Morbid Metamorphosis

by Lycan Valley Press

  “Don’t. Henry, please. Don’t talk like that. We’ll figure something out. Maybe Dr. Williams knows how to cure you. Or that Algonquin trapper Julia told us about.”

  “Tobias,” we said together, and I smiled. “Thank you, Emma. Did I ever tell you you’re the best big sister ever?”

  She replied with a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Yes, but not nearly often enough.”

  The crunching of branches announced the arrival of Pop, along with misters Finney and Hall. There was a chorus of relieved, “Henry! Thank the Lord you’re all right!” and I was escorted home like the prodigal son.

  Pop rode in to town to fetch Dr. Williams, who upon examining me declared that, in addition to all the cuts and scrapes, I was surely suffering from some sort of hysteria brought on by the first catamount attack. It would explain my disappearances, he said logically, and with my family hanging on his every word, I hadn’t the heart to bring up my own much less logical explanation.

  The good doctor withdrew a brown glass bottle from his bag and handed it to Mum. “See that the lad has a sip of this first thing in the morning and last thing before bed,” he told her as if I wasn’t standing right beside them.

  I took the tonic knowing it wouldn’t do a lick of good. I didn’t go to school for the week – not because I was sick but because I couldn’t face my friends or teachers. Finally, however, I gathered my courage and walked to school with my sisters and brother. I needed to talk to Julia Williams before it was too late.

  “Julia?” I approached her at lunch hour and gestured for her to come outside with me. It was cold enough everyone was eating inside, but I couldn’t have this conversation within earshot of anyone. Not even Emma. “You were right,” I said when we were a safe distance away from the building. “About the catamount, I mean. About me.”

  “I’m truly sorry, Henry,” she said, looking like she meant it. “I wish for once I’d been wrong.”

  “Well, do you know if … did that trapper Tobias say anything about a cure for, uh, what I have?”

  Staring at her feet, she shook her head. “There’s no cure, Henry. You have to, um, you have to kill it.”

  So it comes down to that, does it? I swallowed hard. “And how do you do that?”

  Julia looked up, her brown eyes wide. I had never noticed before what beautiful eyes she had. “He didn’t know for sure, but . . . he thought maybe silver would do the trick.”

  “But you said Mrs. Wilson killed her. Oh, she used a knife, didn’t she? Was it made of silver?”

  Julia shrugged. “I don’t know. I expect so. Most are, aren’t they?”

  “Thank you, Julia,” I said. “Please promise me you won’t tell anyone what we’ve been talking about.”

  “I won’t,” she said with a grim smile. “If I did, my father would have me on that tonic, too.”

  We turned to head back to school. “Henry?” When I stopped, she leaned over and gave me a brief, soft kiss on the cheek that sent the blood to racing in my ears. “If you’re thinking what I hope you’re not thinking, you’re the bravest person I know.”

  As the days went by I didn’t feel brave at all. According to Pop’s ‘Old Farmers’ Almanac’ I had three days until the next full moon. I waited for Billy and my little sisters to be safely away in bed and told my parents I needed to talk to them.

  “What is it, Henry?” Mum asked. “Isn’t that tonic Dr. Williams gave you doing any good?”

  “No Mum, it isn’t. And it won’t.” I swallowed what little spittle I possessed and went on to tell them everything, blurting it out in such a rush they couldn’t interrupt.

  They sat aghast at the kitchen table, Pop’s jaw hanging and Mum’s hands clasping her cheeks in horror.

  “You can’t honestly expect us to believe that,” Pop said when I finished. “To have done with you a week before Christmas because you think . . . that somehow . . .”

  “I believe it’s true, Pop,” Emma put in a low voice. Her face was white as chalk. “When you think about what Tobias the trapper told Dr. Williams and Julia, and how Henry’s been acting since he was attacked . . . “

  “Pop?” I went on, my voice rising slightly. “You always say as how you’ll do anything to protect your family. Well now . . . you can tell everyone I ran off again—”

  “I won’t!” Pop exclaimed, slamming his big hands on the table and shooting to his feet. “I will not kill you, Henry, and I will not hear another word of this nonsense under my roof!”

