Mystery

“Good morning, Chief Inspector. We’ve got a nasty one here.”

It was hardly morning. A full moon beamed down on the back of the modest house in the Mayfair district. Dawn was only a purple smudge on the horizon. I peered inside the kitchen. The walls and cabinets were spattered with blood. An elderly woman, mid seventies, lay sprawled face down on the floor. Her nightgown and her flesh were badly shredded.

“Doris Whickam,” the constable reported, referring to his notepad. “Age 73. Dead three to four hours. No sign of forced entry. ME won’t give the COD until they get her on the table, but she says there are a dozen different wounds that could have done the job. Husband found her,” he said. “Phoned it in an hour ago. Didn’t hear anything. He’s deaf as a post.” He flipped his pad closed and looked into the kitchen. “Hell of a mess, what?”

“Thank you, Constable.” I turned to the technician taking photographs of the scene. “Mind if I come in?”

“I’m done with the floor, Inspector. Have a care you don’t touch anything else.”

I stepped inside and bent to examine the body. The tears in her faded gown had jagged edges. The wounds appeared tattered and ragged as well. “Can’t be a knife,” I mused aloud. “Too much tearing.”

“ME thinks maybe a meathook or a letter opener,” said the tech. “Something pointed but not all that sharp. I’m sure we’ll turn up something useful in this mess”

“Let’s hope so,” I replied, surveying the scene. There was blood spatter in the sink. No effort to clean up the place. A butcher block knife holder next to the range was full. A rumpled sheet of pink paper on the breakfast table caught my eye. I went over to take a closer look. It was a take-out menu, Chinese. It lay open, but had been folded twice. The table was smeared with blood, but there was none on the menu.

“Make sure you get a picture of that,” I said to the tech, pointing at the menu.

====

I sat at my desk reviewing the reports and finishing the last of a late lunch. The uniforms had canvassed the neighborhood. No one heard or saw anything, except one woman who swore she heard howling sometime around midnight. The couple’s finances and acquaintances didn’t point to any motive.

Photos from the scene covered my desk. A preliminary report from the ME shed no light beyond what I had guessed on my own. All the blood tested so far was the same type. Further analysis would have to wait. The immediate COD was a gash to the throat.

I found myself returning to the picture of the take-out menu again and again. It looked so out of place. The husband couldn’t remember having had takeout in the recent past, but a note on his interview sheet warned that not much of what he said was reliable: shock, senility, or a combination of the two.

Lee Ho Fook’s. I’d eaten there many times. Lee Ho Fook’s. The name kept nipping at the edges of my brain. Lee Ho Fook’s.

It couldn’t be! I jumped from my desk and headed out the door. Fifteen minutes later I pulled up outside Trader Vic’s. When you’ve got nothing, you grasp at straws. I’d put a lot of nasty people away by gathering up enough straws.

I walked into the bar. There he was, drinking a piña colada. He was dressed in a crisply pressed suit; a handkerchief tucked neatly into his pocket. He stood and put out his hand as I walked over.

“Chief Inspector Dwight. I was hoping you would come.”

I ignored the proffered hand. “And you are?”

“Talbot. Lawrence Talbot,” he said, taking his seat. “Please, won’t you join me?”

I sat opposite him at the small table. “You were expecting me? Any particular reason?”

“Hoping, Inspector, hoping. But no special reason. Let’s just call it ‘instinct’,” he said. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “You’ll have to forgive me. I have a weakness for the dramatic flair. Let the games begin!”

With that he stood and walked out the door. I had no reason to stop him, but I managed to snap a picture with my cell.

I went over to the hostess and flashed my badge. “Could you please get me a plastic bag? I’m going to need to take that cocktail glass with me.”

“Certainly, Inspector,” she said. “And the gentleman left this for you.”

She handed me a small, velvet box. I opened it slowly. Light glinted from the one sliver bullet that lay inside.

I checked my phone to see if I had gotten a useful picture. I had. I couldn’t help but notice that his hair was perfect.

With a crash that pierces through the concrete hall like a pickaxe, the officer slams the cell door shut. I watch the pinstripe shadow of the bars slide across the stolid face of Marcus, my best friend of over ten years. That's it; there's that impassible barrier between us again, as it always returns at the end of each hour-long visit, for the past three weeks.

Of course he hasn't torn out the throats of those five poor girls in Franklin Park, but when ten rabid parents are howling for justice, someone has to take the fall. My friend was, unfortunately, carrying around a completed sentence for aggravated assault, and in the pristine suburbia of Sacred Springs, he might as well have been Charles Manson.

The court case was a farce; I showed up every day and watched spittle fly from the mouths of red-faced overweight fathers, who swore on the Bible and told twelve sympathetic personal friends that such atrocities could not go unpunished. They weren't bloody-minded enough to give Marcus the chair, but he ended up with ten years to life.

Now, I have two boys of my own, and I'd defend them with my life. But if Marcus ripped those kids apart, I am Napoleon. The man had worked in the produce department, twenty feet from my counter, for years. His conviction had come down when he was nineteen; he'd gotten out early for good behavior. When I say he was a changed man, I mean he ordered his steak well done so he wouldn't have to see it bleed.

Managing the meat section's generally a sixty-hour-a-week gig, but every free minute I have, I spend keeping the case open. This town despises me for it; the Upstanding Members of Society want everything to quiet back down, and if I too wish to remain an Upstanding Member, I'd better let that happen.

They didn't used to seem like such an elite club, but these days, I've come to understand that not all fraternities involve gold seals and locked doors. Some are formed, maybe unintentionally at first, when their members decide to exclude certain people, to term those people "muckraker." Then they make it a little harder for those people and their kids to get a good table at a restaurant, or to be five cents short and still buy a pack of cigarettes.

But I keep pressing. I dig up leads, just like a hero in a novel, and I pester the county office for any records in the public domain. There's no chance of help from the police, of course, but I keep my eyes and ears open. I've got good hearing, which is helpful, because gossip doesn't drift my way too much anymore.

Interesting fact about the murders: they were spaced exactly one month apart, always on the night of a full moon. Not that I'm some kind of vulture, you understand, but it seems important, an "interesting feature of the case," as one of those novel detectives might say. Do you know the origin of the word "lunacy?" It's from the Latin "luna," meaning moon. The Romans believed that craziness increased on the night of the full moon.

And it's just about that time again; tonight, in fact. I won't let my boys stay out after dark; they know to come straight home after school. I even rented them a movie, something about dinosaurs, so they're thinking of it as a slumber party. They think the killer's locked up now, that quiet Marcus from produce turned out to be a psycho; I'm sure it'll be a local legend, a story for campfires, in a few more years.

