LYCANTHROPY CONTEST

As the storm settled Sharon flicked through her diary,  the wind still rattling the cabin’s windows.  So much for two weeks free from distractions to write up her thesis.  She’d written more in the diary.  About seeing woodpeckers, hearing the wolves howling, watching the nearby stream buble across the rocks, and how tired she was of Vespucci.

It was a bad idea to come out here.  She needed structured university time, needed to be home with the routine of breaks for TV shows and listening to Greg’s manic chatter.

She heard wolves again.  They’d been setting up braying earlier each evening, and closer too.  She liked the primalness of it, the way their sound made her neck twitch.  Wolves were supposed to be rare in Montana, but she’d seen them, fleeting and gray, running through the brush.  Even if a little scary, it was liberating, so different from the protective sterility of campus.

Smiling to herself, she went to the porch, breathing the dusk air.  Rubbing Greg’s bracelet, she watched the moon lift over the distant, wooded hill.  This is good, she thought, I’ll be energised for writing up when I get back.
                                      
***

Greg drove past the closed visitor’s center into the parking lot.  A small RV was parked at one end, light showing around the curtains.

“See you Monday,” Tom said, opening the passenger door.  “Thanks for the ride.”
“Are you sure?”  Greg peered into the twilight.  The trees heavy and black.  “It’s gonna get cold tonight.” 

He’d seen blocks of snow in the sheltered cuttings as they’d come up.

“We already talked about this,” Tom said.

“The whole way here, but I still want to convince you.”

“I’ll see you at the cabin on Monday.”

“Night hiking.” Greg shook his head.

“I’ve done it before, you know.”

“Solo.”

“Always solo.  Besides, the moon is full tonight.”

“I’ll pick you up with Sharon.”

“Sharon?  Isn’t she studying?”

“Yeah, she’s retreated to the cabin to write up.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“Sure I did,” Greg said.

Tom huffed and closed the door.
***                                       

Joss finished polishing his revolver and swung the cylinder out.  He opened the pack of handmade silver bullets and loaded each chamber singly.  A speedloader might be quick, but patience was part of the hunt.  He locked the cylinder back in place and set the gun on the table with the map and water flask.
Joss practised slowing his breathing, staring at the wall.  Focus, he thought.  Tonight is all about focus.
He blinked and took a slug of coffee, draining the cup.  He put on his cap and slung the kitbag over his shoulder, then slipped the revolver into its holster.  Clicking off the lights he opened the door and stepped from the camper into the parking lot.
                                       

***
Sharon sat on the porch in the glow of the gas lantern.  She wished she’d asked Greg to come up earlier to spend a few days with her.
The wolves had quit their howling and a family of pheasants whistled quietly as the adults ushered the chicks through the bushes. Sharon lifted her knees, rested her writing pad and doodled, linking ideas.  If the thesis wasn’t working, then what could she do?  The research was complete, the pieces were there, but there was no tone, no life.
What if she wrote it differently?  What if instead of discussing the politics that led to Vespucci’s travels, she wrote about after?
Sharon sat up, startled by the insight.
If she wrote backwards, she could reverse engineer the thesis, transform it into something new.  It would take longer, perhaps another year, but she had time. Greg would think she was crazed, but he had another year’s work anyway.  Maybe they could move in together, save on costs.
Sharon smiled.  Coming to the cabin was definitely a good idea if only for this moment of clarity.  She looked up into the trees, seeing the full moon beyond the trembling branches.

***
                                       
Joss followed the howling, feeling his way though the forest.  There were wolves about, but also the occasional grunts and lupine wails of his quarry.  Common legend held that there were no wolves here, but that was fallacy.
He stopped at a brook and refilled his flask, still listening keenly.

***

                                       
Tom powered through the trees.  The moon had already crested the horizon and the distant wolves howled.  While the vestiges of intellect remained, he could feel his muscles amping up.  His senses heightened, he could smell the forest with an intensity that made him grimace.
It was good, he thought, to be far away from people, to be alone.  People needed to be safe.

***
                                    
Joss heard scampering  down the valley.  The guy who he’d heard get out of the car?  Joss checked the pistol.  He threw off his bag and gave chase.

***                                       
Greg cruised down the narrow mountain road.  Tom was strange.  Night hikes.  And then seeming surprised that Sharon was at the cabin. Tom had always had a kind of crush on Sharon, had tried to cut in twice when Greg had been away.

Greg frowned.
No, that couldn’t be.  It was a long way to the cabin.  Well, a long way by road.  Perhaps it wasn’t far to walk.  Tom did know the mountains.  He came up here at least once a month. Crap, Greg thought.  He pushed the accelerator down.  The clock read 6.15.  He could be at the cabin by nine.  He pushed the pedal further.
                                       

***

Sharon started at a sound, realising that she’d fallen asleep.  The writing pad clunked onto the porch. 