  “Pop—”

  “Do you understand? Not a bloody word!”

  “Pop? Mum? What’s going on?” Billy asked from the kitchen doorway. Alice peeked past his elbow from behind. “We heard voices and we, um, well…” He shrugged.

  “It’s nothing,” Pop said with a glare in my direction. “Just a misunderstanding. Go back to bed, both of you.”

  Emma helped me with my evening chores, but there was nothing she could say or do to comfort me. I went to bed with my mind churning, images piling one on top of the other like the snows in winter: My ninth birthday when Pop brought me the puppy I named Pal. Mom’s delivery of Alice and Cora in this very house. That kiss from Julia, the only one I would likely ever have from a girl. Maybe I would even have been the chap who ended up her husband. Christmases and birthdays, planting and harvesting, good times and bad that had been and never would be.

  I didn’t go to school that week, wandering the woods and fields between our farm and town as a way to pass the days.

  I’ve no reason to fear the beast now, have I? I am the beast.

  My condition was definitely growing worse. I was hungry all the time; no amount of Mum’s good cooking could ease my cravings. By Sunday morning, my stomach was gnawing at me from the inside out. I knew I was going to change that evening, and I was going to eat something. Or someone.

  I begged my parents to let us choose and cut a pine tree and decorate it for Christmas, even though the holiday was still a good week away. In what was certainly an effort to placate their poor demented son, Mum and Pop gave in. We spent a real family day together, and by sunset the farm house was decorated with strings of popcorn and the colourful glass Christmas bobbles Mum kept in a chest under her bed.

  Nearly choking with nostalgia and the thought of what was coming, I fought the nausea until I couldn’t hide it any longer. Grabbing Pop’s best bowie knife from the kitchen drawer, I flung open the back door and ran as far as I could across the yard. I stumbled and fell to my hands and knees beside the low mound of frozen soil and simple wooden cross marking my dog Pal’s last resting place.

  Pop caught up to me seconds later, the lantern swinging in one hand illuminating both of us while I gagged and puked up the contents of my stomach.

  “It’s coming, Pop,” I gasped when I could speak. The knife quivered in my hand. “The change. I have to—”

  “You don’t!” Pop declared, his voice sharp with desperation. “I’ll take you to Dr. Williams tomorrow. We’ll take you to the hospital in Montreal if need be, but—”

  “Look at me, Pop!” Dropping the knife, I tugged my sweater off over my head and ripped open my shirt. Short, tawny fur already covered my chest; the change was coming upon me faster each month. “Look!” My fingers were shrinking, the nails growing into curved yellow claws. In seconds I wouldn’t be able to hold the knife to do the deed.

  Pop staggered back a step, his eyes popping from his face and his jaw hanging slack.

  “I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt another creature,” I cried. “I killed Pal! What if next time it’s Alice or Cora?” My voice didn’t sound like my voice any more. More like the yowl of a catamount. “Please, Pop!”

  Pop stooped to pick up his knife and stepped in close to me. “I see now, son.” Tears stood in his eyes, but there was determination on his rugged face. “I love you. We all do.” With one hand firmly clasped on my shoulder even as I writhed in the pain of the change, he stuck the knife up to the hilt between my ribs.r />
  I drew in a quick breath and let it out slowly. I didn’t take another one.

  Pop held me gently as I slid to the cold ground. The blood gushing from my chest was thick and warm as it puddled around me, black in the light of lantern and full moon. I looked down at my hands – a boy’s hands, now, long fingers and ragged nails with dirt beneath them. No fur or claws in sight. “Thank you, Pop,” I rasped. I smiled and closed my eyes, peaceful in the knowledge that my friends and family would be safe forever from the catamount.

  VILE DEEDS

  Suzie Lockhart

  A RAY of sunlight snakes through long, vertical blinds, finding rest on Johnny Malone’s pale face. His eyelids flutter, but when he inadvertently moves his head, bright light catches him full-on. Groaning, he rolls over, squeezing the lids tightly shut.

