A Werewolf in Riverdale

by Caleb Roehrig

  Skidding around a corner, he took off up the long street that bordered the old cemetery, the sun pouring early light over pavement still shiny with dew. A clean, earthy breeze sent a candy bar wrapper skittering along past his feet, but he tried not to breathe deeply—this stretch of the walk to school always gave him the creeps. Graveyards in general gave him the creeps. There were human bodies in there, for Pete’s sake, and worms and bugs that ate human bodies. Again, he shuddered, his skin crawling so hard he was afraid it would beat him to his first class.

  In third grade, he’d been to this cemetery on a field trip, forced by a sadistic teacher to search the headstones for the oldest and most interesting epitaphs. Jughead had spent the whole afternoon jumping at shadows, feeling like spiders were marching up his legs.

  Glancing to the crest of the hillside in spite of himself, to where headstones tilted lazily out of high grass that was unnaturally lush and green—probably because it was feeding off dead bodies—he was hit by a sudden, disorienting wave of déjà vu. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d voluntarily set foot through the cemetery’s gates. (He took the longer way to school specifically because it let him avoid walking past all those creepy, age-darkened graves.) And yet … being here now felt like an echo. Like a moment repeated back to him from the very recent past.

  He was still trying to shake off the haunting sensation a few seconds later when he reached the top of the street—and drew up short. All along the downslope ahead of him, a fleet of news vans crowded the curb, their bumpers almost kissing and their rooftops heavy with satellite dishes and antennae. Glistening yellow lengths of crime scene tape had been looped through the bars of the long-rusted gate that allowed access on this side of the graveyard, and at least four reporters stood along the iron fencing with the rich green grass behind them, speaking earnestly into their cameras.

  Once again, Jughead’s gaze turned back to the headstones poking out of the peaceful, rolling hills of the cemetery, to a lonely crow circling overhead, and the hangdog face of a stone angel just up the path from the gate. A sudden chill made goose bumps sprout across his shoulder blades, and he tightened his grip on the straps of his backpack. Every now and then people partied out here after dark—littered, knocked over old grave markers, or left graffiti on one of the mausoleums—but that was about the worst kind of crime this part of town had seen in ages. Certainly nothing that warranted this sort of attention from the media. It was a safe neighborhood. It was his neighborhood. What had happened last night?

  And why couldn’t he rid himself of this freaky sense of déjà vu?

  Picking up speed, Jughead hurried to the far side of the street and then ran the rest of the way to school.

  By the time he reached Riverdale High, Jughead was sweaty again and out of breath—and late, as usual. The parking lot was jammed with cars, but the sidewalks out front were empty of the students who always lingered as long as possible before capitulating to the first bell … and the flag had been lowered to half-mast. Looking at it, Jughead swallowed a growing lump in his throat.

  Someone had died.

  Even after he’d left the cemetery in his rearview, that vague and uneasy sense of déjà vu had clung to him. When he reached for the details, however, their edges only became softer and more slippery, just like with his dream. And it was at that moment that the first solid image from his nightmare finally surfaced: a statue of an angel, backed by fog, blood running down its face like tears—the graveyard. Of course he’d dreamed about it. He wished they didn’t live so close to that bona fide ghost factory, but several generations of the Jones family were buried there, and his mom was not impressed by his insistence that unholy beings loose from their graves roamed the neighborhood at night, looking for souls to eat.

  Hiking his backpack up higher onto his shoulders, he headed for the doors to the building. His first class of the day was chemistry with Mr. Flutesnoot, and only two minutes had passed since the final bell; as long as the man was in a good mood, and he usually was, there was a decent chance Jughead could talk his way out of being marked down as late. He was already figuring out what he’d say, going through his mental Rolodex of trusty excuses and trying to remember which ones he had used before, when he shoved his way through the main entrance and completely lost his train of thought.

