* * * *
The hunger had been overpowering. The man had been a threat. The wolf had sensed intent and malice. It had caught the scents of fear and anger wafting in the light breeze and seeping from the man’s pores. The wolf had strutted toward the man, feeling its own snarl rise upward, issuing a growl meant to deter the impending attack. The wolf had instinctively known what the man was clenching in his arms, a weapon, one meant to destroy.
The man had raised the weapon upward in an aim, a motion to unleash his anger. But the wolf became overwhelmed by an instinct far more powerful than hunger; survival had suddenly subdued the famished pangs that churned in its belly. Using all of its speed, the wolf had galloped faster and faster toward the man with all of its fury. And then a pain that had dwindled somewhere deep down, somewhere unknown, was suddenly set free.
Fear, cowardice, that’s what it had sensed from the man. Still, the wolf had leapt through the air at him. The flash of light had been quick, the explosion of sound an amplified uproar that nearly shattered the wolf’s inner ears. The wolf had landed on top of the man.
The stench of fear and the latent aroma of blood had been even more powerful now, reaching the wolf’s snout and fueling its frenzy. The man had moved before the wolf could clamp down on the vein in his neck, but sharpened canine fangs pierced the soft flesh of his face, ripping and tearing with savage jerks of the wolf’s head. Then, the man had loosed a scream that had shaken the wolf from its rage. The wolf backed away as the man lay still.
Blood was everywhere. The sense of hunger seemed to dissipate, forgotten by the wolf’s fitful defense and quenched by the metallic taste of blood. Suddenly, the wolf felt a flash of recognition, a quick, passing notion of guilt, something gone awry. It shook its head, ridding itself of the moment, and it then it ran a few feet away from the man. The man lay in the grass, the blood tainting the green around him, and the light from the porch cast an elongated shadow of the wolf as it watched in an eerie display. Then, the wolf turned its head up toward the bright, brilliant orb and howled.
* * * *
They’d stepped slowly and silently through the grassy terrain, keeping their eyes on the white shack as they moved through the utter darkness. The soft beacon of a distant porch light had grown brighter with each step, guiding them closer toward it. Suddenly, Leah’s naked eye had caught the movement of a figure that wavered in and out of the porch light.
“Wait,” she’d said, grabbing onto his arm. “Did you see that? There’s someone on the porch.”
“Yes,” Dylan had said. “It’s probably his property. I wonder if he might help us.”
Leah had felt the stirring of trepidation inside of her; something wasn’t right, yet something felt frighteningly familiar. She’d spied something else moving through the darkness.
“I don’t know, Dylan,” she’d said, gripping his arm even harder. “I don’t like this. Something’s not right.”
She’d heard the grave tone of her own voice, the trembling pitch that sounded warning of trouble in this seemingly peaceful Eden. She’d watched as the man raised something upward in his arms. It looked like a shotgun; the porch light had cast a glint off of the slim, sleek barrel.
“Oh my God,” she’d said, feeling her fingernails digging into his shoulder. “Dylan, he’s got a gun! Look, Brett’s there!”
Then, her finger had pointed out the fast, racing gait of something running through the grass toward the man. It was the wolf; she could see it now, and so could Dylan. The man was aiming the shotgun at the wolf, right at the fully-shifted shape of Brett Taylor.
“No!” Dylan yelled. “No! He’s going to kill him! He’s going to kill Brett!”
Their screams had been interrupted by the thundering clamor of the shotgun as it exploded, ripping apart the silence and producing a fast flash of orange. Dylan had grabbed her and threw her to the ground, covering her body with his, but she knew they hadn’t been hit. The man’s aim had been on the wolf, and Leah struggled beneath Dylan, trying to discover the wolf’s fate.
“Dylan, I’m fine,” she yelled. “Hurry, we’ve got to help him.”
“You’re okay?” His voice was frantic, his hands shaking her.