The truth is mine to carry, and I'll keep dragging it up until I find this maniac. So tonight, I'm going to eat this juicy center-cut filet (unlike Marcus, I like mine nearly raw), and I'm going to get my jacket, my hiking boots, and my .45, and I'm heading out to Franklin Park to watch for a regular customer I know will be back. Actually, after the first girl disappeared, I started heading out there a few times a month, but I always woke up the next morning with a throbbing head and dirty fingernails, and I'd pop open the paper to read another police report.

I'm not going to fall asleep tonight; I've promised myself that. I've taken a caffeine pill, and I'll have coffee with my steak. A recipe for an early heart attack, I know, but the lives of our children are worth more to me than my own old bones. Tonight, I'll be watching. Tonight, no one gets away from me.

Heels. Stiletto heels. Maybe some silk stockings. And a short skirt, definitely a short skirt.

My mental picture became more detailed as I listened to the footsteps in the hall. Business had been slow, but I tried to keep my skills sharp. Too bad I’d never know if I was right. As I said, business was slow.

I was debating whether the walker was blonde or brunette when a shadow darkened the frosted glass of my door. The knob rattled impatiently. Redhead, I thought, in three…two…one…

On cue, the door opened.

The woman who walked through the door had the determination of someone on a mission. Despite her 3” heels, she seemed to glide across the floor towards me. My eyes drifted up her silk stockings until those long legs disappeared under a short black dress. Her hair was a vivid auburn, the kind of color that you can’t get out of a bottle.

“Mr. Odowski?” My name was a husky growl.

“Call me Sam,” I replied, helping her into a chair. I casually walked around my desk, trying not to notice as she gracefully crossed those sinful legs.

“Sam,” she agreed.

“And you are…?” I asked.

“Victoria Lubins.”

I nodded my acceptance and waited.

“I understand that you specialize in finding…difficult people,” she said.

Again, I nodded.

“I need you to find someone who is very special to me,” she said. A scrap of paper appeared and she slid it across the desk to me. I picked it up, noticing the fine writing and the faint smell of lavender.

“Around six feet tall, dark hair, blue eyes, night person, radio ad,” I read.

“Radio ad?” I asked.

“He is the voice of Midnight,” she said.

“The perfume?”

“Yes. Find him for me.” Her green eyes drilled into mine.

I looked down at the list. Not much to go on. Then again, I didn’t have anything better to do.

-----------------------

A little bit of legwork, a few strategically placed bills, and three days later she was back in my office.

“Did you find him?” She was sitting on the edge of her chair, tension radiating through her body.

I hesitated and studied her carefully. Today her dress was midnight blue and her vivid hair was pulled back in a bun. But she was still a gorgeous woman, who could have her pick of men. Why was she so desperate for this one?

“Why him?” I asked.

She flushed, but stayed silent.

“Do you have a grudge? Will I be reading his obituary tomorrow?” She paled, but I continued on. I had to know.

“Maybe the kid needs some new shoes?”

Her sudden laughter startled me.

“He won’t be dying anytime soon. As to the other – I don’t have any children, but I’ve been looking for the perfect man for a very, very long time. Let’s just say that I’m interested in his potential.”

She’d satisfied my conscience, so I told her what I’d found. But she hadn’t satisfied my curiosity.

By 11:30 that night, I was ready to tell my curiosity to take a long walk off a short pier.

A drop of cold rain dripped off the brim of my hat, eluded my trenchcoat collar and made its presence known all the way down my spine. She’d been sitting in her warm, dry car for over two hours, waiting for him to leave the radio station. One more drop of rain and I was going in after him.

Light blazed onto the street as the station door opened. A long shadow appeared briefly in the street before the light blinked out. I waited as my eyes adjusted to the darkness.

Before that could happen, I heard the tell-tale sound of stilettos running across pavement. As my night vision returned, I saw their outlines, two figures warily approaching each other, cautiously circling. I couldn’t hear words, only the low growl of his voice and the soft answering of hers.

I tensed as they moved closer, ready to step in at the first sign of violence. Instead, I saw their figures embrace, becoming a single shadow in the darkness.

The clouds broke for a moment and the full moon illuminated the scene. It might have been a trick of the light, but their bodies seemed to change. Her flowing hair merged into her body like soft fur. His features sharpened and he looked directly at me. I had the impression of a hunter protecting his mate.

A frisson of fear ran down my spine. Then the moon disappeared behind the clouds and the illusion shattered. The shadow separated and two figures slowly walked away, hands joined.

I wasn’t sure what I’d seen, but I put my curiosity back on the shelf for another day.

A wave of silence rushed over the crime scene the second the three of us from S-Division stepped out of our Suburban and into the carnage. It was true silence, too, without even the whispered joke or muffled snicker you would expect when a team nicknamed "The Freak Squad" was called to a murder. I hadn't noticed it myself, but then my hearing had gone downhill since my own death three years ago. Even the top notch embalmer I had hired wasn't able to fully preserve my timpanic membranes. Marcus, who had the ears of a dog most of the time and the aural sensitivity of the most sophisticated military equipment during his special time of the month, was, of course, the one who pointed it out. It bothered me for about a day, then I realized that most people would be nervous around someone who approached a corpse like a tourist at a Las Vegas all-you-can-eat buffet.

"Looks like someone had himself some fun," Julian murmured. There was amusement and a little jealousy in his voice, and I can't say I blame him. He had done worse than this back in the day, or so he told me. Still, I got the feeling he was displeased with the way our perp had wasted so much blood.

The three of us approached the scene slowly, careful not to get any of the victim on our shoes. Even with us there to sniff out all the bits, it was going to take a while before the entire victim was found. Julian began to glide around, pointing out drops and spray patterns that the crime scene techs had missed. Marcus snuffled his way around the perimeter, trying to find the route the murderer had taken. I spent my time examining the body (or at least the chunks already found) to get an idea of the mind behind the destruction. I noticed the crime scene photographer eying me, so I made a show of licking my lips whenever I came upon a piece of brain. He didn't watch me for long.

The victim, probably male, had been here for a couple of days before a hiker had stumbled onto him shortly before sunset. The body had been torn apart and scattered over at least sixty square yards. A few years ago, the police would have surmised that this was the work of a pack of wolves and left it at that, but ever since the world realized that some myths weren't myths, a man found torn apart soon after a full moon was a potential murder victim. Then, the regular police call the Freak Squad, because who better to bring a monster to justice than a pack of monsters?

I examined the body for an hour, taking in the horrible familiarity of the wound patterns. I caught the primary's attention and nodded. He gave me the go ahead to take over the investigation. I looked around for my team. Julian was kneeling close to a tech I'd never seen before. The vampire was explaining the difference in the spray patterns from each of the major arteries. It was probably all bull, intended to scare the crap out of the rookie, who by now looked even paler than Julian. The rookie saw me trying to get Julian's attention – the embalmer had even worse luck with my vocal cords than with my eardrums, so I either had to spend my time waving frantically or carry an air horn with me at all times – and let him know I was ready. Julian smiled his widest smile and thanked the rookie with a clap on the shoulder. The rookie shuddered and turned even paler.