  The halls were packed with people. Students clustered in front of the lockers that lined the walls, speaking in low murmurs, some of them holding on to one another and crying. Everywhere Jughead looked, he saw ashen faces, somber frowns, swollen eyes. Teachers stood outside their classroom doors with helpless expressions, either making futile attempts at reminding their students that first period had started, or simply just looking on with vacant dismay—drooping inside their clothes like balloons low on helium.

  His stomach turned over, and Jughead’s palms filmed with a clammy sweat. Grief was so thick in the air he could practically taste it, and for some reason he couldn’t understand, he wanted to turn around and escape—to run all the way back home and get into bed again. Whatever had caused this, he didn’t think he wanted to know anything about it.

  A large hand clapped down suddenly on his shoulder, and Jughead yipped out loud, jumping nearly a foot and almost losing his balance on the slick linoleum floor. When he turned around, he found himself staring into the wide, sympathetic eyes of his best friend, Archie Andrews. The guy’s bright red hair was carelessly rumpled, his skin pale behind his freckles. “Hey, Jug. This is just … I can’t believe it, you know?”

  “H-hey.” Jughead’s heart was still pounding nails into the roof of his mouth, but he waved at the hallway full of stricken faces. “What happened?”

  Archie blinked. “You mean you didn’t hear the news?”

  “I slept through my alarm,” Jughead answered weakly, watching as Ethel Muggs shoved past them, darting for the girls’ restroom with tears streaming down her cheeks. His stomach shrank even more. “I’ve kind of only been awake for a few minutes.”

  Letting out a weary breath, Archie shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oh, man, Jug. I don’t even know how to say it—the whole thing is messed up.” He took a deep breath, his expression mournful. “It’s Dilton, Jug. He died last night. He was … he was killed in the old cemetery.”

  And just like that, another fragment of Jughead’s dream came back with perfect clarity: Dilton Doiley, his face bloodied, his cracked glasses reflecting a pair of glowing eyes; his mouth slack in a dead man’s pantomime of a terrified scream; and his torso—several yards away—with a steaming coil of bright pink innards spilling from his open stomach.

  Lights flashed, Jughead’s eyes rolled up, and he fell into silent darkness.

  NOT A LOT OF PEOPLE understood Jughead Jones. Mostly because, quite frankly, not a lot of people tried. Then again, he wasn’t exactly asking to be understood, either. From his crown-like hat to the jacket he almost never took off, he wanted to be seen as different, as a weirdo. If the popular kids liked something, Jughead rejected it, proudly and emphatically. Every day, he put on a show of studied indifference, governing his emotions, pretending not to care. Sometimes the whole stoic, disaffected act even fooled Archie—which is why he was not at all prepared when his best friend blacked out in the middle of the school hallway after hearing about poor Dilton.

  Everyone in their crew liked Dilton, of course. Or rather, most of them did. He wasn’t part of the gang, or whatever, but even the biggest jerks in school had trouble finding anything about Doiley to object to beyond just his general nerdery. He wasn’t a “burgers after school” kind of friend, or a “come hang out at band practice” friend, but he was at least a “gives you the answer to question six” kind of friend; so it wasn’t like Archie expected Jug to just … not care that the guy had been killed. But he wasn’t expecting a full-on Greta Garbo swoon right in front of the whole school, either.

  Archie barely managed to grab his friend before he hit the ground. “Jug? Oh crap, Jughead, are you okay?�
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  “Dilton …” Jughead sagged in his arms, nothing but white showing where his lids were slit open, and the name came from the back of his throat—thick, rasping, and guttural.

  Archie eased the boy to the ground, propping him against the wall in a seated position. “Jug? Jughead! Can you hear me?”

  The unconscious boy groaned, listing sideways, slipping out of his friend’s grasp and sprawling across the tile. Archie was struggling to sit him back up again when someone knelt down beside him. Dressed in her cheerleading uniform, her blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, Betty Cooper took hold of Jughead’s right shoulder while Archie anchored his left, and together they maneuvered him back up against the wall.

