Moondeath

by Rick Hautala

  “And you won’t do anything about it,” Lisa said harshly. “If you’re so damned convinced, why don’t you do something?”

  “Well,” Bob said, swallowing hard, “I told you what I think. I think you should come down here.”

  “You know I can’t,” Lisa replied. “I told you why.”

  “And neither can I, I can’t come back to Cooper Falls. I can’t do anything about it! I just wish you’d get out of there before, before something happens.”

  “Bob!”

  “Well, it’s the only thing that worries me. I could give two shits for Cooper Falls!” He was tempted to hang up right then, to leave her with that final, bitter thought, but he resisted the temptation. “The only reason I’d come back to Cooper Falls,” he said, “would be to pick you up and get you the hell out of there!”

  “Yeah,” Lisa said, sounding defeated. “You’re probably right. There’s nothing you can do about it. See you.”

  “I love you,” Bob whispered, but he wasn’t sure if she heard him. There was a loud click at the other end of the line, and he was left with the wavering buzz of the dial tone.

  .VII.

  Friday, February 20

  “Damn it all!” Thurston said, roughly placing his 30-30 shotgun and a box of shells onto the desk. He looked over at Ted Seavey, who was standing by the doorway with one foot up on a chair. Thurston’s newly appointed deputy shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

  “You’d think that after this goddamned long a time we’d have got the bastard!” He picked up the shotgun, snapped open the barrel, and peered down the inside. “Something. Anything!”

  “It ain’t for a lack of tryin’,” Seavey said.

  “No!” Thurston shouted. “But it ain’t ’cause this fuckin’ animal is making’ itself scarce either! Christ! Four people within a week! And anyone who ever sees the fucker doesn’t live long enough to tell anyone.” He blew down the gun barrel and then snapped it shut.

  “We’re doin’ what we can,” Seavey said softly.

  “But why is it us? Why is it only around here?” Thurston asked, pained. “There haven’t been any reports from any other towns of any trouble with this wild dog.”

  “There was that nurse in North Conway a while ago,” Seavey said, shrugging. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re keeping it quiet like we are. Who knows? Maybe the bastard is running the whole county. It seems like he’s here for a while, a couple of nights or so, then he disappears. Maybe he has a whole circuit he runs.”

  “If the situation wasn’t so damned serious, I’d laugh at that,” Thurston said. He opened the box of shells and put a handful into his coat pocket. Glancing at the clock on the office wall, he said, “It’s getting dark. We’d better get out to the ridge and check that line of traps. See if we got something this time.”

  Seavey put his foot back onto the floor with a heavy clump. “I’ll tell yah, Rick, that bastard’s just too damn smart to go for a trap or poisoned bait. We gotta see it and shoot the fucker if we’re gonna stop him.”

  “Let’s go.”

  .VIII.

  Saturday, February 21

  Ellie Simmons had a huge pot of baked beans bubbling away in the stove, just like she did every Saturday night. A blast of hot air slammed against her face as she opened the oven door, satisfied herself that they were ready, then put on her thick cooking mitts and pulled the pot out onto the oven door. With a puff of breath, she blew away the strand of hair that was dangling in front of her face. She was just putting the pot of beans up on the countertop when she heard a loud bang from outside. She jumped, emitting a high, mouselike squeak.

  “’S that you Ned?” she asked hopefully, looking over at the kitchen door. Through the door she could see the darkening blue of the snow as night approached. Then a familiar form stepped into view.

  “Ned,” she said. “You’re just in time for supper.”

  Instead of moving toward the door, she reached up into the cupboard for their plates. The kitchen door swung open, and Ned, with barely a grunt of greeting, walked in and sat down at the table facing his mother. He sat slouched in his chair, his chin resting on his chest.

  “You feelin’ OK?” Ellie asked, concern in her voice.

  “Yeah. I’m OK.”

  “’S gettin’ dark in here. Snap on the light and fetch us some silverware.” She looked at him carefully, squinting in the dim light. His pale face, creased with deep lines, almost frightened her. He was breathing shallowly, barely moving.

  She scooped some beans onto a plate. “Goodness, son, you look a fright. Why don’t you go wash up. I’ll set the table.”

  She continued scooping out beans. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Ned had not moved. “Ned? Are you sure you feel OK?” she asked. “The doctor said that—”

  “I’m OK,” Ned snapped, his voice sounding with a ragged edge. He shifted his shoulders uneasily, and Ellie thought she heard a low, guttural moan.

  “Ned?” she said, loud and with more alarm. She was thinking that Ned must be either drunk or stoned. In the dim light of the kitchen, he appeared to be sinking down in his chair, slipping toward the floor. His breathing was louder now, raspy and bubbly.

  “Go clean yourself up now,” she repeated. She looked out at the deep purple sky, the long stretch of blue snow. A sudden wave of chills made her teeth chatter. She looked back over at her son.

  “Ned?”

  Was it the dimness of the kitchen? she wondered. Maybe just getting old, eyesight’s going.