"Rookies are so entertaining, don't you think?" Julian crooned as he approached.

Where's Marcus? I mouthed anxiously.

Julian glanced around. "I don't see him. So, it's ours, then?"

I nodded, then knelt by the body and tried to come up with some other conclusion than the one that was knocking around my skull. Julian crouched next to me and breathed in my angst.

He can't help it.

Julian scoffed. "Of course he can. He just doesn't want to chain himself up like some feral beast. None of us do. You don't think I miss the taste of fresh blood straight from the neck of a sweet little barmaid?" He leaned in closer. "You think I don't notice the glee you take in examining a head wound? There are rules, miss, and we are not exempt." He stood and waited for my order.

I looked up at Julian. Get him.

He took out his radio. "This is Agent Red. We need a containment squad three miles east of mile marker forty-one on route six. Suspect is Marcus James. Repeat, suspect is Agent Brown."

When she walked through that door I knew I was in trouble. She had legs longer than the continental divide, and I wanted to do the math. Her ruby lips breathed out a long sigh of velvet roses.

“You gotta help me, you just gotta!" she said, and I slipped on her voice it was that smooth.

“Now hold on there dame, I don’t take kindly to being told what I gotta do.” I went back to polishing my pistol, my feet propped up on the table.

“I also don’t take kindly to dames walking through the door, ya hear? I like the kind that can turn a knob.”

She eyed me suspiciously. Her eyes were blue as the ocean and so deep I could drown. There was a rip tide too. Her eyes kept moving around the room, always coming back to me.

“So it’s true, you can see me, you gotta help!”

I always laugh at the presumptuousness of lost spirits. Just ‘cause I see them doesn’t mean I have to do one damn thing.

“Tell me the story but make it quick, you’re dripping on my floor. It was just waxed the other day.” There’s nothing harder to get out of wooden floors than ectoplasm.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, her face crimson from spectral embarrassment. She looked like she was once a stand-up gal. Maybe it was something easy, like telling her mom she loved her. Maybe I wouldn’t mind this case.

“The problem?” I reminded her. Too bad spirits have no odor; she would have smelled like honey on a fresh summer’s day.

“My Johnny, he- he was attacked!” she cried.

So that’s how it was gonna be, I had to save her man?

“Where does he live miss?”

A sly grin crossed her face; her floral lips showed a beauty I would have given my right arm for, had the Zombies not eaten it last June. Worst. Neighbors. Ever.

“He doesn’t live, that’s the problem. After the crash we’ve been searching for our daughter. We can’t find her alive or dead, we just wanted to tell her we love her, to help her. Then, this thing – it attacked my Johnny! Now I can’t find him either. It just ate him or something!”

I wondered if the Big Bad Wolf was at it again. Human belief created him and keeps him alive, but every so often he believes that a feast of souls will bring him the corporality he so desires. God help us all if that happens.

“You got a better description than ‘thing’ miss?” I asked looking though her eyes and at my door. Smudges. There were finger smudges on the glass. Only thing worse than ectoplasm on the floor is fingerprints on the glass.

She talked fast; her lips moving like a locomotive, one that I wanted to pull into my station. I had to keep reminding myself she was dead to me.

It was the wolf all right. Some stories said he was the last of the werewolves, banished into fairy tales forever. But stories are written to soothe our fears. I knew the Weres still existed; there were a couple clans deep in the mountains. And the Amish. That’s why they keep to themselves. It’s a little-known fact that the Amish are really the oldest clan of Weres. But don’t go spreading that around. They’re good people and make a mean biscuit.

“Show me,” I said standing up, and smoothing out my suit. But first, I made a call to my contact at the PD. Last crash recorded left two victims – the kid survived, she was at Grandma’s. I told the dame and she wept, soon as we figured out her husband she could move on.

It was a back alley, when is it not? Dark tenement buildings with fire escapes to heaven lined both sides. The wolf was there, devouring another soul. He sniffed and turned around. We’d met before, we’re like old friends.

“You can’t come out of the stories” I said all full of authority.

“You can and I can’t?” he asked.

Yeah, I am the Private d**k. The one you all created. Just took me a few souls to crawl out of the shadows. It’s harder when only kids want to believe, adult faith is stronger because they have faith in so little. Kids, they believe everything. You need real focus to become real.

“That’s right,” I said. Then I recited the story of The Three Little Pigs, the real story, the one that’s a spell by three strong Magis seeking to contain what Red Riding Hood unleashed.

He screamed and I grinned. I looked over at the Dame. She looked mighty tasty, and I had an arm to regrow.

“Mommy, what do wolves eat?”

“Well honey, that depends on where they live. Those that live in the cold, they eat rabbits and other small animals.”

“Mommy, what do people eat?”

“Well honey, healthy people eat their vegetables at dinner time, they don’t hide them in their mashed potatoes or in their pockets. Then there are the non-healthy people, and they only eat junk food like potato chips and ice cream and McDonald’s.”

“Mommy, if wolves eat bunnies, and people eat wedge-tables and McDonald’s, what do werewolves eat?”

“They eat little girls who aren’t ticklish!”

Janie screamed as I roared and chased after her. Finally, she was caught and giggled so loudly as I tickled her soft smooth four-year-old belly, no werewolf would think of her as dinner.

When I was in college I rebelled. No more was I mommy’s little girl, future surgeon like my father, Chief-of-Staff at Big Name Memorial Hospital. I was going to be an artist and thought that road involved alcoholism, heroine, and men that hurt you. The idea was the pain would open up your imagination.

Jim “Call me Master” Santiago was my pain.

He took me to, of all places, Thailand to revel in the anarchic underground. I came back from that trip bruised with ‘tester’ slashes across my wrists and a book that saved my life, The Charlie Brown Mysteries. It was a complete rip off of the Peanuts Gang mixed with Scooby-Doo. I saw it, and knew I would read it to my future children every night.

Bedtime is not easy. Luckily, I have a loving “call us equals” husband, Frederick. Tonight is his turn with our infant, Jasper, and I get to read to Janie. She loves The Charlie Brown Mysteries.

The book is missing.

“Sweetie, where did you put it last?”

Janie whimpers.

“Sweetie, did you put it under your pillow again?”

Janie whimpers louder.

“Okay, it’s not there, how about your bookshelf?”

Janie’s face begins to contort into that pre-cry disfigurement. Her brow furrows. She is silent as she gathers strength.

“So it’s not on the bookshelf, maybe in your book bag? Did you take it to school again honey?”