  “Thanks,” Archie said, giving the girl a shy smile. He never quite knew where things stood between him and Betty. They’d all been friends since childhood, but somewhere between six and sixteen, Archie had developed rather complicated feelings for Betty Cooper. At times it felt like they were more than friends, and at other times … other times it felt like they knew each other almost too well, and that maybe it was best if they left things as they were.

  “No problem.” She smiled back, but there was sadness in her eyes. There was sadness in everyone’s eyes today. “Jeez, I hope he’s all right.” With an apologetic frown, Betty hauled off and slapped Jughead across the face—hard. “Juggie, wake up!”

  The boy flinched, but his eyes fluttered open, rolling back down to reveal dazed and partially focused pupils. Blinking a few times, Jughead mumbled, “Ouch. What the hell?”

  “You’re welcome,” Betty said primly.

  “You totally fainted, Jug!” Archie exclaimed, prying one of his friend’s eyelids back so he could check for … something. He didn’t actually know why you were supposed to examine someone’s eyes when they’d blacked out, but he’d seen it on TV. “How do you feel? Do you need some water? Or, like … um. What do you give somebody who faints?”

  “He needs to go to the nurse’s office.” Betty pressed her fingers to the pulse in Jughead’s wrist and frowned. Before she could say anything, however, Jughead jerked his arm free from her grip.

  “I’m fine,” he croaked. “I don’t want to see the nurse.” Clearing his throat and dragging in some air, he added, “This isn’t a big deal, I just … I didn’t eat breakfast, and I got a little dizzy. That’s all.”

  “You didn’t eat breakfast?” Of all the things Archie expected his best friend to say, this hadn’t even made the list. Among the few things he’d learned to count on in life were (A) gravity, (B) the consistency of getting chosen to do a math problem in front of the class on a day he hadn’t done the homework, and (C) Jughead’s appetite. The guy loved food. He carried snacks that he could eat between snacks, for crying out loud! “Did … did your house burn down?”

  “Attention, students.” The voice of Mr. Weatherbee, the school’s principal, crackled to life through the PA system overhead. Instantly, a hush fell over the crowd filling the hallway. “Our little community here has received some terrible and shocking news today. As many of you know, Dilton Doiley—one of our best and brightest students—died last night. Out of respect for his memory, and so that the student body of Riverdale High might have some proper time to process, classes are canceled for the day. Grief counselors will be available for those who need them—”

  The rest of the announcement was drowned out by the sound of people herding for the exits, respectful murmurs blossoming into excited conversations as the prospect of a reprieve from school immediately replaced their sorrow for a dead classmate most of them never spoke to anyway. Betty’s expression remained troubled and unhappy, though. And regardless of his protestations, Jughead was pale, his hands trembling a little as he knotted them together around his knees.

  “Come on.” Making an executive decision, Archie dragged both of them to their feet. “Dr. Andrews prescribes comfort food—we’re going to Pop Tate’s.”

  Terry “Pop” Tate had run the Chock’Lit Shoppe in downtown Riverdale for as long as Archie could remember—certainly his whole life, and probably longer. Probably a lot longer. Part diner and part old-fashioned ice-cream parlor, it was one of the few establishments in town that offered the kind of prices that the average high school student could handle, and Pop Tate himself was always happy to see even his lowest-paying clientele. It was the obvious destination for hungry kids on an unexpected day off.

  Which is why Archie should have been expecting to encounter some of the people he least wanted to see when the three of them walked in. Reggie and some of his cronies—along with Veronica Lodge and a few of hers—had already beaten them there, staking out a corner booth with a view of the door, cheering loudly whenever someone entered. They were celebrating, unbothered by Dilton’s awful death, and it wasn’t a mood Archie wanted any part of.

  The fact was, he and Reggie had a lot in common. Maybe too much in common, actually, because they could only seem to be friendly to each other when they weren’t competing. But they were always competing over something. Praise, popularity, attention from girls … Reggie was capable of making anything into a contest. And as for Veronica? She could be thoughtful one-on-one, but Mantle really brought out the worst in her. When they were together, it was best to avoid them both.