  She wasn’t sure what it was, but Ned looked like he was sliding down to the floor and he looked—thicker, was the first word that came to Ellie’s mind. The gathering darkness was playing tricks on her eyes, making Ned’s body look like it was shifting, changing subtly.

  “Ned?” she said again, softer. She wanted to go over to him, but something held her back.

  Ned suddenly collapsed and dropped onto the floor, landing in a crouching position on his hands and knees. Ellie heard a low grumbling sound. She found that her mouth had suddenly gone dry, and she licked her lips to no avail. Horrified, she stared at her son, crouching on the floor in the darkened kitchen. His body seemed to shift, elongate, grow sleeker.

  “What the devil?” Ellie said.

  A low, steady growl began to build, pulsing in rising waves. The spoon Ellie had been using to scoop beans clattered to the floor. With that sound, Ned suddenly snapped his head up and glared at his mother. His eyes were two burning green coals. His body, Ellie now realized with mute horror, really was changing.

  “Help me,” Ned managed to say with a rumbling growl in his throat. “I don’t want to hurt you.” His voice broke off in what sounded almost like a bark.

  “I must be losing my mind,” Ellie said blankly.

  Suddenly, Ned threw his head back, and Ellie could see that his face now looked like a dog’s, a wolf’s! Ned stretched his neck out and howled wildly. The kitchen was filled with wave after wave of ululating howls. Ellie stood frozen, leaning against the counter unable to move.

  “God have mercy,” she whispered, her throat feeling like sandpaper. The longer she stared at her transformed son, the more his body shifted, lost its human shape, and took the form of a wolf.

  Ellie’s hands moved blindly behind her. Her elbow knocked over the pot of beans, and there was a quick hissing sound as her fingers were scorched. The pot rolled to the edge of the counter and then crashed onto the floor, spilling beans everywhere.

  Ellie glanced down at her legs. They were burning painfully from the splattered bean juice. When she looked back at Ned, he no longer retained any of his human form. A large wolf stood in the dark kitchen, glaring at her, panting with its mouth open. The wolf bared its teeth with a snarling hiss.

  “Oh, Oh,” Ellie mumbled as her legs gave way beneath her. She slid to the floor, and ended up sitting in the steaming pile of beans. She watched with numbed, fascinated horror as the wolf—she could no longer believe that this was her son—
coiled back on its haunches and then, jaws wide, leapt for her throat.

  .IX.

  Friday, March 19

  The dinner shift was over at Ebb ’n’ Flow, and the supper crowd wouldn’t come for another hour or so. The pots and pans were washed and stacked to dry, so Bob had time to go to the post office and pick up his mail. He hadn’t been there for over a week, so he expected something would be there. He felt a strange mixture of joy and nausea when he saw the thin letter with the Cooper Falls postmark. He leaned against the row of mailboxes as he tore the letter from Lisa open. There was no accompanying letter, just two newspaper clippings.

  Cooper Falls, N.H., Tuesday, March 16

  The body of Richard Pomeroy, manager of a local grocery store, was found this morning in the parking lot behind the store by one of the store’s employees. This is the most recent in a series of mysterious deaths which have plagued this small New Hampshire town since last September.

  Police Chief Richard Thurston states that his department, recently assisted by the National Forest Service, is following every possible avenue in an attempt to track down and destroy the animal responsible. Local dog owners are asked to keep their pets confined. Citizens are asked to stay at home or in well-lighted areas after dark.

  There have been no authenticated eye-witness reports, but numerous townspeople interviewed report hearing wolflike howling in the surrounding forest. Judging by the tracks found at several locations, Thurston says that they are looking for a large canine, probably a wild German Shepherd. Rumors in the area persist that the animal is, in fact, a timber wolf.

  Bob swallowed hard and noticed that the article had come from The Boston Globe.

  “Word’s getting out,” he muttered, turning to the next clipping.

  Eleanor T. Simmons

  Cooper Falls—Mrs. Eleanor Thomas Simmons, 63, widow of Everett Simmons of Bartlett Road, was found dead last Thursday at her home. Cause of death was reportedly heart failure.

  She had lived all her life in Cooper Falls, the daughter of Henry and Margaret Thomas. She attended local schools, graduating from Cooper Falls High School in 1936. She was active in local church and community affairs until the death of her husband.

  She is survived by her son, Ned Alexander Simmons. There are no other members in the immediate family.

  Funeral services will be held at 2 p.m. Monday at St. Jude’s. Interment will be in Pine Haven Cemetery.

  Bob’s fingers shook as he folded the clippings back up and stuffed them back into the envelope. All through the evening rush at the Ebb ’n’ Flow, he worked slowly, sullen and uncommunicative. When, at nine o’clock, his boss asked him if he was feeling all right, he lied and said that he thought he was coming down with a flu or something. He punched out early and went to his small apartment.

  .X.

  “Planning on doing a little skiing this winter?” the late night newscaster asked, arching his eyebrows sharply. “You may want to reconsider when you hear the next news story when News Center returns after these messages.”