The beginning of a wail makes its way out of her lips. Her nostrils are flaring; I see a tear ready to drop. I know what will happen when it lands on her cheek.

“Janie, sweetie, everything’s okay – we’ll find it, mommy promises!” I run through the house tearing up the couch cushions, pulling everything out of the freezer, the dishwasher. Frederick is walking down the stairs, a signal that the infant is asleep.

Then, the full force of Janie’s scream escapes. To say it was like a banshee would be cliché. To say like a fire engine – also cliché, and neither are quite the right description of her yell.

After our trip to Thailand, Master told me that the only time bunnies scream is when they die. I was to meet him behind the Johnson’s farm at midnight to see the truth.

“Come on, we’ll drown a bunny.”

I thought that was a euphemism for sex. I was late getting there, and didn’t see Master hold the rabbit under the water. As I walked toward the barn I heard a scream, high-pitched, mournful, and ghastly in its connection to the dead.

Janie’s scream, like a dying bunny, pours through the house filling everything with its ethereal despair.

Then, the baby. A wail not as powerful, but strong in its confusion, joins the cacophony.

The school. What if she left it at school? Oh my God, if she did. . .today is Friday, how will we survive the weekend?

Frederick stops aiding the frantic search to tend to the infant. I understand, but despise him at that moment. I want to run to Janie, hold her and tell her it will be okay. I also want to run away.

Where is that damn book?

Exhausted, I collapse to the floor of the living room, now strewn with the remains of the video cabinet. Its emptiness stares at me, mocking me because it did not hold the secret of the missing book.

Frederick descends the stairs holding Jasper in one arm, and the other arm is hidden behind his back. Jasper is suckling on my husband’s t-shirt. Janie’s wail is constant. She doesn't breathe- her grief is beyond such human needs.

“Mommy, what do baby Jasper’s eat?” asks Frederick, his soothing voice drifts to me on the waves of Janie’s sadness. It is barely audible.

He holds out The Charlie Brown Mysteries. Besides one damp and slightly chewed corner, it’s intact.

“Janie!” I yell running to the top of the stairs where she has made her vigil, “Wanna hear The Case of the Missing Security Blanket tonight?”

The sheriffs car pulled up outside 2117 Westglenn Lane in front of an English Tudor house and glided to a stop, the tires sliding on a thick layer of brightly colored leaves forming a small arboreal drift against the curb. A small gnome held a sign proclaiming this to be the abode of The Stillmans. Shutting off the ignition and exiting the car, Sheriff Stanley Broils was an unassuming figure, average height, average build...he kept his job as chief peace keeper by being unwaveringly reasonable and fair.

Heck, he even made house calls.

Evening was getting on but the crisp October air had only a slight nip in it. As he walked through the yard, heading around back (he was expected) he thought about the reason for his visit; over the previous few nights several neighborhood pets, mostly cats but two dogs as well, had disappeared. The locals thought a pet-napper was responsible until several carcasses were discovered, virtually shredded. Then last night Mr. Patterson from next door, out for a late-night walk saw (he claimed) the Stillmans' dog returning home, alone.

As he rounded the corner to the back yard, Sheriff Broils saw the family seated at their patio table; Hal Stillman with his back to him, talking to his wife Christine who was tending to their two-year old son Joshua (bundled up comfortably in his buggy). Ryan, their teenage son, was sitting slightly apart from his family, an unblinking fish-like stare focused on some sort of electronic device in his hands.

As he walked up Broils started making mental notes...

Fence intact, no visible holes dug underneath, dog resting in the corner near the house, a smudge of mud on the doggie door, hard to be sure at this distance...

"Sheriff! Welcome, have a seat."

"Evening Hal, Christine. Please, call me Stan; I'm off duty now."

"You're never off duty. Can we get you anything, coffee maybe?"

"No, thank you; this shouldn't take too long..."

"You come here to shoot our dog...?"

"Ryan!"

"It's alright Christine. I'm only here because your neighbor saw what he thought was your dog returning home, unattended, last night." This would have been directed at Ryan, but he had already returned to Zombie Videogame Player Mode.

Sheriff Broils produced a small notebook and set it down on a side table, though he had no plans on entering any information into it; he didn't even have a pen with him.

"As I said, this won't take long, but since a complaint was lodged by Mr. Patterson I have to make this inquiry."

"Look, sheriff, I don't know how to prove something that I'm sure didn't happen. Checkers there has a bad leg, he can't jump over this fence, we never leave the gate open and even though he's too big for the dog door in the kitchen, he's never out of this yard by himself. The only thing I can tell you is that we'll keep him on the chain overnight until the real perpetrator is caught."

"Well, given the dearth of leads at the moment I'd say that's a fine idea. Look, there's really nothing to be done right now, I just wanted to let you know the situation"

The two men got up while Mrs. Stillman looked after Joshua, who was now awake and quietly burbling to himself.

"Well, I hate that you came out here for nothing."

"Not at all. It's a nice night and I had some free time. Well, I'll be seeing you folks. 'Night Hal, Christine. See ya later, Ryan!"

"Uh-huh..."

***

Back at his car, with the reflection of the full moon on his windshield shinning in his face, Sheriff Broils thought it was time to go back for the notebook he "forgot"; he was of the mind that it was best to try and catch suspects (even just potential suspects) unawares if possible, when their guard was down.

As he rounded the corner once more he stopped in his tracks. He couldn't believe his eyes; Mrs. Stillman had Joshua out of his buggy and was putting a leash around his neck! He started towards them when the baby started to convulse, but he stopped again and just stared. Over the next minute or so, amid horrible cracking and rending noises the baby transformed into a small but very wicked-looking beast, more wolf than dog, and certainly no trace of human.

Christine, an expression of helpless concern on her face, stroked this...werewolf cub...while Hal addressed the dumbstruck officer.

"We...we didn't know what to do...what to say; I mean, what do you say...", he waved his hand aimlessly at Joshua. "We kept him inside, of course, but we forgot about the doggie door..."

Sheriff Broils sat down and picked up his notebook.

"Anybody have a pen?"

The north wind was blowing hard and cold. Icy rain pelted Jacob’s face like needles. Squinting against the gale he moved forward. Looking up he noticed the full moon’s glow through a shallow curtain of clouds.

“I’m late,” he whispered to himself.

Jacob ducked his head and started to run into the rain. Through the woods he glimpsed firelight in the window of his cabin, dancing against the ebony air outside. Carefully, he crept to the window to see his brother Zachary crouched in a corner clutching a shotgun to his chest.

“Zach,” Jacob shouted, “it’s me, unbolt the door!”

Zachary lurched and swung the gun to the sound of his brother’s voice. Jacob flattened against the ground and shouted again.

“Zach! It’s Jacob, let me in now!”

