Wolf's Tale (Necon Modern Horror Book 25)

by Dan Foley

  “Good,” Mose said when Wolf placed it on the table. Then he produced a small leather pouch. “Put that in here. Then put it ‘round your neck.” Wolf did, and knew they were making his gris-gris.

  “From this day on, you don’t take that bag off. You understand?”

  Wolf nodded that he did, then asked, “What about when I shower?”

  “You can take if off then, but you keep it close. Then you put it right back on. An’ you never go in that bayou without it — never.”

  Wolf nodded that he understood and looped the bag’s strap around his neck. He expected it to feel a bit weird — but it didn’t. Instead, it felt natural there. By the end of the day, it would feel like it was a part of him.

  “If you done eating, we got things to do,” Mose told him as he gathered up the remains of breakfast.

  “All right, what’s the plan?”

  “You see.”

  Mose took him to St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, on Basin Street. It was just outside the Quarter proper, but it was still a part of Old New Orleans. They stopped outside the gated entrance and Mose motioned for Wolf to go on alone.

  “What do you want me to do?” Wolf asked.

  “Go, look, see what you see. I can’t help you in there. This for you to do.”

  Wolf didn’t answer. He knew Mose had said all he was going to say, so he turned and walked into the cemetery. He had never been there before, but he was no stranger to above ground crypts. There was a gravel drive down the center of the cemetery, but Wolf found himself drawn to the narrow ally-like passages that were filled with family crypts and marble monuments. Some were surrounded by wrought iron fences, some were not. Here and there piles of wax, or unburned candles, showed where someone had come to remember the dead.

  As he wandered through St. Louis No. 1, Wolf started to catch glimpses of figures flitting at the edges of his vision. He knew them for what they were, shades of the souls interred here. He instinctively knew they meant him no harm and posed no danger. That changed when he approached the Galpion family crypt. The closer he got to the crypt, the colder the air became and a feeling a dread seemed to descend upon him. Each step became a battle, each yard gained, a war. Finally, he could go no further and gave up. As he moved away, he felt he shouldn’t turn his back on the crypt. Then felt a malevolent force urging him to come back ... come closer. The ground in front of the crypt rippled and its stone front bulged outward as if something was trying to break free. His steps faltered and he came to a stop. He stood there on a knife’s edge, knowing he should leave but wanting to go back. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew he was fighting for his life. Finally, shaking from exhaustion, he broke the spell and stumbled away from whatever, or whoever, had been calling him.

  Disoriented and dazed, Wolf wandered between the crypts, trying to find his way back to the entrance and Old Mose. Just before he stumbled onto the gravel drive, a spectral woman in a diaphanous white shroud materialized in front of him. She pointed one, long finger at him and slowly dissolved to nothing. On the ground where she had stood was a single red stone. Wolf picked it up. It tingled in his hand. Without any conscious thought, he placed it in the leather bag with the gator tooth.

  Mose watched as Wolf appeared from between a row of crypts and stumbled onto the wide aisle that led back to the entrance of St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. You may be a wolf yet, boy, he thought as Wolf walked toward him. “Well, you back — ’bout time,” is what he said. The boy had faced the voodoo princess and denied her. This was a test he had to pass if he was going to face the things he would meet in the bayou.

  “I ...” the boy started to say when he stepped outside the gate of the cemetery. Mose stopped him with the wave of his hand. “We don’t talk ‘bout what you seen in there. That between you and ... her.” Mose would not say the woman’s name.

  The sky was darkening as Mose led them back to the Quarter. Storm, Wolf thought until he saw the sky was clear. It’s evening, the sun is setting. Shocked, he turned to Mose, “How long was I in the graveyard?”

  “Long time — all day,” Mose answered.

  “But ...” Wolf stammered, “it only seemed like ...”

  “Some places time be different for people with da power in their blood. That be one of them. Now, I think it be time for dinner.” At the mention of food, Wolf realized he was ravenous. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever being so hungry.

