by Sarah M. Awa
“Wait! Melanie!” He jumped up and followed as she strode away. “This is very important. Please! Listen to me.”
“What are you doing? Leave me alone!” she said. “Your dumb joke isn’t funny.”
“I’m not joking,” he said, and his voice sounded sad and resigned. “I wish I were, believe me.”
“Do you have friends at Wellsboro? Catch the latest gossip? Did Timmy put you up to this? If he thinks he can—”
“Who’s Timmy? No, I’m telling the truth. Nobody put me up to this.”
“Oh, yeah? What are you, some kind of psychic then? Did you read my tea leaves?”
“No, I . . .” Gavin trailed off, knit his brows together, and stamped a foot in impatience. “I can’t tell you how I know, but . . . I can show you some evidence of what I know about you.”
“Huh?”
He held out his upturned, open palms. “Can I see your hand, please?”
“Oh, I get it,” she said. “You’re a palm reader.”
“No, Melanie.” He rolled his eyes.
“Tarot cards?”
“Just give me your hand.”
She resisted for a few more moments, but eventually she placed her right hand on top of his left one. It felt as warm as hers did; at least it wasn’t clammy. She huffed and put on her most cynical face.
Instead of turning her hand over to examine it, as Mel had anticipated, Gavin gripped it lightly and reached into the back pocket of his jeans. What’s he going to bring out? An astral map?
Before she could react or feel afraid, he whipped out a Swiss Army knife with practiced ease. He sliced a shallow line along the back of her hand, and blood beaded there.
“Ow!” Melanie shrieked, yanking her wounded appendage from his slackened grip. She jumped backward. “Are you insane?! What the hell did you do that for?!”
Gavin closed the knife, put it away, and didn’t answer immediately. Too shocked to run away, Mel stood there nursing the stinging cut and glaring at him. She was about to flee to the girls’ bathroom to run cold water over the cut when he spoke in a tone that was surprisingly full of authority. “Watch your hand.”
“What?!”
“Take a look at your hand and tell me if anything’s happening.”
“You’re unhinged, aren’t you?” Melanie spat.
He bit his lip. “I’m sorry for cutting you. It was the only thing I could think of to do. I have a handkerchief you can use to wipe away the blood.” Slowly, cautiously, he reached into the front pocket of his jeans. “It’s okay; I haven’t used it. Here.” He proffered a white piece of cloth.
She narrowed her eyes but accepted it reluctantly, checking that it smelled clean before dabbing at the blood dripping from her hand. When she lifted the hanky and peeked underneath, she expected to see more blood welling up, but a different sight met her eyes.
A scab had already formed.
The wound had stopped throbbing, too. The pain vanished, leaving a warm, tingling sensation in its place. Melanie’s jaw dropped, and she watched as the red line shrank and the scab fell off. The wound faded to her skin color, smoothed out, and disappeared, all in under a minute.
“What—why—how did you do that?” she whispered fearfully.
“It wasn’t my doing, Melanie,” said Gavin. “Your body healed itself. I think you should sit back down now. I need to tell you what really happened to you last month at Pine Groves.”
6
Captive
October 14–15, Waxing Gibbous, Full Moon (first night)
“You’re out of your mind,” Melanie snapped, after hearing his explanation. But her eyes were wide with churning fear.
Gavin shook his head. “No, I’m not,” he said, his voice level and calm. “Think back, Melanie. You were crawling through a narrow passageway in the cave that night, and a beast with glowing yellow eyes came. It bit your hand and passed its curse on to you—turned you into a werewolf.”
“How could you possibly know what happened?” A tremor passed through her small frame. She clutched her left hand protectively, hunching over the bandaged appendage, ready to bolt.
“It doesn’t matter how I know,” he said. “What matters is that you believe me, because I’m telling the truth. Think of what’s at stake if I’m right. It’s too risky not to prepare for the worst outcome.”
In a tone more confident than she felt, Mel said, “Risky? Yeah, it’s so risky that something that isn’t real might be real.”