  The mattress beneath him is rock-hard, and the bedding scratchy. Where the hell am I? he thinks. Didn’t I go home with some whore from the club last night? He tries hard to remember, but details of the previous night remain sketchy. Johnny rubs his temples, trying to focus, but the elusive memories are nothing more than shadows weaving in and out of the fog that was invading his mind.

  Did someone spike his drink? It was a possibility. Hell, he’d done it himself to get a broad to go home with him.

  But Johnny knew he wasn’t at home now.

  Feeling a body beside him, he mutters, “Wake-up, bitch.” Johnny kicks a foot out in an attempt to knock whatever-the-hell-her-name-was out of bed. “Ouch! Damnnit!” he exclaims, his foot meeting something hard.

  His big toe begins throbbing and he finally decides to pry open an eyelid; he catches sight of a man’s shoe.

  “What the…!” Johnny bolts upright, scrambling to his feet and backing away. Both eyes widen as his sight slowly adjusts to light filtering through the dim room, peering through particles of dust floating weightlessly about to discover he is on a carpeted floor in completely unfamiliar surroundings.

  As more light begins illuminating the room, it reveals dark blood—smeared over everything.

  “Ahh, no man… No way, man!” Panic turns to hysteria at the sight of a dead body on the floor.

  At least, what was left of it?

  Johnny stumbles backwards into the coffee table, and he reaches his hand back to catch himself from falling, knocking over a glass in the process.

  Mortified by the carnage in front of him, his hand runs through clay-colored hair, dry and unyielding from all the gel smeared through the previous night. Had it been only one night? He tries to think about what to do, but even under normal circumstances, thinking was not one of Johnny Malone’s strong points.

  “Man, I’m not going down for this,” he whines, pacing to and fro. He spots double doors leading to a balcony, and as Johnny opens them wide, he discovers a fire escape. Not noticing blood all over his fine Italian loafers, he quietly makes his way down the rusty ladder before sprinting off through a back alley.

  ***

  My name is Detective Trent Slade, but everyone just calls me Slade. My partner, Robert Pearson, and I are standing outside apartment number 513.It’s been said thirteen is an unlucky number, and it certainly was for this fellow.

  The scene in front of us is a gruesome one; while horrific crime scenes aren’t foreign to cops, even my seasoned partner looks disturbed beyond reproach.

  As we stand outside the yellow tape, we can see blood smeared everywhere: on the furniture, the walls, and the carpet. The victim is sprawled out on the floor; at least, what’s left of him. It appears his flesh has been shredded—as if an animal had ripped him apart.

  Except, the tears were more precise.

  A strange, prickling sensation runs through me as I stare at the body, moonlight peeking through the blinds to cast an eerie glow on what remains of his skin. It glistens invitingly off all that blood.

  Robert and I cross the tape, digging our hands in our pockets as we head for the first officer on the scene.

  “What do you have so far?” Robert asks.

  The officer is young, probably a rookie. I’d be willing to bet he’s no more than twenty-five. I swear I can see freckles on the kids face. He, too, is visibly shaken.

  “He hadn’t been to work for a few days. He’s, was, a teacher at the middle school. The landlord came to check on him, and he…he…, excuse me, sir, I think I’m gonna throw up.”

  The kid dashes into the bathroom, where we could hear him retching his last meal.

  An older woman on the forensic team heads over to greet us, introducing herself as Marilyn Wallace. Another woman, tall and thin with cropped blonde hair and giant holes in her ears, continues snapping pictures.

  “Hello, detectives.” She greets us smoothly.

  “So I guess we know now why he hasn’t been at school,” Robert remarks wryly before asking, “What the hell went down here?”

  “We aren’t exactly sure, but here’s what we know so far.” I slip on a pair of latex gloves as Robert does the same. He takes the wallet she produces and carefully examines it.

  “Milton Drewery. Age, fifty-four. Married?”

  “No.” she states dryly.

  Robert flips through the wallet, overflowing with pictures of children.

