his arm. He shrugged out of his shirt and dropped it. The Indian then motioned Ernie to drop to the ground. Ernie obeyed, not having a clue what they were about to do.

  The chief began to chant the same words over and over in a catchy rhythmic tongue roll. The young Indian sat on Ernie’s chest, pinning both of Ernie’s arms to his side, and held the knife at his throat.

  “I don’t understand,” said Ernie. The young Indian barked at him and Ernie shushed.

  The medicine man knelt at his side. He held the silver dust in one palm, while drawing circles in the air and pointing to the moon with the other hand. He chanted in rhythm with the chief, and then the young Indian joined in.

  All three sang in unison, while the medicine man waved around the silver dust and pointed into the night.

  At the end of their song, the Indian with the silver dust spit into it once more, mushed it up (which reminded Ernie of Lottie patting together a mud pie) and placed it on Ernie’s bitten shoulder.

  It felt like lava on his skin. Ernie yelped and squirmed beneath the younger Indian sitting on his chest. Given half the chance, Ernie would have flipped the man over and ran away, but the young Indian pressed the knife into his throat, drawing blood. He leaned over and growled into Ernie’s ear as the medicine man packed more of the lava into his shoulder.

  Finally, the medicine man ripped a piece of leather off his own hide pants, then tied it about Ernie’s arm, securing the silver dust/lava in place. The chief then took his place.