  Mose led them to a Café with wrought iron tables outside, and doors that stood open to the street. He ignored the hostess and the line of folks waiting to be seated. Instead, he sat at an open table on the outside and indicated Wolf should take the seat opposite him. Wolf sat, and waited to see what would happen next. Would the manager come over and ask them to leave? Would the people in line complain and make a scene? Neither thing happened. Within minutes of taking their seats, a waitress brought two plates of etouffee and a basket of rolls to their table. Seconds later, a waiter arrived with two glasses of sweet tea, each with a sprig of crushed mint resting on the bottom. When the aroma from the steaming plate reached his nose, Wolf put off all questions he might have had, and dug in.

  A second bowl was placed in front of Wolf when he finished the first. By this time the edge was off his hunger and he ate slowly enough to savor the spicy taste of the shrimp and rice that made up most of the mixture. It was the first real Cajun food, other than Grandmere’s catfish and hush puppies, he had had since leaving Louisiana seven years ago. Mose never said a word the entire time they were eating.

  When they were finished, Mose got up and left the table. Wolf had to push his chair back and hurry to keep up with him. As he trailed along behind, he expected to hear shouts from the café, or a hand grabbing his arm to demand payment for the meal. He didn’t relax until they were a full block away and out of sight of the café. “We never paid for that,” Wolf, said as he walked alongside Mose.

  “I pay them ... in other ways,” Mose replied. Wolf was going to ask how, but then decided he didn’t want to know.

  When they got back to Royal, Wolf was unable to find the gate that led to Mose’s courtyard. He knew they should be close, but there was only a brick wall where he believed the gate should be. “Look, use your eyes, don’t let your mind fool you,” Mose finally told him. “Stop thinkin’ ‘bout that gate ... and see it.”

  Wolf tried. He closed his eyes, cleared his mind and imagined himself back aboard the Hancock, the submarine he had served onboard. When he could almost hear the whine of the feed pumps, smell the sterile air that was tainted only by a wisp of diesel fuel, he opened his eyes. He held the Hancock in his mind while looking out at the street. There, right in front of him, where there had only been a brick wall a moment before, was the gate to Mose’s courtyard. When he recoiled in surprise, the gate started to fade.

  “It’s a glamour,” Mose told him. “Ignore it, see what really there.”

  Wolf had to fight to do that ... to ignore the whispers in his head telling him to ignore the gate ... to see only a brick wall. It took all his will, but he managed. When Mose reached out and swung the gate open, the false image hiding behind the true one fell apart.

  “I don’t understand. Why was I able to see the gate yesterday, and not today?” Wolf asked when they were back in the courtyard.

  “That was me. I let you see past da glamour. I took it down for a minute. Now, it back up. Now you have to see da world as it really is, not as you think it might be — or as somebody else want you to see it.” And, with that, Mose went inside and left Wolf standing in the courtyard. Too late, Wolf realized he was going to spend another night under the stars.

  Well, this time I’m not sleeping sitting at the table, Wolf thought, as he searched the courtyard for a better place to settle in for the night. He found it under the overhang of the second floor balcony. It was a six-foot long bench with a padded seat, perfect for what he needed. Wolf let the sounds and smells of the evening envelop him as he lay in the dark sta
ring up at the portion of the night sky that he could see from where he lay. Eventually, he became aware of the muted sound of a fountain from somewhere close by.

  Instead of lulling him to the sleep, the sound of the water made him thirsty, so he got up and went in search of its source. It was in a far corner of the courtyard, a small, unobtrusive fountain spilling water into a bowl shaped basin. Wolf cupped his hands under the flow, let them fill and then splashed the water on his face. It was surprisingly cold and refreshing. The next three handfuls went to quench his thirst. When he had done that, he stripped down and washed off the best he could without soap or a wash cloth. He didn’t dare wash his clothes; they would never dry overnight in the Louisiana humidity. He had no intention of sleeping in his shorts or donning wet clothes in the morning.

  Mose shook him awake with the sunrise. “Get up boy, you goin’ to sleep all day?”

