Ebon Moon

  “I’m serious, son. You said you believed I was innocent of murder yesterday, or were you just pulling my leg then?”

  Terry contemplated the question for a moment. Mr. Higgins had always been a simple, straightforward man. He remembered the unconventional way he taught Bible class by taking the boys out of the church to sit under the shade of an elm tree. There he would talk to them about life and read passages from the scriptures. It was the closest he had ever felt to a spiritual God.

  “I don’t think you killed your wife,” Terry replied.

  “God bless you, son.” Mr. Higgins straightened up with a look of relief showing on his face. “Then you have to believe me about the thing I shot last night.”

  “Okay.” Terry nodded. “Let’s say for the sake of argument you shot a werewolf. Where did it go?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Do you know who it is? I mean a human has to transform into a werewolf. Do you know the identity of the human half?”

  “No, but I do have proof it exists.”

  “You do?” he asked, surprised.

  Mr. Higgins took a sip of his coffee. “Open the Bible in the seat.”

  Terry reached down and lifted the front cover of the book. A Motophoto packet rested inside. Picking it up, he removed the first picture. It was an amateur photo shot at night showing the darkened shape of something bent beside the body of a cow. Fierce red eyes and sharp fangs were the only facial features picked up by the flash.

  “Did you take this?”

  “Not me. Old Elmer Grosslin did. Last night he came upon the monster killing his cow. He managed to take a photograph of the beast before the thing ran off.”

  “You mean Crazy Elmer, don’t you?” Terry shook his head. “I’ve heard stories of him since I was a kid. We used to say, ‘Watch out or Crazy Elmer’s going to get you.’ He’s not the best source for reliable proof.”

  “I understand, but when I heard his cow got killed last night, I checked on it thinking it was probably the werewolf’s doing. He told me how he came upon the monster and snapped a photo of it. He thinks he got a picture of Bigfoot.” Mr. Higgins chuckled. “I don’t know who’s crazier. I’m searching for a werewolf and he’s seeing Bigfoot. Whatever the thing is, there is a monster running wild killing people and animals in the county. The picture is proof of that.”

  Terry thumbed through the rest of the pictures in the packet that were all taken during daylight. Most showed airplanes in the clouds and vehicles driving by on a dirt road.

  “What are all these pictures of planes and cars?”

  “Stuff Elmer shot. God knows why.”

  Terry returned his attention to the photo of the monster. “It could be a guy in a werewolf costume. You can buy them, especially this time of year around Halloween.”

  “You see that dent on the hood of my truck? I tried to run the thing over and it practically jumped over my truck. I don’t think it’s someone in a costume.”

  “Why don’t you tell the local sheriff?”

  “Sheriff Sutton has done his best to pin a murder on me. He didn’t believe me when I told him Satan killed my wife. Do you think he’s going to when I tell him a werewolf did it?”

  “So what do you plan to do?”

  “I have to prove this monster is real. You can help by giving me information about these creatures. When I was younger, I used to hunt deer all over the countryside. I know the lay of the land. I just need more info about what I’m hunting. I don’t know what I’m up against here. Until yesterday, I didn’t know what a werewolf was.”

  “You need to talk to Sid about that. He knows everything about werewolves, vampires, demons, and all that stuff.”

  “Sid’s your friend who was with you yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take me to him then.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it, but I don’t know if he’ll help you. Sid’s an asshole sometimes.”

  “I’ve noticed, but I’ll take my chances.” Mr. Higgins started the truck. “Let’s go see him now.”

  “Okay.”

  Terry turned his attention back to the photo. In the grainy picture, the creature stared back with evil red eyes highlighted by the camera flash. Can it be real? A werewolf? The idea seems absurd and impossible. Monsters don’t exist. Or do they? Isn’t proof right here in my hand?

  Terry glanced up at the yellow Mustang as the pickup backed out of the drive-in stall. If the werewolf is real, maybe I should help Mr. Higgins hunt the monster. What would Becky think about me then? Would she think I was cool or insane? Probably the latter since my hunting partner is Mr. Higgins and our inspiration is a picture taken by Crazy Elmer.

