by Sarah M. Awa
Stillness, silence, and shadow. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw a kitchenette (pots and pans piled high in the sink; sticky stains covering the countertop), a dining area (table littered with dirty dishes and abandoned mugs), and a sleeping area (messy blankets trailing down to the floor). A short hallway led to a bathroom. She didn’t care to see what state that room was in.
Then she became aware of a smell. Not from the bathroom; all around her. It saturated the RV.
Wolf. Male wolf. Familiar. Gavin?
No, but close. Something was slightly off.
Overwhelming sorrow tainted the scent. Deep-seated grief, tinged with regret.
What had this person done?
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She had to get out of here. She closed the door, hopped down the step, and headed for her car. The prickling intensified.
He was here. He was watching.
Her gaze turned to the woods, and she squeaked in fear.
Two yellow pinpricks gleamed in the underbrush.
He emerged: a scrawny tan wolf. He had the same hazel eyes as Gavin, but he was thinner, more grizzled, and his muzzle was graying.
Was this Gavin, a decade or two older?
Heart pounding, mind spinning in confusion, she backed away slowly. The wolf watched her but stayed put. Those eyes captivated her; they held such pain and despair. They alarmed her . . . and they drew her in.
Melanie woke, nestled safely in the Butterfly Room’s warm bed. Dust motes danced in a sunbeam above her. The sweet fragrance of lavender candles welcomed her back to reality.
She sighed, scrubbed a hand over her face, and reluctantly got up. What was with these dreams? Gavin had visions during waking hours. Was she working the night shift in the prophecy department?
The bathroom was empty, hers to claim. As hot shower water cascaded over her shoulders, she debated telling Gavin about this latest dream. She knew his family didn’t own the RV, and she believed his assertion that he hadn’t bitten her. Apparently, though, her subconscious had doubts. Don’t mention that to him. He doesn’t need to know about any of these dreams. They didn’t cast him in the most favorable light.
And they probably weren’t prophetic. Just jumbled concoctions thrown together by a brain unfettered from rational control. Some part of her was trying to make sense out of the chaos—if that were possible.
Gavin seemed so sure that what he saw was going to come true, but her dreams didn’t engender that kind of confidence. They left her with more questions than answers. She’d never believed in psychics or dream interpretation, but since werewolves were real . . .
Thinking of werewolves—the Organization. Eyes widening, she gasped. Wait! What if they know who owns the RV?
Why hadn’t she thought of that before?
She finished her shower and toweled off quickly. Grabbing her phone, she texted Chandra: “Is there a member of the Organization who drives an RV and uses a cave in Pine Groves National Park at the full moon?”
The response didn’t come until halfway through breakfast.
“Why? Do you know something?”
“No, but I hoped you would.”
“We have a couple of safe houses members can use. They’re nowhere near that park. We don’t recommend places like caves that aren’t secure.”
Mel frowned and jabbed her eggs.
“Somefing wrong?” Gavin asked through a mouthful of sausage. He swallowed. “Bad news?”
“No, not really. Just . . . it’s nothing.”
“I’m not thrilled about going back to school either,” he said, smiling.
Mel nodded absently and stared out the kitchen window. Frosted pine trees sparkled in the morning sun. A bright red cardinal sang and hopped from branch to branch. There was almost no wind. An ideal winter day. Too bad they had to leave in an hour. With classes resuming tomorrow, the dorms opened at eleven a.m. today.
It had been strange spending a whole week at the cabin with Gavin. He and Melanie had slept a lot, and she was glad they’d had time to recover before the new semester began.
After cleaning up their dishes, they finished packing and prepared to leave. As Mel checked around her room to make sure she didn’t leave anything behind, her phone chimed. Chandra again.
“Meeting on the 19th at 7 p.m. Location will be given that morning. Bring your friend if you can.”
Like Gavin would come. Mel replied: “I’ll see what I can do.”
She wasn’t even going to ask him. She knew what his answer would be.
Mel couldn’t stop thinking about the meeting during her drive back to Wellsboro, and while she unpacked and settled in. She’d arrived before Pam and was glad to have time alone to ruminate.
The meeting is Thursday, but tutoring doesn’t start up till next week. Hope the meeting doesn’t go too late. Why can’t they have it on the weekend? I wonder if anyone in the Organization is a student like me. They’re probably all adults. Is there anybody close to my age? How many of them are there? How many werewolves could possibly live around here? Is that doctor going to be there? Maybe he’ll tell me about the cure.
She wouldn’t be thrilled to see him; she wasn’t letting go of her grudge yet. But she needed information, and as a physician, he probably knew a lot more about the cure than Chandra did. Mel wanted technical details. Those were safer than vague explanations.
“Girl, what the heck happened to your car?!”
Melanie jumped; she’d been so deep in thought, she hadn’t heard Pam’s footsteps on the stairs.
“I slid on black ice and crashed into some barriers.”
“Holy crap! Were you hurt?” Pam dropped her bulging bags, dashed to Mel, and hugged her. Stepping back, she looked her over and smiled. “You look fine.”