“How about if I offer you some more evidence?” Gavin countered. “If that wound healing so quickly wasn’t enough . . . Have you felt strangely restless for the past few days? Has your sense of hearing or smell grown stronger?”
She bit her lower lip and shifted on the bench. “That doesn’t prove anything.”
“But isn’t it a bit too weird to ignore?”
“No. My IQ is way too high to believe in stupid scary stories about ghosts, vampires, or werewolves. I never even believed in Santa as a kid.” Why is he spouting this nonsense?
Why haven’t I left yet?
“Can’t you consider—for a tiny window of time—that something you believe, or don’t believe, might be wrong? Science and logic aren’t absolute authorities. There are plenty of things in the world that no one can explain.”
Melanie shook her head. She didn’t want to hear this.
“You have to admit that you don’t and can’t know everything,” Gavin continued. “You can’t prove I’m wrong about werewolves, but tomorrow, I can prove that I’m right.”
No.
“Have a little faith, and trust me. I’m warning you: You’ll deeply regret it if you don’t.”
Stop. Please stop.
“If you don’t leave campus tomorrow afternoon and find a safe place to lock yourself up before moonrise—”
“Shut up!” Melanie clapped her hands to the sides of her head.
“You know the danger. That beast would have killed you if it could’ve. What do you think you’ll do when you transform? I’ll tell you what: You’ll rip everyone around you to pieces. And then you’ll eat them.”
“I said, shut up!” Her eyes were tearing up. Why were her eyes tearing up?
“If you don’t know of anywhere safe to go, I can help you.” Gavin’s voice was rising in pitch. “Melanie, please, you can come with me—”
“No!” She sprang from the bench. “I’ve had enough of this crap. I’m out of here!”
As she ran back into the gymnasium, she heard Gavin growl, angry and low.
Melanie burst through the door to the ladies’ bathroom and locked herself inside a stall. The room reeked, and her stomach churned, but she clamped her fingers over her nostrils and stayed put. She needed some time to calm down and regain her composure before joining her friends again in the bleachers.
Werewolf . . . curse . . . danger . . .
Eerie golden eyes glowing in the dark cave . . . white fangs gleaming, darting toward her—
Stop it! she screamed inside her head. There’s no way he’s right! It was a wild dog—it had to be. Dogs’ eyes glow like that in pictures. It was a trick of the light. I got a rabies shot. I’ll be fine.
What about the cut?
A magic trick. It had to be.
But how on earth did Gavin know about what had happened? Pam wouldn’t have told him.
Was he there? Her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to remember. . . . Wait a minute—maybe that RV was his.
Only a few other people had been camping in the same cul-de-sac as Mel and Pam: a couple with two young children directly across from them, and an RV whose occupant(s) they’d never once seen during the entire weekend three spaces to the left. Pam, in hopes of meeting an attractive young male or two, had knocked on its door to say hi on the first evening, but no one had answered. The RV had remained a silent, mysterious monolith, dark against the darker woods edging the cul-de-sac.
It was a longshot, but the RV could have been Gavin’s. But wh
y would he either never be in it, or be sitting inside in the dark not answering his door? Both options had “creepy” written all over them.
Suppose he was there, but not in the RV. He might have been camping in a different part of the park.
He couldn’t have been in the cave with us, and certainly not the room that thing was in—it would have killed him. Or severely injured him. He doesn’t have a scratch on him. He must’ve been in the area somewhere, though. I didn’t see him, and I don’t think Pam or Timmy did either. But it was dark. . . .
How else could he possibly know if he wasn’t around?
Melanie took deep, shaky breaths. In and out, in and out. She didn’t know any meditation techniques, but if life kept throwing this much stress at her, she should probably learn some.
Everything’s fine, she told herself. It’s most likely the gossip chain’s fault that he knows.
But a little voice at the back of her mind said, Really? Someone else knows that much detail? You’re the only one who saw that creature, and you never told anyone that much about it, not even Pam.