  But what else is there to do in a small town, anyway?

  Terry Newman, werewolf hunter.

  I like how cool it sounds.

  Maybe Becky would, too.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  After leaving Elmer Grosslin’s property, Sheriff Sutton raced his patrol car back down the dirt road, turning toward I-35. Anger fumed inside at the thought of Jasper Higgins having a photograph of a werewolf. He wasn’t sure what the picture showed, but he knew one of the Pack had been reckless and got caught on film. He intended to find out who, though he had his suspicions. Only Collin would be so bold. But why? What drove him to take such a risk?

  The patrol car turned up the paved ramp leading to I-35 and merged with the traffic on the busy highway. The late September sun created cloud shadows flowing across the four lanes of the interstate while he headed north. Searching the road ahead, he struck pay dirt twenty miles later. A shabbily dressed hitchhiker walked along the shoulder with a rucksack on his back. Sheriff Sutton hit his lights and pulled over behind the homeless man. Turning off the dashboard cam, he climbed out of the patrol car.

  “What is it, Sheriff?” the man asked. “Am I doing anything wrong?”

  Sutton studied the hitcher for a second. He was in his late twenties and poorly dressed in faded jeans, a dirty T-shirt, and an old army jacket frayed at the sleeves. The suntanned face bore several days worth of grime and unshaved whiskers.

  “Hitchhiking is a crime in this county, son,” Sheriff Sutton replied.

  “I’m not hitchhiking. I’m just walking along the interstate. I’m not thumbing for a ride.”

  “You got ID?”

  The hitcher dropped his rucksack to the ground. Reaching into his jean pocket, he pulled a wallet of faded leather. He handed it to the sheriff. “I don’t have a driver’s license. I just got a military ID.”

  “Take it out so I can see it.”

  He removed the identification card.

  “Your name is Russell Norris?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re in the army?”

  “I was. Served two years in Iraq until an IED killed my buddy and took out my left knee. It’s been replaced by an artificial joint, which works well considering I’ve been walking on it for several days now.”

  “What are you doing out here on the interstate, soldier?”

  “I’m just trying to reach Wichita, sir. My ex-girlfriend lives there.”

  The windy wake of a semi truck roaring by made Sheriff Sutton realize he had to get off the highway. The longer they stood out in the open, the more chance someone would remember them talking together.

  He handed back the military ID. “Okay, Russell, it seems I’ve got a bit of a problem here.”

  “Problem?”

  “Did you stop at the Conoco Travel Plaza about five miles back down the highway?”

  “Yeah, but only to use the restroom and fill a water bottle.”

  “They reported someone fitting your description shoplifting there.”

  “I did no such thing. It’s a lie.”

  “Turn around and put your hands behind your back,” Sheriff Sutton commanded, reaching for the handcuffs in a holster on his belt.

  “What the fuck?” Russell shouted above the roar of another passing 18-wheeler. “I didn’t take anything.�
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  “Listen, soldier, do as I say and maybe we can clear this thing up.” He reached up and grabbed the hitcher by the shoulder of his army jacket. “Put your arms behind your back.”

  Russell bent over the hood of the patrol car, and Sheriff Sutton locked the handcuffs around his wrists. “Are you arresting me?”

  “Not yet.” He straightened the young man up and walked him toward the rear car door. “I’m just going to take you back to the store, and if they don’t identify you as the shoplifter, I’ll personally drive you to the state line.”

  “Okay.”

  Sutton opened the door. “Watch your head.” He eased the man into the backseat and then picked up his rucksack and placed it in his lap. “We can clear this thing up. If you’re not the perpetrator, you’ll be free to go.”

  “Can’t a wounded vet get a break?”

  “Not today.” Sutton closed the car door.

  Once behind the wheel, he shut off the lights and eased the patrol car out onto the interstate. Crossing the grassy median to reach the lanes on the other side, he headed the car back south toward Hope Springs.