Zachary ran, crouching under the windows, and slid the bolt back. Jacob crawled in, not even taking the time to stand, and his brother bolted the door behind him.

“Jacob, what took you so long? I’ve been here alone,” Zachary pleaded, his lip quivering, one long tear flowing from his eye.

“It’s all right. The clouds came in fast, I lost track of the sun. I’m here now, calm down,” he reassured him, pulling the gun from his shaking hands.

Zachary shuffled back to his corner and slumped to the floor, head in his hands, weeping. Jacob wondered how he would survive if anything were to happen again. He pried off his wet shirt and glimpsed the long scars trailing across his chest in the dusty mirror on the mantle. He could see Zachary in the reflection as well, heaving in his torment. Zachary’s scars weren’t as easy to see, and it seemed they would never heal.

“Zachary,” he said softly, Zachary lifted his eyes to his brother, “stand up. We have to get downstairs.”

Without warning, the wall behind Zachary heaved inward with incredible force. Zachary threw himself forward, screaming hysterically. Again the wall heaved, wood splintering to contain the colossal force. Jacob cocked the shotgun and glared at the wall.

“Zach, what is this gun loaded with?”

“Don’t shoot Jake! Please don’t,” Zachary pleaded.

“What is this gun loaded with Zach?” Jacob asked again softly, “Tell me now and get downstairs.”

“Pop’s old dimes,” Zachary wept as he crawled down the steep stairs into the root cellar, “Please don’t do it, don’t do it Jake.”

Jacob closed the cellar hatch over his brother while searching the windows for movement. Time seemed to stand still. The silence only disturbed by the relentless sobbing drifting through the floorboards. Suddenly a shadow broke the dim moonlight, moving quickly in the darkness.

“I won’t play your games, Old Man,” Jacob shouted. “Come and get me!”

From every direction, as if from within his mind itself, an inhuman voice growled, “It’s not you I want Jacob. Send your brother to me. I can ease his pain.”

Zachary was losing his mind. Beating on the cellar hatch he begged, “Don’t do it Jake, please don’t, please Jacob.”

“Murderer,” Jacob screamed, ignoring his brother’s pleas, “come and get me!”

“Now Jacob, is that what you really want?” queried the voice. “Do you really want me to get you? Who would protect your weakling brother then Jacob? Who would wipe his pitiful tears?”

Jacob moved to the door and pulled the bolt back.

“The door is open Old Man, or are you afraid to face me?”

“Oh Jacob,” replied the voice, “as if I’d use the door.”

With that, the cabin was rocked by an inhuman blow, followed by another, and another. Glass exploded from the windows. Jacob crouched against the mantle, waiting for the walls to come down. He could barely hear Zachary’s fits over the din. Suddenly the door swung open. Jacob raised his gun. Zachary fell silent. In the door stood the beast, glaring across the room at Jacob, fire sparkling in his black eyes. The monster seemed to grin as he nodded his horrible head at Jacob.

“Is that my gun, Son?” he asked. “What’s it loaded with?”

“Old dimes Pop,” Jacob replied, and squeezed the trigger.

Karen awoke with a jerk. She strained her ears but could hear nothing, looking around the room only to see blinking reds and blues from the motel sign vainly trying to fill the darkness of the room. The she remembered. She had made it to Arizona. She was running, and she was scared.

She climbed out of the bed, put on her jacket for lack of a robe, and walked to the window. She wrapped her arms around her body as though shielding herself from some unseen force. Looking out at the flashing sign calmed her down somewhat, as it meant she was anonymous. This was a very small town full of people she did not care to meet and will never see again. Only the briefest of moments in her life would she spend here among this dry, lonely landscape.

She glanced at the clock. It read four twenty-one. Time enough to sleep longer, which she knew she ought to do. However, she was wide-awake and couldn't see the point. She removed her jacket and laid it over the back of the chair upholstered in a drab gray that suited her mood. Changing her mind, she grabbed the jacket and reached down into the hidden inside pocket to feel for the small package. It was still there. With a reassured sigh, she dropped it back onto the chair and went into the bathroom.

Finishing her shower and stepping from the tub, she grabbed a towel and dried off. Then she realized she had forgotten to bring a change of clothes into the bathroom with her. With a sigh, she opened the door and took a step towards her duffel bag. She stopped short with a stifled squeak. She wasn't sure, but she thought she saw the curtains twitch. She did not remember leaving the window open and, given her present situation, couldn't fathom wanting to open it in the first place. What then? Was it only her imagination? No, there it was again. The tiniest of twitches.

She stood still a few moments more, debating. Dare she go closer to the window and check it out or should she just grab her things and run? Finally, her good sense overcame her urge to flee, and she took a few steps more toward her bag. She knew she had to dress, and quickly. Keeping a wary eye on the curtains, she put on the first things she pulled out of the bag. It turned out to be a pair of well-worn jeans and an old, faded green tee-shirt with a picture of a frog on the front her brother had given her years before. The sadness of remembering him only enhanced the cold loneliness she felt.

The curtains had not moved again, but still she took a few steps nearer and gingerly reached out a hand. She pulled aside the well-worn calico prints and looked at the sill, the latch, lock and even outside, but saw nothing strange. She decided it must have been the wind through the window crack.

What was she scared of? Werewolves? She gave a derisive chuckle and let the curtain fall. She grabbed her duffel bag and went back into the bathroom, keeping the door open. She finished getting dressed, dried her hair and gathered her things. Shoving it all into the bag, she set the room key on the bedside table, turned the light off and slung the bag over her shoulder. She left the room without a backward glance.

Looking around furtively, cautiously she walked to the car. She had rented an old Ford under an alias, and again she felt grateful to men who walked around town with lots of cash on them. She had chosen her mark well.

Checking the interior for intruders, she climbed in, tossed her bag on the front passenger seat, and locked the door. She turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the motel parking lot. Past a donut shop she found the entrance to the freeway south. Her stomach grumbled but she was not about to leave the relative safety of the car so soon after the scare she'd just had.

She drove southwest for a long time, in a daze. She was tired, so very tired. Tired of running, tired of fear, and tired of the reasons behind it all. For a moment, she was tempted to steer the car into the oncoming traffic but couldn't bring herself to do that. Mustn't punish the innocent.

That thought made her laugh. Innocence. Karen wasn't sure she knew what that really was anymore. The concept felt too far removed from her situation right now. All she had to do was reach Mexico, lose the rental car and find some small haven where maybe, maybe she would be able to feel safe once again.

She drove for half the day before she realized she had left her jacket in the motel room.

This is Thaddeus Bunny.

See his long ears?

See his deep pink eyes? Aren’t they pretty?

Feel his soft white fur?

How many feet does Thaddeus have?

Thaddeus has FOUR feet!

