Blood and Rain

by Glenn Rolfe

  The werewolf focused its attention back on the screaming beauty.

  Inside, the beast that had been Stan Springs thought of the ways he was going to devour this young one. He crept his way closer to his prey as she fell to her knees, drenched in rain and complete defeat. She was his—

  “Holy shit, what the fuck is that?” Heath said.

  Kim stared through the rain. Sonya was stumbling toward the road with a gun in her hand.

  “Oh my God, Sonya!” Kim said. She felt the car begin to slow. “What are you doing?”

  “That’s, that’s…”

  Kim stretched her foot over and pressed the accelerator. The Jetta shot straight for the beast.

  This time the monster didn’t have a chance to move. The black car seemed to have come from out of nowhere. As the werewolf broke its salacious gaze from the girl in the road, toward the speeding black vehicle darting in its direction, it attempted to let out yet another enormous howl—

  Kim held the wheel with one hand and braced herself with the other against the dash. Neither she nor Heath was buckled in.

  Sonya barely saw the car coming until it smashed into the beast. She flung herself backward. The gun slipped from her grip. She covered her head as the vehicle crunched into the creature and then spun out of control. She looked up as it smashed through the tall red fence that skirted her house.

  The compact Volkswagen plowed through the fence to the Nelsons’ driveway and came to a halt as it crashed into Mr. Nelson’s Chevy Suburban.

  Sonya lifted her head. Water dripped from her face. The beast temporarily forgotten, she stared through the shattered fence toward the driveway. There was a black Volkswagen Jetta—just like Heath’s.

  “No…no…no…”

  She picked herself up off the waterlogged road, feeling all of whatever life energy she had left fleeing her as she baby-stepped her way over to the car’s passenger side.

  She brought her hand to her mouth. Her knees weakened. She fell into the door and began to sob. Kim’s lifeless eyes stared straight at the bloody and splintered windshield. Over Kim’s shoulder, Heath’s bloody face lay slumped against the steering wheel. Sonya steadied herself enough to grab the door handle and open the door. She reached in and clutched her best friend’s shoulder. Kim’s head rolled toward her hand as her lifeless body shifted and slumped toward the door, Sonya dropped down on her knees and put her arms around Kim. The girl had been her closest confidante since her mother passed away, and knew all of her gravest fears, all of her aspirations, and was the only person who knew she had almost been raped in eighth grade by her sophomore boyfriend, Jake Collins. And now, she—along with Alex and her mom—was gone. She reached down, found Kim’s cold hand, and held it tight. “Why, why, God?”

  She was grabbed by the hair and yanked up and backward. Her feet left the ground as she was sent somersaulting through the air. She landed hard, coming down on her left knee. Something in the joint popped.

  Forced onto her back by the strong arms of the beast, she wanted to reach for the pain that was bursting to life in her back. As she looked away from the disgusting face of the creature, and gazed at Kim who was now spilled out onto the wet driveway. Sonya had no fight left in her. She just lay there as its saliva dripped down onto her cheek. She closed her eyes.

  The werewolf reached down and grabbed the young girl’s leg. It was getting weaker by the minute. The poison in its leg from the silver bullets was working on its internal functions.

  The sheriff’s daughter cried. It lowered its mouth to within inches of her nose and lapped at her tears. Still, she did not fight, did not move.

  The monster started to rise and then stumbled. Between the silver ravaging its inner workings, and the injured hip from the impact of the vehicle that had struck it, the beast knew it was in trouble.

  I can still rip this little bitch in two from the inside out.

  It raised its snout into the sky, letting out a howl.

  The katana blade slammed into the side of the monster’s neck and continued straight out the other side. Joe Fischer’s momentum spun him around. He stumbled to his knees. The decapitated body fell and landed next to his little girl. He let the sword fall into the mud, shuffled forward on his knees, and placed his hand to his daughter’s face.

  Her eyes remained closed.