  “This is just great,” Russell said behind the mesh grill separating the front seat from the back. “You fight for your country and how do they repay you? First they replace your blown-off knee with a steel joint and then send you out into the civilian world with a medal and a handshake. While you’re in the hospital, the bitch you’re supposed to marry runs off with your best friend. It’s all fucked up. The shrinks say I suffer from some sort of posttraumatic stress because I choose to live homeless and sleep under bridges. Fuck them. Life is much simpler that way.”

  “You could be right,” Sheriff Sutton replied, driving past the exit leading up the Conoco Travel Plaza.

  Russell peered out the back side window. “Hey, wasn’t that the travel plaza we passed back there?”

  “Change of plans.”

  “What? Where are you taking me?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Sheriff Sutton put his foot on the gas and accelerated the patrol car down the interstate. His nostrils breathed in the smell of fear emanating from his backseat passenger. The intense hunger churned in his gut. The car sped the miles back to the turnoff exit for Highway 133. He took the off-ramp and headed down the two-lane blacktop toward Morris and Hope Springs.

  “Where are we going?” Russell leaned forward, asking through the steel mesh.

  “Just sit back and be quiet.” Sutton cleared his throat. “Let’s talk about something in the meantime. Russell, do you believe in fairy tales?”

  “What the hell?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “You mean like nursery rhymes? That kind of shit?”

  “Something like that.”

  “No.”

  “Can I tell you a story? You fought for your country, so I owe you that much.”

  “Whatever.” Russell sat back against the backseat. “If you’re arresting me, you need to read me my rights.”

  “You have the right to listen to what I’m about to tell you.” He glanced in the rear view mirror. His prisoner stared back at him with a perplexed look. “It’s funny you should mention nursery rhymes, Russell. Can I call you Russ?”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  “Russ, you know the story of Little Red Riding Hood and the big bad wolf?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That story is actually referring to a werewolf. Do you believe in werewolves?”

  “No, should I?”

  “You might want to start.” Sheriff Sutton chuckled. “No one knows where lycanthropy came from. Some claim it was a curse placed by the Church on some heretic. That’s bullshit, Russ. Werewolves predate Christianity. The supernatural world is real, by the way. It hides in secret from the mundane world. Werewolves fall into that category. They’ve existed since before recorded history and are the stuff of legends and myths. During the Dark Ages, the Wolfkin, as I refer to them, hunted in packs in the mountains and forests of Europe. A plague known as the black death killed millions of people in the thirteenth century. Perhaps, you’ve heard of it. The sick were everywhere, and the Wolfkin grew strong in numbers culling the human herd.”

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “I’m getting to that.” Sutton turned the car down a rutted dirt road with thick trees bordering each side. “During the black death, the Wolfkin developed an unquenchable hunger for humans, especially for the taste of their young offspring. Thus, they became the stuff of fairy tales and nursery rhymes told to children at a time when man feared the creatures of the dark. During the Church’s rise to great power, religious zealots hunted the Wolfkin to near extinction and burned them at the stake along with witches during the Inquisition. To be sure, many of the victims of the burning weren’t werewolves at all, but just poor souls suffering from schizophrenia and other mental disorders. The method by which the Church determined one a heretic was not always exact.”

  “Why are you telling me this history bullshit?”

  “Humor me.”

  “Due to the persecution, the Wolfkin learned to keep their numbers small and live among the mundane world. They organized into Packs and hid their kills from the humans for fear that discovery would eradicate the bloodline forever. They moved from one hunting ground to the next when the human threat became too great. In other words, they adapted.”

  “Are you telling me there are werewolves living around here today?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “This is crazy. You’re whacked.” Russell slammed his face against the mesh screen. Sheriff Sutton could smell his fear rising. “Where the fuck are you taking me? You haven’t read me my rights or told me what I’m being charged with. I want out now!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Fuck!” Russell threw himself hard against the backseat.