Isn’t Thaddeus cute?

Thaddeus is missing!

Is Thaddeus behind the bush? (No)

Is Thaddeus inside the house? (No)

Is Thaddeus inside the television? (No)

Is Thaddeus up in a tree? (No)

Is Thaddeus at the mall? (No)

Where could Thaddeus be!

Is Thaddeus at the Orange Julius? (No)

Is Thaddeus in the theatre watching Vincent Gallo’s Brown Bunny? (God no, no one is)

Is Thaddeus in the bathroom looking for a special friend? (No)

Is Thaddeus shooting up in the alley behind the XXX theater where his sister, Magdalena, caught hepatitis C from a dirty needle filled with heroine she received in exchange for sex? (Nope, sorry)

I’m really getting worried! Are you?

Is Thaddeus in the morgue, a victim of a drive-by or gang hit? (No)

Is Thaddeus in the pit of the rival gang, The Pitbulls, who are fighting for control over the Bunny’s territory? (No)

Is Thaddeus in the clink, finally picked up for that double-homicide two weeks ago? (Nope, the pigs got nothing on Thaddeus)

Where, oh Where, is Thaddeus?

Is Thaddeus in a vampire lair being drained slowly because his blood is the sweet nectar of life? (No)

Is Thaddeus with the zombies where his sweet, sweet brain is being chewed on by Lucinda, the hottest zombie to ever suck on the hypothalamus? (No, but she sure is hot, even though, technically, she’s really cold. Death does that to you.)

Is Thaddeus in the tummy of Wally the Werewolf, eaten as a light pre-hunt snack? (Yes, yes he is)

Oh no! What is Thaddeus doing in Wally’s tummy?

Is Thaddeus climbing over his best friend, James, in an attempt to escape Wally’s gastric juices? (Yes)

Is Thaddeus screaming in pain because his left foot has already begun to digest and acid is dripping on his ears? (Yes)

Is Thaddeus’ fluffy fur slowly burning off leaving his skin even more exposed? (Yup, poor guy)

Is Thaddeus giving Wally gas? (A little, Wally forgot to take his Zantac, and his GERD is acting up.)

Is Thaddeus making promises to God that he knows he’ll never keep? (Yup, wouldn’t you? I would!)

Is Thaddeus almost completely digested now? (Yes)

Don’t you feel sad? (Not really. I know it was him that killed my baby mama and our son. He deserved to die. Who do you think told Wally where he was and gave him that barbecue sauce? Think it was a member of the Pitbulls? Those idiots couldn’t catch a bunny if its ears were nailed to the wall. And the cops, they had video surveillance! I saw the tape, my cousin Neecee works at that bodega- she showed me a copy. But the pigs are controlled by the Bunny’s, they didn’t do a thing, just turned the other way. And then Thaddeus had the nerve to threaten me! Said I could be next and that’s what happens when you don’t do things the Bunny way. Well, this is what happens when you cross me. You end up a werewolf’s delicacy.)

What did we learn today? (Don’t go poppin’ my family and expect to live to tell the tale)

For the record, it is never cloudy in Southern California. It never rains here, it never gets below 70 degrees Fahrenheit, and everyone has a permanent smile on their face because this is the most idyllic place in the world. Nothing bad ever happens here. I have a palm tree in my back yard and if I trip over my front stoop, I will fall into the Pacific ocean. To put it plainly, I live in paradise.

Not exactly the kind of place you would expect to find a werewolf.

Because, you know, it is really sunny here and there is a lot of beach and surfers and palm trees and all that stuff that everyone else who has never been to the west coast thinks is the majestic beauty of the west.

Bottom line, is that it is really sunny here. No secret. That’s it. And we don’t trash our beaches. That’s it.

And just to be perfectly clear, the sun kind of gets in the way of the whole full-moon-thing. I need a full moon for full werewolf transformation. Not that a clear sky diminishes the effect of a full moon, but it is so much cooler when the full moon passes dramatically from behind a fluffy cloud. You know what I mean. Right? I mean, how cool is that? Very cinematic and totally visually freakin’ awesome.

Seriously, the last full moon, I was gearing up for a big scare. I practiced some extra-scary claw-curls. My face was sore from the additional scowl exercises I tried. Yet the anticipated dramatic moon-passing-from-behind-fluffy-clouds-thing left me with no weapons since the sky was clear. The thing people don't realize about coastal moons is that they don't rise. They just show up once someone notices the moon in the sky. Sunsets on the coast are so spectacular, even at their worst, no one is looking for the moon. West coast sunset spectators are clinging to that last glimpse of the sun, that last water glow, perhaps even that unattainable green flash, but the moon is an afterthought.

It is always clear here. I think that’s what I’m trying to say, actually. In fact, I would say it more succinctly and accurately if that ringing would stop.

You don’t hear that? Oh, my. Well, what do you know? That’s my cell phone. Maybe things are taking off for me after all.

Actually, if you don’t mind, I need to take this call.

Sorry ‘bout that. It turns out that was a good call, though, so I’m not that sorry after all. This is show business and all that.

My agent thinks I could land the part as a vampire in an upcoming movie. Can you believe that? I always get miscast. Sometimes I think I should change agents, but he did a good job casting me as a caveman in those Geico commercials. Hrumph.

The make-up job was a chore, but I enjoyed acting in a comedic role, if it was only for that one time. It is so hard to find diverse roles when you are a werewolf. The makeup team for Geico were so awesome. They helped me out a lot And the whole “Wow, are you really a werewolf?” thing was mellowed out by the fact that they had to trim my facial hairs a bit to make me look like a caveman.

Weirder even: some people on the set thought I was really a caveman.

Can you believe that? How humiliating for cavemen! My goodness, they are such a repressed and unrecognized race, a group of hominids that never got their due respect. Kind of a kindred folk with the werewolf clan if you think about it. At least that’s what the Geico people told me. I don’t even know anymore. At one time, I thought I could find my way in society through acting, through portraying my hirsute kind in a positive light. It was as if I had a mission to represent my kind in a positive way.

And as a werewolf, who willingly took a job portraying a caveman just for the money, who has been miscast as a vampire, I don’t know if I have anything left to look forward to except for extra calls on some throwaway show on the USA network.

Is this my destiny? Compromising? Demeaning myself to portray something I am not? I have nothing against vampires or cavemen. I just don’t think I could misrepresent them again in the future. However, garlic clove necklaces are not exactly in style, and last I heard, no one bothered making silver bullets other than that lame beer company in Colorado.

No, really. Nobody is making silver bullets anymore…

Right?

Kati was watching the clock so intently that she never noticed Mr. Bache drop two more files onto her desk. In front of her were a few incomplete lists of things that she needed to do; none of which had anything to do with work. The heading of one list was “Clothing”, another list was titled “Food stuff”, and a third list was simply “misc.”…That list containing only one item as of yet…tampons.

