Andy Deane

by The Sticks (epub)

  One thing I learned from Alicia is that you can never really know a person. Ever. People let you see what they want you to see, and there's just no way short of torture to get the rest out of them. Couple's married fifty years still have their secrets, and often take them to the grave. It's just part of human nature, and there's nothing to be done about it.

  I miss Nate a lot more than I would've thought. Even though our friendship was short-lived, it was the first time since high school that I'd found a friend who didn't annoy the living piss out of me. It's a damned shame that Nate and I never had a chance to get in trouble together, or to fight another pair of miscreants down at The Cavalier. I felt guilty as hell about his death for quite some time, but I'm done feeling that way for the most part. Besides, blaming myself, or worrying over it certainly won't bring Nate and his family back, no matter how much I might miss them.

  I still wake from nightmares about wolves sometimes, but that's happening less and less as time passes. Dark, empty roads at night give me the chills, and I do my damnedest to stay clear of them. And I never go into the woods. Ever.

  Oh yeah, Jess. We ran into each other at a gas station a little over a year after our split and started talking again. She was dating another guy by that time, but she ditched him a few days after we had dinner and we've been doing great since. I feel sorry for that guy, because losing a girl like Jess certainly isn't easy, but not sorry enough to let Jess slip away a second time. Jess and I sold our houses and bought a nice townhouse in the busiest part of town together. We were both excited to be getting away from the woods and closer to the crowds in downtown Jefferson. Now Jess is talking about popping out a kid or two, and I'm warming up to the idea. Slowly.

  Bronson made it through this whole mess in a state of ignorant bliss, and has settled into the townhouse nicely. He's picked up a rotten habit of clawing at the carpet on the stairs and has single-handedly shredded the lower portion of the couch, but other than that he's great, and still spends his nights sleeping on Jess's shoulder.

  I'm still hauling cinderblocks in the hot sun for a living, but I've taken up writing in the last couple of years and have had a few of my stories published in small press horror anthologies. It's certainly not paying the bills, but I've gained a decent group of fans and I'm getting more and more attention from the press all the time. Plus, Jess thinks my stuff is great, and that's enough all by itself to keep me going. I don't see myself quitting any time soon, because any job that keeps me inside on days when the thermometer tops off at one-hundred and five is fine by me.

  And besides, the way I see it, there's nobody on the planet more qualified to write monster stories than a guy who's had to kill a couple of them.

  What got me started writing this here was an article I saw in the paper last week. Apparently a few teenagers went camping in the woods just north of Jefferson and ended up dead. Seems they were mauled by a wild animal of some sort. Now, I don't know if these deaths involved a werewolf or not, but I have a hunch that this little town of ours might just be cursed. One thing's for sure, I see the first hair that resembles a monster of any sort, I'm packing my bags, grabbing my cat and my girl and getting the hell out of Dodge.

  THE END

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