  “Sonya? Baby girl, it’s all right. Everything’s going to be okay. Can you hear me?”

  She opened her eyes, pursing her lips tightly together as the tears flowed from her eyes. She looked into those of her father and nodded.

  Upon seeing her nod, Joe felt the last of his strength fade as he collapsed to the ground beside his daughter.

  A moment later, he opened his eyes and found them staring into the dead face of the beast.

  “Daddy, you’re hurt. We have to get an ambulance.”

  Joe Fischer grinned.

  As her father lost consciousness for the second time, she heard the sound of sirens fill the night. She laid her head upon his chest and wept for all that had been taken from her. She was glad that it was over, but devastated all the same.

  Epilogue

  The midnight hour leaned heavily on the tired eyes of Sonya Fischer as she sat at the computer desk trying to finish an essay for her senior English class. It was titled “Christianity in Today’s America: A Matter of Convenience”.

  Prior to the events of the past summer, she had never really given much thought to who, or what, she actually believed in. She’d occasionally gone to church with her dad, always making an appearance on the big holidays, mostly just Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving. She even liked the way Pastor Lionel Peabody ran the whole holy shindig, but she never talked with him about her personal life or beliefs. She never really gave a thought to God, or Allah, or Yahweh, before the tragic deaths of the July Blood Moon.

  She remembered praying to the higher power for help, for understanding, for intervention. In the course of that one dark and stormy night, she lost nearly everyone in her life that she cared about.

  The official death toll at the hands of the “wild animal” (that’s what the media outlets were told) tallied twelve. The deaths of Kim Donaldson and Heath Jorgensen were reported as accidents due to inclement weather.

  There was also a fifteenth unofficial victim, Nick Bruce. The former Crypto Insider writer had disappeared from the town altogether. His body was never found. Officially, he was just a missing person. The select few who knew the real situation included him in the tally of victims of the unnatural force that tore through this small community.

  Families and friends of both the official and unofficial victims mourned together in a candlelight vigil led by Pastor Peabody at Saving Grace Baptist two days after the tragedies.

  Now, seven months later, the city had returned to normal, but her father had resigned from his post as sheriff. Deputy Dwayne Clarke had since taken up the well-respected position. A new crop of deputies was transplanted from surrounding towns in order to replace the small force that had served Gilson Creek. Her father had used his savings to acquire Melanie Murdock’s café, taking over as owner/co-manager, splitting managerial duties with Mel’s top cook, Vinnie Castagno. She wasn’t sure what kind of relationship her father had entered into with Mel before her death, but knew that it must have meant something tremendous to him. He even kept the name Mel’s Café.

  For the most part, life in Gilson Creek went on. It had no choice. They had no choice.

  Sonya decided that she wanted to join the force. She wanted to take up arms and defend her town, which surprised her as much as it did her classmates and her father alike. She had once aspired to be a singer, or a doctor, or a marine biologist, but those aspirations died with Kim and Alex.

  Shortly after coming out of the five-month haze of depression that sat upon her heart and mind following that tragic night, she discovered an in
ner strength she never knew she possessed. It was inherited from her father, no doubt, and it—along with her equally surprising newfound relationship with God and the church—gave her the empowerment she so needed to lift her chin, raise her head and reopen her heart to the world.

  As Sonya was finishing her paper, there was a soft knock on her bedroom door.

  “Mind if I come in?”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  He stepped into her bedroom.

  She moved to the bed.

  He walked over and sat down next to her. He gazed at her for a long time. He wore a smile upon his face comfortably, lifting his left hand up and tucking the loose strands of her long blonde hair behind her ear. “You’re as beautiful as your mother was on the day I married her. You know that?”

  “So you’ve told me.” She returned his warm smile as her eyes drifted from his to the prosthetic arm he’d gained from his battle with the monster.

  “C’mon now, we both know that we suck at lying to one another. What is it?”