  Wolf sat up, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, stretched the kinks out of his back and stared at Mose like he was crazy. “What time is it?” he asked, noticing that the courtyard was still bathed in shadow.

  “Time to be up. We got things to do. You already missed breakfast. Let’s go.”

  “What do you mean, I missed breakfast? I’ve slept out here in this courtyard the last two nights, I haven’t had a shower, I stink, and now you’re telling me I missed breakfast! I don’t think so. If you don’t have breakfast here, we’re stopping for something to eat in the Quarter.”

  Mose stared at him for a minute before answering, “That right? You giving da orders now, boy?”

  Wolf thought about biting his tongue and backing down, but his ire was up — and he was hungry, damn it. “That’s right,” he finally told Mose, the most feared man in the Quarter.

  Wolf glared at him until Mose shook his head and actually laughed. It was a sound Wolf had thought he’d never hear. “Well, it’s ‘bout time, boy. I told you no one goin’ to give you anythin’. You finally learnin’. Now come get your breakfast.”

  Wolf followed Mose back to the house, still surprised at the man’s reaction. He stopped at the door, wondering just what he would find inside a voodoo priest’s home. When he stepped inside he didn’t know whether to be surprised or disappointed. It was just a regular kitchen. Everything was outdated, to be sure — the cabinets, tables and chairs looked like they were right out of the 1950’s — but there was no sign of chicken feet hanging from the ceiling, or altars with statues and candles in the corner.

  Wolf watched while Mose put together a breakfast of fried eggs, sausage, grits and chickory coffee. “After you eat, we goin’ to get you some new clothes. You stink. Then you can wash da ones you got on. You still goin’ to need to sleep outside. This house only have one bedroom and one bed. But you be okay out there.”

  “What about a shower?” Wolf asked.

  Mose looked at the closed door that led to the rest of the house and then back at Wolf. “I don’t think so.” Wolf almost asked why, but then thought better of it. There were probably things behind that door he didn’t need, or want, to see.

  “So, what are we going to do today?” Wolf asked when they had finished breakfast.

  “First, you goin’ to wash dishes, then we goin’ to see if you learned anything.”

  As they walked through the quarter, Mose swept his arm across the street in front of them. “Aw right, boy, look — and tell me what you see.”

  Wolf looked, knowing there was something Mose wanted him to see, but all he saw was Bourbon Street. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Well,” Mose demanded when Wolf was silent.

  “It’s just Bourbon Street. What do you want me to see?”

  “I can’t tell you what to see, you just got to see.”

  Wolf stood there, trying to divine whatever it was he wasn’t seeing, but still, nothing seemed out of place. Then he remembered to see with his eyes and ignore what his mind told him he should see. Slowly, carefully, he unfocused his gaze and let the scene around him fade to nothing. Then gradually, he let the world return.

  He looked, but still there was nothing out of place until he saw a girl on the corner dressed in rags and staring at him with hungry eyes. When their eyes met, her face turned into a mask of desire. When she came toward him, her feet never touching the ground, Wolf’s skin tingled. When she reached him, the cold surrounding her enveloped him and Wolf felt her trying to push herself into him. Instinctively, he realized she wanted to dominate him, control his mind and body. It was almost too late by the time he finally realized Mose was not going to come to his aid.

  Wolf felt the spirit slip into him. The cold was like a thousand tiny knives ripping into his flesh. He tried to recoil, but was frozen in place. Then it attacked his mind. Visions of dead things, of rot and ruin assailed him. The smell of rotting flesh and open graves nearly overpowered him. The thing was killing him, and Mose just stood there watching. That, more than the spirit’s attack, sparked his rage. Wolf finally reacted. His attack, once he unleashed it, was instinctual, fast and brutal. His body temperature rose as the “power” that was in his blood lashed out at the invading cold. His mind clamped onto the one invading his and tore into it with an anger greater than its was. He ripped and tore at its memories and fears. He fed it his hatred of Old Ben who had forced him to run from his home, and Gerhard Küehn who had terrorized his sub and killed his shipmates. The ghost tried to retreat, but Wolf refused to let it escape until he had reduced it to nothing more than a collection of distant memories of a life long past. When he finally freed it from his body, it lay on the pavement of Bourbon Street sobbing, a broken thing. Its form wavered for an instant before evaporating into the steamy air of the Quarter.