They’d pulled themselves up from the ground, clutching each other in the mayhem, and then turned back around to face the same direction they had a moment ago. The sight before her had made her heart plummet. The wolf had been on top of the man, clenching its fangs into his flesh and ripping in a wild fury. In its persistent onslaught meant to suppress its aggressor, the wolf had begun crying out, whining in some inexplicable frenzy of emotion.
The man had wailed, and even in the dark she could see the redness of blood as it spurted from his face. And then, something had changed within the wolf. It backed away from the man, shaking its head as if attempting to rid itself of the frenzy, as though it knew it had gone too far in subduing its foe. Then, there was silence as the man lay still. Both she and Dylan watched as the wolf turned to look at the havoc it had wrought.
Now, they ran closer toward the scene but stopped cold as the wolf lifted its head upward at the moon and howled. The sound of it was gripping, striking fear inside her soul like a bolt of lightning. But the soul inhabiting the wolf was someone dear to her. She noticed how the wolf almost seemed to regret the stain of blood that tainted its blackened sheen.
Then, visions of the soul buried beneath the shape of the wolf overcame her. She saw Brett, the blood covering his naked torso, his hands gripping the sides of his head in torment. Then the vision was gone, replaced by the wolf’s deafening howl.
Chapter Thirteen
Dylan stood frozen, watching the terror that had played out before him, and now he felt his eyes grow wide and unblinking in fright. Stilled by shock, he’d been rendered the same as a traumatized child. The man hadn’t killed the wolf, or Brett, as he’d feared. The man hadn’t stood a chance. Now, the man lay near death in a pool of his own blood, beneath the beam of his own porch light. The night had turned not only ugly, but deadly, and myriad dark thoughts danced in Dylan’s head...
Did Brett have any human idea of what had just occurred? Had it been Brett’s intention to hurt this man, or did that intention belong solely to the wolf? They had to try to help this man, but how were they going to undo this? They had to get the wolf away from here.
Suddenly, the wolf turned and faced them, its eyes a freakish yellow, its black fur matted by the purplish stain of blood. It fixed its unflinching gaze upon Dylan and Leah, undeterred from the strange realization that had ceased its madness, yet unrecognizing of the two figures standing before it. Dylan tip-toed tiny steps toward the wolf, hoping to trigger some inner reaction from the soul that remained trapped within it. The wolf slowly stepped forward, watching Dylan with rising curiosity. Their eyes met each other’s, and the wolf lifted its snout toward the reaching fingers of Dylan’s hand.
But then something stirred. It was the man. The sound of his moans and faint painful pleas startled the wolf into a sudden dash away from the scene and away from Dylan. It ran past him and Leah, nearly knocking her over as it brushed against her leg with its galloping speed.
“Run!” Leah yelled to the wolf. “Run!”
Dylan shushed her. What if the man lived to recall her words? They watched as the wolf ran away and out of sight.
“Come on,” he said, nudging his head toward the man. “We have to help him.”
They moved quickly toward the man on the ground whose weak moaning died away into unconsciousness. The beam from the porch light showed his near lifeless form, the blood soaking his hair and the ground below. Dylan turned the man slightly to see his face; instead, he and Leah saw what was left of it. His right cheek was torn and hanging from the side of his face above the nose. Skeletal teeth smiled back at them through a stream of blood that seeped outward from the disfiguration. The man’s right eye was closed; possibly shut forever beneath the puffing glob that was forming.
Dylan noticed
Leah fumbling with her phone.
“I’m only getting one bar out here,” she said. “It could be enough to call 911. Maybe if I went inside and dialed—”
“No,” he said, quickly grasping her hand. “I’ll go and see if there’s anyone inside. I doubt it, or they would’ve been out here by now. If there’s a phone inside, I’ll call for help. We’ve got to hurry and find Brett before anyone else does.” He looked back at the man. “There’s not much more we can do for him.”
Leah’s eyes widened as her voice dropped to a hush.
“So, what, we’re just going to leave him here?”
“I don’t see what other choice we have,” he said. “He may not make it by the time an ambulance arrives. By then, it could be too late for Brett. Come on...”