  “It’s just that sometimes…when I notice your arm…it…it…”

  “It all comes back?” he said.

  “Yeah.” A tear rolled down her cheek.

  Joe wiped it away. “It’s over, dear. You know that.”

  She managed a smile. “You made sure of that.”

  “Yeah, I sure as hell did.”

  She hugged him as they both allowed themselves to relax and laugh together.

  When she let go of him, he stood up, kissed her on the forehead and went back to the door. “If you’re done singing my praises as being some big monster hunter, I want you to hit the hay. I’ll be doing the same myself in a little bit.”

  She smiled at his attempt at comforting humor. “I will. I finished my essay just before you came up. I’ve been ready to close my eyes for the last two hours.”

  “Well get some sleep then, kiddo. I’ll see you in the morning. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Dad. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Joe pulled her door closed, and his smile immediately evaporated from his face. He’d never been very good at lying or keeping things from her. That was, until that awful night. Since then, he’d become quite adept at putting on the perfect smile and being the rock she needed to lean on whenever her rebuilt strength and confidence wavered.

  He never said a word about leaving the body of the other werewolf in the woods off Old Gilson Creek Road that dreadful night, to come rescue her…and Mel. He never spoke of the fact that he had not driven the steel katana blade across the throat of the first beast they encountered that night. He kept it to himself. He should know better by now. Whenever he lied—to himself, to the town or to the people who he cared for most in this world, it always, always came back to haunt him.

  Joe Fischer dreamt of blood-red moons, walking beasts and a slaughtered community. The recurring visions woke him up every morning at 3:00 a.m. Under the last full moon of February, rousing from the latest of his nightmares, he heard something that commanded every hair on his body to rise—a single howl rang out through the darkness.

  Spring was coming—the time when all that was dead returned.

  About the Author

  Glenn Rolfe is an author, singer, songwriter and all around fun-loving guy from the haunted woods of Maine. He has studied Creative Writing at Southern New Hampshire University, and continues his education in the world of horror by devouring the novels of Stephen King and Richard Laymon. He and his wife, Meghan, have three children, Ruby, Ramona, and Axl. He is grateful to be loved despite his weirdness.

  Look for these titles by Glenn Rolfe

  Now Available:

  Abram’s Bridge

  Boom Town

  Coming Soon:

  Things We Fear

  Where Nightmares Begin

  Terror from below!

  Boom Town

  © 2015 Glenn Rolfe

  In the summer of 1979, Eckert, Wisconsin, was the sight of the most unique UFO encounter in history. A young couple observed a saucer-like aircraft hovering over Hollers Hill. A blue beam blasted down from the center of the craft into the hill and caused the ground to rumble for miles.

  Now, thirty years later, Eckert is experiencing nightly rumbles that stir up wild rumors and garner outside attention. The earthly tremors are being blamed on everything from earthquakes to underground earth dwellers. Two pre-teens discover a pipe out behind Packard’s Flea Market uprooted by the “booms” and come into contact with the powerful ooze bubbling from within. What begins as curiosity will end in an afternoon of unbridled terror for the entire town.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Boom Town:

  Brady Carmichael finished his hot dogs and set his plate down at the end of his bed. He stared at the closed door across the hall from his room. Bryce’s room. It’d been two years since his dad and his brother had died. Brady had been home with the flu when they went on their snowmobile trip. It had been unusually warm that January, and the ice on the lake wasn’t frozen solid. The snowmobile broke through and took them with it. Rod Cameron and his son Jesse were there, but they couldn’t save them. Rod tried and came away with a bad case of hypothermia.

  Bryce’s room was empty, but his mom still kept the door shut. She said the bare room was harder to look at than it had been when all of his things were still sitting in there, waiting for him to come home. Brady had been ten when the accident happened. Time seemed to have numbed him to the loss. He still had his sad moments, like now, staring across the hall, but most days he chose to look ahead, not back.