  As Archie led the way to a booth at the back of the restaurant, close to the kitchen and far away from their boisterous classmates, Betty remarked, “We’re going to get an earful for not sitting with them.”

  “Reggie’s not going to care.” Shrugging off her concerns, Archie waved to Pop, whose face was shiny with sweat as he flipped patties on the cooktop. It looked like he was the only one working again. “He’s surrounded by his little fan club. We’d just be a distraction.”

  “I wasn’t talking about Reggie,” Betty muttered.

  As they slid into the vinyl-upholstered bench seats, Archie hazarded a glance back at the other group and saw Veronica watching them. “You mean Ronnie? Come on—she might be a little annoyed, but she doesn’t hold a grudge.”

  “Oh, Archie.” Betty managed a wistful smile. “You sweet summer child.”

  Archie just blinked, a little confused. It was true his relationship with Veronica was complicated—in some of the same ways that his friendship with Betty had become complicated after they both went through puberty and everything got kind of confusing. But Ronnie was … Ronnie. She never stayed mad for long.

  “So what can I get my favorite customers?” Pop Tate appeared beside their table, standing above them with a notepad in hand, his apron stained with chocolate sauce, grease, and ketchup. At least, Archie hoped it was just ketchup.

  “I’m springing for a round of milk shakes, but I’ll let Jughead order his food first while I’m deciding what to eat.” Archie gestured at his friend with a wry smile, waiting for the usual back-and-forth: Jug would place a preposterous order, like three cheeseburgers with sardines and pickled beets, and Pop would throw an operatic temper tantrum about it.

  But Jughead didn’t even glance at the menu. His face was still ashen, and his attention was fixed on the dirt he was scraping out from under his fingernails. He mumbled, “Nothing for me, thanks. I’m not hungry.”

  It was another record-scratch moment—Jughead not hungry?—and you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. Archie and Betty exchanged a startled glance across the table, and even Pop Tate seemed to be at a loss for words. Their silence was interrupted by Reggie Mantle, though, speaking to his gathered henchmen in the corner booth at a volume usually reserved for carnival barkers. “No, seriously, you guys! He totally insisted that we have this Nerd Club meeting last night on account of the meteor shower, but we couldn’t see anything because of the fog, and so everybody went home. But I said good-bye from my car while I was driving past him, so, dude. What if I was the last person to see Dilton alive before he got shredded by Bigfoot?”

  “Why are you in Nerd Club?” Chuck Clayton asked with a snide tone.

  “
I don’t know, Clayton, why are you on academic probation?” Reggie shot back, the retort meeting with a chorus of delighted hoots from his friends. “I’m just saying it’s messed up, okay?”

  “What do you mean, Bigfoot?” one of the girls asked in an uncertain way. “Someone told me it was like a drifter or something. Like some maniac hanging out in the cemetery.”

  “How many drifters come through Riverdale?” It was Reggie’s turn to be snide. “And, anyway, no normal person could have ended Dilton the way they found his body, I’m telling you.” With relish, he elaborated. “The guy’s head was ripped clean off his body—like, part of his spine was hanging out of his neck, and everything!”

  Archie’s stomach turned over, and he watched Betty’s face go pale. Across the room, Veronica squirmed, muttering, “Reggie …”

  “His guts were spilling out everywhere, one of his feet was missing, and all the meat had been stripped off his—”

  “Reggie.” Veronica’s tone was sharp enough to cut glass, and the girl who’d mentioned hearing about a drifter now had her face hidden behind shaking hands. Across from him, Archie watched Betty’s fingertips turn white where they gripped the table’s edge, and Jughead stared at his lap in a horrified daze.

  “Come on, man, quit making stuff up,” Chuck scoffed, but he sounded uneasy. “You’re scaring Maria.”

  “I’m not making anything up.” Reggie popped a French fry in his mouth, leering with satisfaction. “Am I, Ronnie?”

  Everyone turned their attention to Veronica Lodge, who was nervously tearing her napkin into confetti. With an unhappy sigh, she bobbed her head. “I mean, he’s being a complete ass about it, but … he’s not making it up.”