Mr. Bache stood over Kati as she just sat there in a malaise, her eyes fixed on the clock, but her thoughts hours and miles away. He subtly cleared his throat as to jolt her back to reality; the reality being that it was Friday afternoon and there was still work to be done before ‘quitting time’. “Kati,” he quietly announced, “five o’clock will be here quite soon, but if you would, dear, I have these last two closings which need to be filed today.”

“Oh! I’m sorry John…I’ll get to them ‘PRONTO!!’ You know you can count on me!” Kati cheerfully spouted.

Kati was pre-occupied because this weekend she was going on a camping trip with her sister and a group of friends. The sixteen of them were going up to Lake George, New York. There they would rent canoes and head out to one of the many ‘lake’ islands, for a long weekend of camping and fun. She was extra excited about this weekend, though, because she was going to be paired up with Tommy! Kati had a MAD crush on Tommy; and being paired up meant that they’d not only share the same canoe, but because all the others on the trip were couples, Kati and Tommy would be sharing the same tent as well!

“This could be the real thing! This weekend might just be it! Tommy and me, alone together in the woods! What could be more romantic!?” The idea rolled through Kati’s head all night long.

Five a.m. Saturday morning didn’t come early enough for Kati…Arriving at the lake 6 hours later seemed like an eternity in passing.

Tommy felt about Kati, much the way that she felt about him. They had so much fun in the canoe, and searching for a tent site, and setting up their tent together. During their search for firewood, Kati stumbled and fell into Tommy’s arms; and in the soft light of the pastel sunset, they kissed, a long hard, passionate kiss. That said it all. Dinner was filled with darting glances and secret smiles; the evening lay in wait.

A walk after dinner was a beautiful time. A full moon was on the rise, reflecting off the mountains in the distance, and glistening across the soft ripples in the lake. Tommy reached over and pulled Kati in close to him. Suddenly Kati broke from Tommy’s embrace. She seemed to be in pain—holding her stomach.

“Are you alright, sweetie?” Tommy asked.

“Yeah, I guess I just ate too much, too fast. I always eat too much, too fast”, Kati smiled, “Let’s go back to the tent, Tommy.” Kati and Tommy walked the moonlit trail back to their tent and climbed in.

Inside, they lay there side-by-side, each nervous about who would make the next move. Kati felt her stomach again and then reached for her bag that contained her personal things. Secretly grasping a tampon, she excused herself, “I’ll be right back, Tommy.”
Upon returning, Kati sensed a change in the atmosphere. The tent suddenly smelled like tequila, and Tommy had taken off his shorts and was sitting up in all his glory!! “C’mon baby,” Tommy laughed, “Let’s get back to where we left off!”
“Tommy, I really like you, and I want to, but not tonight. I just can’t.”

“What’s wrong?” Tommy asked, “You were all there before, come on, babe…I really dig you!”

“Not tonight, though!” Kati yelled, “It’s that time of the month…”

Tommy, now quite tipsy from the drink, said, “I’m not afraid of that. C’mon Kati…”

The sun rose at about 5:30am. Kati’s sister Linda was the first upon the scene.

Kati and Tommy’s campsite had been ravaged, their tent torn to pieces, blood everywhere---but no sign of either of them. A complete forensic investigation shed no light on the mystery. It appeared to be the work of a wolf or wolves, but the island was devoid of any animals like that, and the mainland was 4 miles away.

Several months later, and 1000 miles away, at a meeting of ‘Substance Abusers Anonymous’, a beautiful young woman stood up and introduced herself, “Hi. I’m Kati, and I am an addict. I’m addicted to blood. You see, I am a werewolf.”

“Hi Kati, welcome to our group….”

I cried for three days straight before passing out from exhaustion. Passing out is such a wimpy way of saying it. I need to be stronger, to face the truth. So it wasn’t a genteel falling. I had cried for so long I was dehydrated. I hadn’t eaten anything, hadn’t even had a sip of water in those three days. I was standing outside my son’s hospital room, leaning against the window looking in and my body gave up. I collapsed to the floor breaking my arm, a rib, and had a contusion to my head that left me asleep for two days. At the same time I voided, as in, any urine or fecal matter that was left inside me spilled out, soaked through my jeans, and made a huge mess on the floor- a mess I was unconscious in. Good thing I was already in a hospital.

Jason had his new heart.

That’s not true. He had someone else’s heart. Implanted. Beating inside his twelve-year old body. Keeping him alive.

Someone else’s son (or daughter I suppose) was dead.

Some other mother had collapsed (I’m sure of it).

We lived on an inherited farm. We raised organic heritage vegetables. We raised chickens. It wasn’t a small family, but wasn’t a big one. I was the mother, Jason the son, Emily the daughter and Fred my love and their father. Other family came and went as they so desired and as the crops called for.

There were chickens and cows though we didn’t eat them, although we had in our former lives (or the former life of my husband and I) as stockbrokers enjoying Brassiere 8 ½ steaks paid for by clients or the company. The children had never enjoyed the texture of meat against their teeth.

I was grateful that there is a one year waiting period before donors (and their families) can contact the recipient.

The thought of another familiy's death and pain bringing me joy and life was too much to think about.

I came home a month later to a bucket of Colonel Sanders.

While cleaning, I found McDonald’s burger wrappers stuffed inside the couch cushions. Inside, not in-between. Someone (thing?) had physically torn the bottom of the cushions to place the wrappers inside.

Not that this happened every day, but every so often.

Wendy’s, Burger King, Popeye’s. Wrappers strewn around the farm. Wrappers hidden with traumatized chickens staring down at the bones of their brethren and a red striped bucket.

While it would be a lie to say I never ate there, it wouldn’t by lying to saying I never ate their ‘meat’ products.

I like fried potatoes.

Jason’s weight fluctuated. He was on the wrestling team. Grappled flesh on flesh while trying to knock people out of a circle. His weight division was inconsistent. The couch was upset.

“It’s like he’s got a gawddarn period or something. He’s bloating.”

We were all confused. No one admitted to the burgers. No one admitted to the buckets of fried chicken or even (and I don’t know where this came from) pork chops smothered in mushroom sauce, the remnants of which were found in the barn.

I’d like to stop here and move on to something else, but there are precious few words left. I’d like to say that we went to therapy- that we talked about the elephant in the room: we were all scared of Jason after the transplant. He was like Frankenstein. We wouldn’t kill an animal, but we’d take the heart from a dead child? It totally freaked Jason out. He cried so many nights. He still cries some nights, though not as many. I’d like to say that after therapy my husband could finally hug his son again with reckless abandon- that he hadn’t changed in our eyes.