  When he turned and looked at Mose, the old man was nodding his approval. “Good, now da rest will leave you be.” Then, without another word, Mose led him on a walk through the Quarter.

  It was a haunted place. Now that he could see, Wolf saw phantoms on every street. Most of them slipped out of sight when they saw him, but some stared at him defiantly. Only the really bold ones held their ground when he turned his attention to them, but none dared to approach him.

  “Mose, why don’t they go after the tourists, or other people?” Wolf asked, nodding at a particularly menacing ghost.

  “Most those people got nothin’ them haints want. Ghosts mostly just there. They want you cause you got the power they crave. Power that makes them feel alive again. Them other folks ain’t got that.”

  Wolf was thinking about what Mose had said when he heard a scream in his head. When he looked up he saw a giant of a man pushing through the crowd toward him. He was at least seven feet tall. His hair hung down past his shoulders and a full, black beard hid most of his face. Everyone he passed through showed some effects. Most looked shocked, one woman feinted and several broke out in tears. Men either shrank away from other men or balled their fists looking for a fight. Wolf could tell that this one was not stopping and he prepared himself for the fight of his life.

  Wolf stood frozen, watching the ghost come. Then it hit him like an unstoppable force. It was inside him in an instant, freezing his body and tearing at his mind. “No,” Wolf screamed, fighting back, lashing out with every emotion he had, willing his body to overcome the cold. He held his own for a few fleeting seconds before his defenses started to crumble. The ghost was on the verge of victory when a force greater than either of them ripped it from Wolf like a great wind snatching up a discarded scrap of paper from the gutter.

  Wolf heard the ghost’s screams of anger and frustration before it was completely gone from his mind and body. Then he was falling to the street, exhausted from the ordeal. When he regained enough strength to look up, the old man was standing over him, offering him a hand up. Wolf took the offered hand and allowed Mose to help him to his feet.

  “That one too strong for you boy. Someday you might best him, but not today.”

  Wolf was stil
l trembling when another spirit, emboldened by his weakened state, launched its attack. It was into his mind and body in an instant. Wolf reacted just as quickly. Not this time you bastard! he thought, gripping the newcomer in a prison of rage and heat. Never! You will never come near me again!

  Let her go, a voice in his head said.

  No, he answered.

  Let her go now! the voice commanded, and Wolf had no choice but to obey.

  When the spirit was gone, Mose grabbed his head in his hands and stared directly into his eyes. “Never ... never let your rage master you. Hone it, use it like a tool. It is a fine weapon, but it has two edges. If you get lost in it, you may never find your way back. Then you be dead. Them ghosts, they know that. Old Ben, he know that. That be your rage, your hate, never let them use it against you.”

  Wolf, still high on adrenalin, could only nod his head in agreement.

  “Good, now we get you some food and then some new clothes.”

  “I think I need a beer,” Wolf said as Mose led him to a café.

  “No beer for you. No alcohol, ever again. It dulls your mind. That you cannot allow. You cannot fight them with alcohol in your blood.”

  “Merde,” was the only thing Wolf could think of to say to that.

  “When can I go back home?” Wolf asked Mose the following morning.

  “Anytime.”

  Wolf’s spirits rose until Mose added, “But Ben goin’ to kill you if you do. You still not ready.”

  “When will I be ready?”

  “That depend on you. You doing fine so far, but you still got a way to go.”

  Wolf was not happy, but he knew Mose was telling the truth, so he asked another question — one that had been gnawing at him from the first day he had met the man.

  “Mose, I need to ask you something,” he said, unsure if he was treading on forbidden ground.

  “What that, boy?”