  Bob swung his feet to the floor and sat leaning forward anxiously as he watched a string of commercials for aspirin, deodorant, and dog food. He reached out blindly, grabbed his cigarettes, and lit one without taking his eyes from the small screen of his black-and-white portable TV. The first puff of smoke was drifting toward the ceiling when the news announcer returned.

  “If you have reservations for a ski weekend in New Hampshire, you just may want to cancel them. There has been a series of brutal deaths, all of which have been attributed to a wild dog in the area of the small town of Cooper Falls, a community on the eastern edge of White Mountain National Forest.”

  A blocklike profile of New Hampshire with a dog’s head superimposed over it appeared on the screen behind the newscaster.

  “Authorities are baffled. Sheriff Richard Thurston insists that the deaths are due to one wild dog. He and a group of local residents have been hunting the animal to no effect since the incidents began last September.

  “But townsfolk have a different story. Rumors are circulating that the town is being ravaged by a timber wolf. Many people claim to have heard howling in the woods. For a full report, we switch to Michael Fleisher, in New Hampshire.”

  The map of New Hampshire disappeared, and the studio closed in on the screen behind the announcer. The screen burst into a shifting snowy pattern. The cigarette, wedged between Bob’s shaking fingers, grew long and then dropped to the floor unnoticed. The snow on the screen continued unabated for a few seconds longer, then the camera slowly pulled back. The announcer rubbed his neck with embarrassment.

  “Well, we seem to be having some technical difficulties with that report,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the screen. “We’ll try to have that report for you on our noon newscast tomorrow. That’s it for News Center 12 tonight. The Johnny Carson Show is next.”

  As Doc Severson’s blaring trumpet filled Bob’s apartment, Bob stared vacantly at his burned-out cigarette.

  I could have warned her, he thought. Her own son, and I could have warned her!

  He looked up and stared, unseeing, as Johnny strode out onto the stage and began his monologue. Bob reached out numbly and snapped the TV off.

  If I don’t help, who will? he wondered.

  He rose quickly from his chair, dropping the cigarette stub into the ashtray. He had already decided that he would return to Cooper Falls.

  Chapter Sixteen

  .I.

  Tuesday, April 6

  Bob pulled into the parking lot of the Howard Johnson on Interstate 95 in Portsmouth at a quarter past five in the morning. The sun was edging its way up over the horizon.

  During his stay in Florida, Bob had forgotten, or at least gotten used to not having, snow. He was glad to see that spring had made some headway this far north. In the restaurant parking lot there was just a brown-stained ridge of snow left by the snowplows.

  Bob got out, locked the car, and, patting the book he had in his coat pocket, leaned his head back and drew in a deep lungful of clean, crisp air. That was one thing New Hampshire had over Florida: the air was much better.

  As he entered the restaurant, he looked longingly at the empty newspaper rack. He wanted something to read other than the book he was carrying. Anything, even a copy of yesterday’s Union Leader. He patted the book in his coat pocket again and took a stool at the end of the deserted counter.

  “Just a coffee and a plain donut, please,” he said to the waitress, who stood in front of him, tapping her pencil on her order pad. Her eyes were red-rimmed and watery, and he didn’t want to take the chance of having her confuse a more complex order. Besides, his stomach was feeling a bit upset.

  “That’ll be all?” the waitress asked, sounding very tired.

  “Yeah.” Bob closed the menu and placed it back between the salt and pepper shakers. A few seconds later, the waitress set the coffee, donut, and bill in front of him.

  Bob took a tentative sip as he slid the book from his pocket and placed it on the counter beside his elbow. The book had a black edge where fire had seared away about half of it. Bob opened the book and began to read, tracing each word with his forefinger and mouthing each word like a person learning to read.

  were active only during phases of the fu

  Greece and Turkey, they also prowled when

  new. In more northern climates, werewolf ac

  continue throughout the month of Februar

  remnant of the ancient Roman rite celebr

  Lupercalia, held on the fifteenth of Feb

  the god Fannus, often associated with the

  footed Pan.

  “More coffee?”

  The question startled Bob, and he looked up at the waitress wide-eyed. Then he glanced down at his almost full cup.

  “Uhh, no. No thanks,” he mumbled, shifting his arm to cover the book. He picked up his donut and bit into it.

  “Well, let me just warm that up for you,” the waitress said
, pouring coffee into his cup until it threatened to spill.

  “Thanks,” Bob said, as he watched her walk away. He wondered if she had a quota of coffee she to use up every hour. When he saw her disappear back into the kitchen, he pulled the book back out and continued reading.

  He had puzzled over this book nearly every night he had been away from Cooper Falls. By now, he was familiar with every page. He still found its incompleteness maddening in places. He could guess at the meaning of most pages, but some key passages remained unclear.

  He thumbed past the chapters on the theory and rituals of werewolfery and finally stopped at the chapter titled: Destroying the Werewolf.

  He read carefully, trying to piece it together.

  There are, as would be expected, many ways

  rid of a werewolf, both religious and quasi-

  most common way, of course, is to shoot the

  silver bullet but this has not always been

  A person can be cured of lycanthropy if he

  three times. In order to prevent the ret

  werewolf, most folk customs require that the