In other words, I’d like to lie, and live that lie. We were apprehensive of our son, because he wasn’t all ours. And we did nothing about it.

Sometime later we received notice that the family of the heart had sent a letter. Some time after that I finally went to the transplant center to read it.

I stopped at Burger King on the way over for onion rings. Five more whopper wrappers had been found that morning.

It had been agreed that I was the emissary and didn’t have to reply if I didn’t want to. Jason was no longer wrestling. He joined the video game club. We had never even owned a television.

“P.S. We’re junk food werewolves,” ended the letter.

“P.P.S. We miss our son,” was the real ending.

“Father, I have a confession to make.”
“What is it, my son?”
Cindy looked great in her mauve-cardigan sweater, beige knee-length dress and blonde hair pulled up on either side of her head, with the long-back part pulled over her left should. This was David and hers first date, and as she ran out to the car from her house, David was incredulous that he had waited this long to ask her out. He thought she looked pretty hot, in her conservative sort of way.
They had known each other for maybe seven years, ever since fourth grade. He knew a little about her, what you pick up from just being in the same class as someone for a couple of years. Now that they were going into the eleventh grade and David had finally gotten his drivers license, he had made a stab at asking the cute but shy girl out.
“I-I’m not catholic. D-d-does that make a difference?”
“No. You can always make confessions to me. Are you uncomfortable with confessing to me? Would you like me to call someone from your church?”
“I-I don’t really don’t go to church.”
“Then, if you would like to confess to me, that is fine. How can I help you?”
David had it all planned out. They would take in a small dinner and the latest movie. He knew it was not much for a first date, but then neither was his income. David had figured that he could use the local drive-in to economize the date, that costing as a car than going to the cineplex and shelling out a load of money for the both of them.
The date was going smoothly. He had managed to get through dinner without inhaling his food, although he thought she might have been a little less impressed with him eating the rest of her food and going back for seconds for himself.
But at the drive-in, those past transgressions seemed to not have been as monumental as he perceived them. They had started holding hands about a quarter way through the movie, but David was at a loss as how to get around the stick-shift and emergency brake that had, up to this point, defeated any attempts of his to cuddle a little closer to Cindy.

Wait a minute. This is a bad story. No vibes, no vibes what-so-ever. In describing it to my wife, it sounds more like a bad joke. A catholic priest, a boy and a girl all show up in a short story. And this kid is already going through enough of a nightmare, trying to impress a teenage girl without the nightmare of finding out she is a werewolf who is going to make her first appearance due to the emotional stressors he is about to put her through. All SHE wanted to do is watch a good movie and eat a good dinner without the added pressure of being asked to put out in some way. So I guess that he deserves what he is about to get when he puts the moves on and tries to get a little make-out time. Especially during a chick-flick, which is what he unwittingly chose. He has his friends to thank for that. Good job, guys. And is his old man going to be peeved when he finds out what happened to the car. “You burned my car to the rims?!?!?!? What in the world were you thinking?!?!?!? I loan you the car for one night, and all you manage to bring back was the door-handle? Where on God’s green earth are the keys? You set the car on fire, leave the keys inside, and rip off the door handle? Are you trying to drive your old-man to drink? And don’t forget, that’s the only thing you’ll be driving for a while! Good lord! Where’s that bottle of Jack?”

No way this kid is talking to the priest. He's at the local Marine recruiters office. He’s outta here.

The warmth from the sun had faded away to the chill of the mid October night air. I walked quickly through the wooded path that leads from the garden to the main house. Though the path had foot lights along its edges, trees surrounded it in a thick darkness. Arriving at the front step of the back porch I heard a growling sound behind me, not turning around, I hurried up the stairs. The security light flashed on when I reached the top stair so I turned around and searched the surrounding woods for whatever made the noise. “Nothing, just my imagination.” I said to myself as I entered the house.

“What the?!” I awoke in a panic. My husband was no longer sleeping next me, he wasn’t even in bed. “Honey? Where are you?” my question rang through the bedroom. No answer. Swinging the covers off, I grabbed my robe and put it on. “Honey?” again no answer. My eldest cat was in alert position at the door as I crossed the threshold into the hallway. Though every area of the house had a nite light, it was still dark enough to have to fumble my way into the living room. “Hello Eric?” I asked into the darkness. No answer. Walking into the kitchen I asked myself, ‘where could he be’? The clock on the oven said 1:00 and Eric doesn’t get up for work until 4am. Not a single light in the house was on but there was a light shining into the kitchen window coming from the barn. My eldest cat had joined the youngest at the window, both looking at something they wanted to pounce on outside. I crossed the kitchen, put on my shoes and proceed to the back door. I walked the short distance to the entrance to the barn, where the light was still on inside. “Eric what are you doing?” I asked as I entered the barn. No answer and no one there. Moving towards the stairwell, my shoes scuffled along the concrete floor making sawdust float into the air. I reached the bottom of the stair case and looked up; no lights were on so I flipped the switch and proceed up to the second floor. The studio was quiet for a change, and the light shined across the drum set projecting an interesting pattern on the wall. “Eric?” I asked into the obviously empty room. Turning around I went back down to the first floor shutting the light off behind me. I crossed the barn, shut the light off and went back to the house. Inside I called Eric’s cell phone and heard the familiar ring of his phone in the living room. ‘Crap’, I thought to myself as I shut off the phone and placed it back on the charger. My two cats were now in the bay window staring into the front yard. I crossed the living room to the front door and turned on the front light, there I saw Eric’s jacket hanging on a tree limb at the edge of the yard. Running into the bedroom, I changed my clothes into something better suited for the woods, grabbed my cell, a flashlight, threw on a jacket and boots and headed for the edge of the front yard. “Eric, where are you?” pause “Are you out here?” I spoke louder than before. No answer. Flipping the flashlight on, I walked carefully through the tall trees deeper and deeper into the woods until I came across something hanging on a bush, it was Eric’s sweater. He called it the Werewolf top, mostly because every time he wore it, it would attract all the cat’s hair and he would end up covered by the end of the day; now it was tangled in the bush. I tried to remember the last time he wore it and wondered if he had left it out here one day while exploring. Still standing with the sweater I heard the faint sound of Eric’s voice yelling, “Eric?” I screamed out. No response. Moving on through the woods I yelled once again, “Eric?” I stood still for a moment listening for an answer instead I heard a growl similar to the one I had heard earlier in the evening. Turning frantically and running I felt my foot give way and I fell to the ground hard, dropping the flashlight. Darkness surrounded me as I fumbled for the light, which was nowhere to be found. I felt a foot on my back and a blunt object hit my head. My eyes fight to focus but the darkness consumed me.

“Alex?” pause “where are my keys?” Eric asked from the living room down the hall to the master bedroom. No answer. “Alex?”