Dylan ushered Leah over to the porch, away from the body. He called inside the house through the screen door. A dog had been barking wildly from inside, yet no dog approached.
“Hello? Is anyone here?”
There was no human response, only the dog’s sharp bark and whine.
“Wait here,” he said, pulling the screen door out and away with his foot.
“What are you doing?”
“Not leaving any fingerprints.”
The outer screen door through which Dylan entered led into the man’s kitchen. The inner door had been left open, allowing the breeze to waft into the small house. Dylan’s eyes quickly cased the joint like a burglar as he searched for the phone. He called out once more.
“Hello?”
The barking dog continued, and Dylan heard scratching behind a door in the kitchen. The door most likely led to the basement. The man must have hidden his dog before going outside. Now, the dog scratched and whined desperate pleas beyond the door for its owner.
It was obvious by the basic simplicity of the kitchen that the man lived alone. The windows were devoid of curtains and covered only by dusty venetian blinds. The kitchen appliances were smaller and more of the individual variety, and Dylan could see that the counters could’ve used a good wiping. Obviously, the man was either a bachelor, or possibly a widower.
His eyes quickly scanned the room and spotted a small, breakfast-nook table in the far corner. On it sat a white, plastic, phone cradle with its matching cordless that fit snugly within it. Dylan grabbed the phone using a dishtowel he’d found on the table. He then ran back to the door where, outside, Leah stood waiting.
“Damn it!” he said. “We don’t know the address of this place do we?”
“No, and all of this is in the remote country,” she said. “But we’re somewhere near Larson’s Farm.”
Dylan suddenly remembered that the call would be traced, so the man would be found one way or another. He and Leah would have to make it out of here fast. He dialed 911; a responder answered immediately.
“Send an ambulance, please,” he said, masking his lowered voice through the dishtowel he’d wrapped around the cordless phone. The dog barked on in the background. “A man has been attacked by someone or something. He’s the owner of the farm closest to Larson’s Farm.”
The female responder began probing with questions, but Dylan knew that he and Leah didn’t have the time to spare. He quickly told the responder that the man was unconscious, bleeding, and that his face had been disfigured. Dylan could see Leah becoming antsy on the porch as he took the time to describe the man’s whereabouts in the vicinity of the yard.
“I don’t know the address,” he said, “but I’ll leave this line open.”
He didn’t hang up, but simply left the phone face up on the table where he’d discovered it. Then, he quietly walked back through the screen door that Leah held open with her foot. His last words to the responder had sounded hauntingly cryptic, and now the female voice called out through the phone receiver, hearing only the barking dog. An overwhelming surge of guilt made him feel smothered and even shrunken in his six-foot frame. He looked at Leah and could see that she’d been thinking the same thing—that this is what it had come to. They seemed to be quickly and quietly adapting to some higher level of secrecy and cover-up as each new situation unfolded.
“I just sent a text to Susan,” Leah whispered. “I’m pretty sure it got through.”
“Come on,” he said. “We have to get out of here.”
They took one last look at the man before Dylan wrapped his arm around Leah’s shoulder and quickly whisked her away. They fled into the utter darkness from which they’d arrived.
* * * *
As the trio sat silently talking yet fitfully waiting, another howl erupted from somewhere as far off as the last one had been. Susan, Tahoe, and Sidney looked at each other, a silent consensus that the sound of it was an omen. Brett still lived in the shape of the wolf, and Dylan and Leah were still searching, likely lost in the dark, dense woods. And now the night was growing darker around them.
As tensions and fears rose into a thick fog of exasperation, a different sound suddenly broke the distraction. It was the alert tone of Susan’s phone, delivering a text message.
“I’ve got a text,” Susan said. “It’s from Leah.”
Her heart pounded hard as she read the message.
Wolf attacked man. Brett on the run...
“Oh God,” she cried out. “It’s just as we’d feared!” Her mind raced as she handed the phone displaying the message to Tahoe.