Well, maybe Gavin heard a couple of details Timmy leaked, then made up the rest and happened to get it right.
That explanation didn’t satisfy, but she could come up with no other.
A few minutes later, Melanie felt composed enough to venture back out to the gymnasium. If she didn’t return to her friends soon, they’d worry about her. She was surprised Jos hadn’t texted her already.
Peeking out of the bathroom, she scanned the lobby for Gavin, but he was nowhere to be seen. She let out a relieved sigh and reentered the smelly gym.
“There you are,” said Jocelyn, looking up as Mel plopped down next to her. “You were gone for quite a while.”
Melanie shrugged and avoided eye contact. She craned her neck to watch the action on the volleyball court. “What round is this?” she asked Jos. “Two or three?”
“Three. We won the first match and lost the second.”
“Huh.”
Mel was aware that her suitemate was watching her with narrowed eyes, but she pretended to be oblivious and feigned keen interest in the game.
Then Jos said, “I saw some guy watching you and following you, earlier. Looked pretty cute from here. Were you talking to him?”
Argh, thought Melanie. She notices everything. Adopting a casual attitude, she shrugged again and said, “Just some Brookside guy. Yeah, he approached me in the lobby; he thought I looked familiar and asked me if we’d met before. I said no, and we chatted a bit, but then I thought I should get back.”
“Ooh.” Jocelyn’s green eyes lit up like traffic lights. “If a guy opens with a line like that, it means he’s into you. He thinks you’re cute, Mel! What’s his name? C’mon, I want all the juicy details!”
Melanie groaned inwardly. She knew avoiding the interrogation would only make things worse. “His name’s Gavin,” she said. “And I’m pretty sure he wasn’t flirting with me. I’m not as naïve as you think, Jos; I believe he genuinely thought he’d seen me somewhere before. Guess I’ve got a doppelganger out there.”
“He could just be a good actor.”
“He didn’t steer the conversation in any sort of romantic direction. The bragging, stupid grin, and poser body language weren’t there either.”
“His loss.” Jocelyn’s face showed mild disappointment. “He’s probably gay or something.”
He’s something, thought Mel.
Jos returned her attention to her smartphone, and Melanie watched the volleyball game. When Wellsboro scored the winning point, she jumped up and cheered with the rest of the home crowd.
Forget about Gavin, she told herself. Enjoy being here with your friends, having fun. Living a normal life, free of psychos.
Thank goodness, that handsome lunatic remained out of sight. She hoped he’d gone home and would never set foot on her campus again.
Moon’s almost full again already, thought Nicholas Erickson, frowning as he peered out the window at the loathsome satellite.
It leered down, unhindered by clouds, on the RV park where he was staying. I control your life, it said. My power is almost renewed, and tomorrow night I will reclaim your body.
Erickson’s hands clenched into fists, but he might as well be fighting against time, gravity, or entropy—his curse was equally insurmountable.
That blasted Gary Saddler was proving another formidable foe. During the past few weeks, the gunman had left several messages on Erickson’s voicemail and had even mailed him a letter! Damned, meddlesome bastard. I’ve made it crystal clear that I’m not interested in his dumb group. Why won’t he leave me alone?
Why am I still here, anyway? I should’ve moved on—and I ought to dump my phone and get a new one. Erickson knew how to disappear; he had done it plenty of times. Now, though, so close to the full moon, it was too late to find another hideout. He had no choice but to return to the cave this month.
And he harbored no doubts that Saddler would be there waiting for him.
Erickson cursed himself. Nothing but a fool, my whole life. Every time I’ve got a good thing going, I can’t hold on to it. The cave and the tranquil national park had served as a pleasant refuge, one he wouldn’t have minded using indefinitely. But its appeal had expired much sooner than he’d wished.
So why hadn’t he skedaddled? He knew the answer, deep down, but was afraid to admit it to himself, to acknowledge his weakness:
He was clinging to memories from his old life. Memories he should have suppressed long ago. Recollections of better times in this region of the United States. He’d grown up and spent a significant portion of his life in the Appalachian foothills.