Flickering light guttered from the nearly-dead lantern.

The sound again.  A deep growl, like a tense tiger watching for prey.

Sharon jumped up.  She tripped over the chair.  Stumbling for the door, she heard the sound again. 

Guttural and resonant.

Something watching.

Just beyond the porch.
                                       
Joss puffed, working to keep up.  It was after eight-thirty, and he’d been running almost the whole time.  Ahead he saw flickering light.

 A cabin.

That was bad.

***                                       
Tom lifted his muzzle, nostrils flaring as he gorged on scents from the cabin.
                                       

***
Greg forced the little Hyundai as fast as he dared along the crooked road.  He came to the steep driveway.  The car slewed as he sped down.  He slid to a stop by Sharon’s silver Sonata.
A gunshot.
Greg leapt from the car.  The cabin was dark.

Another shot.

He ran along the path.

A man with a flashlight swung around, aiming a gun at him.

Greg raised his hands.  “Okay, okay.”  He stopped.  At the man’s feet was a body.

The gun dipped.  “Best get out of here,” the man said.

In the dull light Greg could see the corpse wasn’t quite human.  The head was hairy and canine, but the body and legs were longer and thicker than a dog’s.

The man clicked his gun and pulled out some spent cartridges, then reloaded.  “Get going,” he said.  “One of them got away.”

Greg saw the bracelet on the body’s wrist.
__________________

©2010 Sean Mohaghan

Sean Monaghan currently lives in Missoula’s sister city – Palmerston North, New Zealand, and has been a regular visitor to Montana.  Sean tutors creative writing and reviews books.  His stories have appeared in Macabre Cadaver, House of Horror and Flashes in the Dark, amongst others.  More information at his website www.venusvulture.com.

Conrad Phillips pulled his ’74 Ford Pickup to the side of the road and checked his notes.  This is it.  Where Barker Road splits into Cherry Lane and Madison Road.

An old cypress tree stood near the road.  Its roots branched into thick, brown octopus legs.  He grabbed the shovel and a paper sack from the back of his pickup and walked to the tree.  His back to the tree, Conrad consulted his notes once more before marching ten paces.  This placed him in the middle of the fork in the road. 

He started digging.

The ground was softer than he’d expected.  It should be like concrete with all the cars driving over it.  Conrad looked around and chuckled.  What cars?  Mine’s probably the first in days. When the hole was a foot deep he knelt in front of it and placed his notes on one side and the sack on the other.

Here goes nothing.

He took an apple from the sack and dropped it into the hole.  “This represents health, for strength and vigor all my days.”

He placed a dollar bill in the hole next to the apple. 

“Money represents the success that will be mine.”
A small Tupperware container of sand was next.  He poured the contents into the hole.

 
“May my friends be as numerous as sand on the beach.”
Conrad spread several spoonfuls of honey over the hole’s contents. 
“To sweetly bind together all areas of my life.”
He refilled the hole and sat back, waiting. 
Nothing. 
Now what?
Nothing.
What did I expect? That this Hoo Doo stuff would really work?  He returned the shovel and sack to his truck.  Turning back, he noticed the dark man. The man wore black.  His shirt, pants and boots were all the color of night.  Atop his head sat a stovepipe hat, like Lincoln’s.  He stood at the fork in the road and slowly extended his arm.  One long, bone-white finger beckoned Conrad to approach.

Conrad gulped and moved toward the dark man.

The dark man cocked his head sideways.  “You enter into this contract of your own free will?”
Conrad’s insides turned sour at the sound of the man’s voice.  The voice sounded … rancid.  He suppressed the urge to be sick and nodded his head.

The dark man raised his arm once more and slowly extended his finger towards Conrad’s chest.   His finger burned through Conrad’s shirt, sending tendrils of smoke into the air.  It pressed into the flesh over his heart, hissing, and continued through flesh and bone until it touched his heart.

Conrad fell to his knees.  His mouth opened wide, but the scream caught in his throat and wouldn’t come out.  “It is done.  I will collect in ten years.”   The dark man removed his finger from Conrad’s chest.

The scream finally came.  Conrad ripped open his shirt to see where the man had touched him.  He was branded with a dark scar.  It was a smiley face, but this face didn’t look happy, it looked sinister. 

As Conrad watched, the smiley face winked at him.

Conrad looked up. 

The man was gone.

________________

©2010 Chuck Heintzelman
 
Chuck Heintzelman calls himself an “Amateur of Words,” a phrase he freely admits he warped from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Each day he juggles his passion of writing with his love of computer programming, a full-time job as a software engineer, his school-age children, and the inevitable curve ball life likes to throw. He lives north of Spokane, WA. You can find out more information about Chuck at http://chuckheintzelman.com