* * * *
Tahoe read the words on the screen. His blood chilled at how the message bore the pronouncement of doom. So, his morning vision had come to pass. He’d been too late. He handed the phone to Sidney who read the message and rose from his seat.
“Then Brett has to be on his way here,” Sidney said. “Where else would he go?”
“We have to be ready,” Susan said. “We have to help him.”
Her voice was shaking, her eyes wet with tears, but Tahoe felt there was one thing he might be able to try in this case. He thought fast and took control of the situation.
“Yes, we must be ready,” he agreed. “We must be watchful of the woods.”
He gave an upward nod of his head, indicating the woods that bordered along the yard, the same direction in which not only the wolf, but Dylan and Leah had fled. He rose from his seat, anxious and awaiting the presence of either the wolf, or Brett, to come rampaging onto the property at any moment. Tahoe stood with his hands placed down upon the table in preparation. He looked out at the vast open. The flames flickered in the candle shades from the nightly summer breeze that fanned his face.
He’d always known himself to possess not only a great knowledge and understanding of the ways of the animals, but a deep connection as well. He’d always remained uncertain as to whether or not it was a telepathic bond, but it was some form of mutual understanding. Maybe it was why he’d been so quick to identify the hawk that landed on his porch as a skinwalker, one he would later come to know as Brett Taylor. Now, he would try to appeal to the wolf from afar.
He closed his eyes and let his third eye search beyond the woods. He saw the vision as though it came from a live camera moving through the woods, catching glimpses of branches, leaves, foliage, and the light of the moon as it softly illuminated the psychic camera’s path. The vision moved faster and faster through the woods until Tahoe saw the wolf nearing the top of a great grassy hill. It was running, fleeing in fitful escape, its fur matted by the stain of blood just like in his morning vision.
He saw the wolf reaching the top of the hill and then running down the other side. Tahoe concentrated with all of his strength, interweaving his mind with the wolf’s mind, his thoughts with the wolf’s thoughts. And then, he spoke aloud, his eyes still closed with unbending focus.
“Skinwalker...hear me!”
His voice had sounded different: mystical, ethereal, yet with a commanding force. And then, the vision of the wolf was gone.
* * * *
The wolf had been running, following a familiar route that seemed natural to it, enveloped by the desperate need to
flee. What had transpired was not of its choosing, and now it fled in search of some safer, newer haven. Conflict consumed the wolf as it ran; random notions of an unclear fallacy fought through some unrelenting dream-state. The wolf was gaining feet of ground in seconds with its speed, and soon, it recognized the top of the grassy hill.
Once at the top of the hill, the wolf began to descend it. Then suddenly, something happened. An image had entered the wolf’s mind; it was a face. The face was that of an older man. The man’s eyes were closed, and his voice had been thundering. The sound of it had shaken the wolf, rattling it from inside the deepest reaches of the soul inside.
“Skinwalker...hear me!”
A single thought invaded the wolf’s mind.
Tahoe...
The change was instantaneous. Brett felt himself tumbling down the huge grassy mound, head over heels, and then rolling horizontally on his side. He felt the dampness of the grass on his face, the bumps to his body as it bounced, and the dizzying spell that spun through his head. Long before he’d reached the bottom, he glimpsed the night in its natural hue. The reddish haze had vanished, and the appearance of the night was no longer acute.
His body rolled to a stop at the foot of the hill. He rested face-up on his back, the fatigue to his body so extreme that the soft grass lulled him into unconsciousness. It was a peaceful drifting that lasted only briefly, but for how long? One minute, five minutes, maybe fifteen? He couldn’t be sure.
Now, the sky towered above him, magnanimous in its presence, an abounding backdrop for the millions of stars that blinked in celestial beauty. He could make out Ursa Minor, or was it Major? He’d always been confused by the two, but he could definitely discern Orion’s belt and the three stars that comprised it. What was he thinking? What was happening? Why had he rolled down the hill?
He tasted blood in his mouth.
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