He was also something of a stalker, himself. Not a pushy one like Saddler—just a silent, hidden observer. Although he knew their relationship could never be restored, at least he could catch glimpses from a distance and imagine his loved one’s heart was healing with him out of the picture.
Erickson sighed and stirred the coffee he hadn’t been drinking. It had stopped steaming, and its bitter smell had soured with cold. The clink of the metal spoon against the ceramic mug broke the stillness. His reverie had pushed away the familiar evening sounds of the RV park, but now they returned: insects chirping and humming, a man and a woman arguing in the next trailer over, cars whizzing past on the freeway, and (on occasion) semi trucks’ engine brakes growling.
He stood abruptly and dumped the coffee down the sink. He had no taste for food or drink tonight; his stomach twisted, and his limbs were practically quivering with nervous energy. Self-medicating failed to alleviate these lunar symptoms, so he didn’t bother taking sedatives. Their effects never lasted long, due to his metabolism’s monthly elevation.
Besides, he disliked feeling out of control. The next three nights, he would have no choice; but tonight, he did.
Losing control . . .
Dark memories plagued him. Leaning against the counter to steady himself, Erickson drew in a sharp breath that turned into a sob. Images flashed through his mind: the torn, blood-soaked bodies of his victims lying still and lifeless. Some were barely recognizable as human.
Jamie . . .
NO. Don’t go there.
He slammed his fist on the mottled Formica surface. More sobs shook his frame. Although years had passed since he’d killed anyone, the memories remained as strong as jabs to the gut. No matter how he tried to drown them, bury them, or fight them off, the ghosts of his past clung to him and surrounded him like dense fog.
Whether he lost or kept his consciousness, there was no escape. No peace.
Why haven’t I killed myself yet? he pondered for the millionth time. What was it that had kept him—so far—from driving his RV off a cliff or from spiking his coffee with rat poison?
Simple: fear of what lay on the other side. Erickson had never pretended to have a clue about what happened to a person after death; he fervently hoped it was nothing, oblivion.
If there is a hell, I�
��m more than qualified to go to it. I might even be in it right now. Is that the price a werewolf has to pay?
A knock at the door jerked him out of his thoughts. What—who . . . ?
Then he had an unpleasant suspicion. Gritting his teeth and scowling, he padded to the door and looked through the peephole.
He’d been half right, half wrong. Two people stood waiting outside.
Saddler had brought a friend.
Melanie Caldwell tossed and turned in her bed for hours that night, but sleep evaded her. As the evening progressed, so did her agitation. Every little noise—the creaking of the old house, the ticking of the wall clock—rang so loudly in her ears, she thought she was going crazy.
Worse, she couldn’t suppress her memory of the cave. Glowing yellow eyes narrowing as they met hers . . . white fangs gleaming and dripping with spittle . . .
Stop, stop! she begged her hyperactive brain. It’s over now. I’m safe. Please, please calm down and let me get some rest.
“Can’t you even consider that something you believe might be wrong? There are plenty of things in the world that no one can explain.”
The wind howled mournfully through the trees outside her window, and Melanie wanted to moan too. She curled into the fetal position and hugged her knees tightly to her chest.
Hours later, she awoke, having no idea when she’d drifted off. The sun shone brightly through the crack between the curtains, and she squinted and shielded her eyes.
It was Saturday, thank goodness; but instead of calm and relaxed, she felt the tug of unaccomplished work. Due to her restlessness during the past few days, she’d failed to finish editing the Sentinel articles. Groaning, she made her way to the deserted Sentinel office.
She tried to sit still and concentrate on her work, but within minutes her newfound ADHD resurfaced. Her limbs tingled, her mind raced, and her frustration grew. The sunlight streaming through the windows was awfully bright. The clock’s ticking punctuated the silence like shots from a BB gun. The room reeked of lemon cleaner.