  He broke his trance-like state and finished the glass of Coke he’d taken with supper. His mother would be calling up any minute for his dishes, but he had to take a leak first. He slid off the bed and moved down the hall. His mother’s mini-library of mystery thrillers stacked on the bookshelf by the bathroom made him think of Kim. He wondered if she’d started reading the Stephen King book he’d brought her. He remembered how she’d looked at him in her bedroom. Her green eyes staring into his, he’d wanted to kiss her. He’d brought the book (a grown-up book) to her after reading it himself. It was a scary book about vampires in a small town in Maine, but there was also a love story in there. He’d been in Kim’s room a zillion times before. They’d been friends since first grade, but things were different. They were different. He was going to be thirteen in June. She would be too, in August. His dad used to listen to a song that asked, “Why must I be-ee a teenager in love?” Brady wondered the same thing.

  Alan Packard watched an old VHS tape of WrestleMania III, from back when the WWE was still called the WWF. He polished off what was left of his thirty rack of Budweiser and waited for the Huey kid to bring him his pizza. On the television, Hulk Hogan body slammed Andre the Giant when, for the first time, Alan thought he felt the actual impact. When the walls and floor continued to shake, Alan realized it wasn’t Hulkamania rumbling the earth; it was another ground boom. His living room shook, rattled and rolled. Decorations fell like people from the Titanic: his framed photo of Cindy Crawford from the wall behind his Zenith floor-model television; a neon OPEN sign that had stopped working six years ago dropped to his RCA dual cassette-deck stereo below; his collection of pint glasses stolen over the years from dive bars up and down Wisconsin—Schlitz, Coors and Pabst Blue Ribbon glasses—tap-danced to the edge of their four-foot shelf before committing hari kari. He’d felt the previous booms, but this was the first to hit his side of town.

  Alan had read about the city’s other booms in the paper, and had seen Suri Baker report about them on the local CBS affiliate. From eavesdropping on conversations between shoppers in his flea market, he picked up all kinds of wild theories (like Gus and Nat’s Hollers Hill alien story). He’d overheard Mrs. Bunker’s underground dwellers theory, and Denny Carlson’s take about it being a malfunction in the gover
nment’s secret oil line (built after 9/11 to stash black gold in case the sand niggers in the Middle East decided to try and fuck us royally). None of it made any sense to him. He figured they were less to do with alien entities and Al-Qaeda and more from the global warming thing that Al Gore and the liberals were always raving about.

  The shake and tumble continued. Alan clutched his ratty recliner like a kid during a horror flick. He heard things falling down, banging and clanging to the ground in the store below. He lived above his flea market. The building was old. The wooden floors were land-mined with soft spots. The inventory consisted of numerous pieces of ancient garbage amassed from closed discount stores and liquidation centers around the state. He hated the flea market business, but it was what his father had handed down to him, and all he’d ever known. “You give what you get,” his father had always said.

  The final reverberation caused its last windowpane to shudder and took the electricity with it. Alan rose to assess the damage as best he could in the dark, and fumbled his way to the bathroom to relieve his strained bladder. He flushed the toilet, but nothing happened. The water pipes had been compromised as well. He resigned himself to finishing off the night with his last three beers in the gloom, and passed out in his recliner.

  The next morning, it was as though nothing had happened.

  The power was back on, as was the water, although the water now held a slight bluish hue and an odd mildew smell. He wasn’t about to drink it, but at least he didn’t have to call Rick Fischer to come out and fix his pipes. The flea market made him enough cash to keep him fed and make his light and water payments, which was about it. He lived day-to-day, praying that his thirty-year-old Ford pickup stayed healthy, and that his house maintained its poor but stable condition.

  Alan gobbled down a couple pieces of peanut butter toast and a leftover Miller Light that had survived in the back of his fridge. Then he noticed the wet spot on his recliner. He’d pissed himself in his sleep. He’d slept through to the afternoon. Hell, he was still a little buzzed.