  Sheriff Sutton removed his cell phone from a holster on his hip. He speed-dialed the number.

  “Yes?” It was Roxie’s voice on the other end.

  “I’ll be there in two minutes.” He ended the call.

  * * * *

  The place where the Pack assembled was in an old wooden hay barn located a quarter-mile behind Roxie’s Roadhouse. This was their killing floor where they could feed in private. As he approached in the patrol car, Sheriff Sutton saw two large barn doors open. He drove in, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. Shutting off the car, he surveyed the interior. Holes in the roof of the structure let in sporadic beams of the afternoon sun. Beneath a loft brimming with old hay, the rest of the Pack stood naked in the shadows. There were three: Uncle Johnny, whose portly body showed flab and wrinkles in the dim light; Roxie, whose trim figure highlighted her small but perfect breasts; and Collin, exposing a hardened lean body covered in various tribal tattoos.

  Sheriff Sutton exited the patrol car as Roxie stepped forward. Her dark eyes centered hungrily upon the passenger locked in the backseat. From inside the car, Russell screamed a stream of obscenities and slammed himself against the side window.

  “There’s not much time,” Sutton stated, unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m still on duty.”

  “I’ve got to open the bar soon,” Roxie replied and nodded toward the backseat. “Your passenger is the excitable type.”

  “Ex-soldier. Wounded in Iraq,” Sheriff Sutton replied, unhooking his gun belt and dropping his pants. He placed all items of clothing on the front hood.

  “Too bad,” Roxie replied, returning to join Collin and Uncle Johnny.

  Once he was completely naked, Sheriff Sutton went to the rear car door and opened it.

  “What kind of kinky fucking shit are you planning to do to me?” the vet screamed, letting loose a spray of spittle. “Stay away!”

  “End of the road, soldier.”

  He reached in, grabbed Russell by his army jacket, and yanked him out of the backseat. With his hands still cuffed behind his back, Russell struggled to get free from the sheriff’s grip. Sutton dragge
d the prisoner to the center of the barn and dropped him to the dirty floor.

  “Lunch is served,” he said coldly to the others.

  In unison, the Pack began to shape-shift into their true bodies. They growled in pain as their bones popped and elongated. Like the others, Sheriff Sutton fell to his hands and knees. Thick hair covered his exposed flesh, and claws emerged from his feet and hands. In less than a minute, the transformation was complete.

  “Fuck no-o-o-o!” Russell screamed in terror at the sight of the four huge werewolves surrounding him. He struggled to get to his feet and run. “Stay away from me!”

  The Pack leaped upon their prey in a frenzy of tearing teeth and ripping claws. Blood and entrails flew into the air as the creatures ripped Russell apart. Starved by the lack of human meat, they consumed the ex-soldier whole. Claws tore flesh as fangs crunched through bone to get at the marrow inside. The Uncle Johnny creature chomped down on the titanium steel knee replacement and spat it out. The bloody steel prosthetic went rolling along the barn floor before coming to a stop.

  When the feeding finished, nothing was left of Russell except shredded clothing lying on a bloody patch of ground. One by one, the Pack resumed their naked human forms now covered in slick blood. The pangs of hunger Sheriff Sutton felt earlier had receded. He could control it now. Walking over to an old water trough in the back of the barn, he washed the bits of flesh and blood from his body. The rest of the Pack joined him.

  “Which one of you went roaming last night?” Sheriff Sutton splashed water into his hair.

  Collin’s dark gaze looked up and met his own. “It was me.”

  “You endangered the Pack.”

  “I was restless,” his deep voice replied.

  “You killed Elmer Grosslin’s cow, and he got a photograph of you.”

  “No one’s going to believe that crazy old coot,” Collin replied.

  “Is that right? Jasper Higgins believes. He’s got the picture now and is talking about a werewolf in the area.”

  “No one will listen to that old bastard, either.”

  “Why did you go out last night? You were looking for something more than a cow to eat.”