  “Did he have…children?” Robert asks, the answer coming to him just as the words leave his mouth.

  “No.” Marilyn’s thin lips are set in a grim line.

  “I see.” My partner of eleven years turns whiter then he already is. His eyes quickly roam over the scene, taking in the sight of the silver duct tape sitting next to the laptop on the coffee table. Then they travel across the room to the hallway to rest on a child’s shoe.

  “I see,” he hisses, handing the wallet gingerly back to the forensic investigator, as though it carried Ebola.

  “Looks like we might have some fingerprints!” One of the CSI guys on the scene yells. “Here on the coffee table, and this broken glass. I’ll dust for more prints on the door, since it’s obvious that’s where the perpetrator made his exit. The carpet is indented…”

  The woman taking photos follows the trail of bloody footprints leading to the door.

  A slight smile crosses my face. “Good work, man.”

  We walk near the perimeter of the room, careful not to disturb anything.

  “An officer is on the way who can hack into that laptop. I have a pretty good idea what we are going to find on it, unfortunately.” Marilyn tucks behind her ear a tendril of gray hair, which has escaped her tightly woven knot in the back of her head. “Apparently, this was not a good man.”

  “What he was, was one sick bastard.” I can hear the strain in my partner’s voice. I know his thoughts are on his own three children. “If you ask me,” Robert growls, “someone did the world a favor. C’mon, Slade, let’s go get some coffee.”

  I nod in agreement and follow. It would seem that way…

  We cross back over the crime scene tape, and when we reach the corridor outside my partner rips off his gloves as if they were contaminated. Visibly agitated, he presses the button for the elevator several times. The doors slide open, and we step inside.

  His voice is hoarse. “Slade, been on the force over twenty years, and it’s still tough to properly conduct an investigation on the murder of a pedophile. I feel… relief that someone took care of him, before he could hurt more kids. I’m not even sure I wouldn’t have done something to him myself, if he’d have hurt one of mine…”

  I remain silent.

  “Do you think maybe a parent of one of his victims got to him?”

  “That’s certainly a possibility. It did look like a crime perpetrated by someone filled with a lot of rage.”

  Robert sags against the elevator wall, appearing to age right before my eyes. I realize he hasn’t pressed the down arrow, so I reach across him and hit it.

  Each of us are lost deep in our own thoughts as we exit the apartment complex, the night is warm, whispering promises of summer. A light breeze wafts through t
he air, bringing with it a captivating aroma from a few blocks down. We head towards the small diner, anxious to put distance between us and the scene. I’m anxious, too, because every time I see Drewery’s body in my mind’s eye, that strange, prickly feeling returns.

  We enter the establishment, and our usual waitress greets us, smiling broadly. “Hi, Robert. Slade.” I see the crooked little grin she offers when she says my name.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “What’s wrong? You both look like something the cat dragged in.”

  Usually, Robert likes her smart mouth, but not today.

  “Tough case, Michelle.” I tell her. “Gimme your strongest brew, black. Please.”

  She nods as my partner orders a medium roast with sugar.

  It doesn’t matter what I get; I won’t taste it anyway.

  I drink down the scalding hot liquid in one gulp, and Robert stares at me as I crush the cup before tossing it into the nearby trash receptacle.

  “Good God, man, how the hell do you do that?”

  I just shrug.

  Robert sips his coffee slowly.

  “We might as well head home. Call me if you hear something.” I see the yearning in his eyes. He’s anxious to see his kids, his wife, Claire; needing that reassurance only family can provide. I know if we leave now, he’ll make it home in time to see the youngest off to school.

  I care deeply about his family, because Robert is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother. I’d do anything to help protect them.

  “I will, Slade.”

  I know they’ll call Robert first, as he’s the senior officer. Robert is six years older than I am supposed to be. In fact, only recently the department held a big surprise celebration for his fiftieth birthday.

  “Get some rest,” I say.

  He sighs, trying to rub the tension from the back of his neck.

  “Yeah, you too, Slade.”

  ***

  At around one in the afternoon, my cell phone buzzes. I already know what Robert is going to tell me.