“I was going pretty slowly, so I wasn’t injured. Just a bit of whiplash.”
“Thank goodness. Did you know Aaron was in a terrible car accident three years ago? He still has a scar on his . . .” Pam chattered away as she began to unpack.
Half an hour later, the girls reunited with Jos and Shari, and they walked down to the cafeteria for lunch. “The four musketeers are back together!” Pam crowed, slinging her arms over her suitemates’ shoulders.
Mel followed a step behind, smiling faintly but feeling like a rejected D’Artagnan.
Inevitably, their lunch-table talk revolved around winter break. Mel gave enough details to satisfy her friends’ curiosity. Of course she had to relate the story of her crash, but she left out the parts about her broken nose and Chandra. “My dad says I should get my car fixed rather than buy a new one. Do you guys know of a good body shop around here?”
None of the girls did. Melanie would have to ask other people or find one online.
As the four of them finished their meal, a pair of guys walked by, chatting. Mel’s fork froze in midair above the last bite of her mac and cheese—she thought she’d heard one of the guys say “werewolf.” Nah, I must be mistaken. But she listened carefully.
“Do you think that video was doctored, or could it be real?” asked the shorter guy, blue eyes wide. Mel recognized him as a gullible freshman on the Sentinel staff who wrote mediocre sports articles.
“It has to be fake,” his taller companion said in a know-it-all voice. “Technology can do amazing things. Vampires, werewolves, Bigfoot . . . I stopped believing in monsters when I was, like, eight.”
The shorter guy bobbed his head in agreement, and they exited the cafeteria.
Mel swallowed around a lump in her throat. Her mouth had gone dry and she’d lost her appetite, but she forced down her last gooey, cheesy bite. She didn’t want her friends to notice any more strange behavior.
Mel was even quieter on the return hike than on the way to the cafeteria. Soft snowflakes fell as they walked, slowly obscuring the grass. The sidewalk, trees, cars, and buildings were whitening too. The weak sun fought futilely to break through the cloud cover.
Wrapping her arms tightly around
herself, as if to keep her curiosity from bursting out, Mel trudged onward. She couldn’t stop thinking about the video the guys had discussed. I’ve got to find it and watch it ASAP.
Mel couldn’t get any time alone until after dinner, when Pam went out to a movie with Aaron. As soon as the door closed behind her roommate, Mel jumped up and locked it. Then she slid into her chair, woke the computer, and clicked over to YouTube. Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard; what should she type in the search box? She settled on simply “werewolf.”
Her stomach twisted into knots. Several videos claimed to contain real werewolf sightings but looked dubious or obviously fake. Two were clips from famous films. Halfway down the first page was . . .
Mel’s breath caught. The video, posted by “cconnor819,” was titled “Real Werewolf Transformation.” Put up only three days ago, it already had more than 500,000 views. But what drew her eye was the thumbnail. The still image looked . . . Like the wolf from my dream, only with darker fur. The creature was in profile, but its visible eye glinted an eerie yellow.
Please, please no.
Hand trembling, heart attempting to escape through her throat, she clicked the hyperlink. . . .
A dimly lit room with white brick walls. Those and the high windows (which were boarded up) made Mel think, Basement. Aside from a cot with rumpled sheets, the room was bare. There was no decoration—only jagged scratch marks covering almost every inch of the walls. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling like a burnt, hanged corpse.
The camera jerked, then zoomed in on the cot. There was a rustling noise and footsteps. A young man appeared on screen. Initially, his back was to the camera. He walked to the cot, turned, and sat down to face his audience.
Mel leaned in to study him. Thin and lanky, he wore jeans and a black Metallica t-shirt. His pale skin was striking against the shirt and his sable hair. Adding to the chiaroscuro effect were dark circles underscoring his light eyes. Hollow cheeks and the lines on his forehead made him look older than he probably was.
His eyes transfixed her. So sad . . . empty . . . haunted.
Mel shivered.
“My name is Caleb Connor,” he said, his voice carrying a Southern twang she hadn’t expected. “I am recording this to show the world that we exist—that werewolves do exist, right here in America. We are more than a myth. We could be your neighbor, your friend, your family member. At moonrise tonight, I am going to prove it to you.”
Mel’s jaw hung open, and she stared wordlessly in horror. This can’t be. No. He can’t—he wouldn’t—
Caleb stood and walked behind the camera to turn it off. The video went black for a split second, then returned to the room, which had grown even dimmer.
The cot had been removed. So had most of Caleb’s clothes, Mel saw when he returned from off camera; he’d stripped down to his boxers. Despite the deep gloom, she thought she saw his ribs protruding. Poor thing. Her nurturing instincts arose, and she silently begged him, Don’t do this, kid.
“The full moon is about to rise,” he said hoarsely. He brought his face closer to the camera in the low lighting. The same feverish glint she’d seen in Gavin’s eyes shone in Caleb’s. “I’m in my monthly hideout. It’s secure. I can’t escape.
“Any minute now, I will be stripped of my humanity.”
He backed away and sat cross-legged in the center of the room, closing his eyes and folding his hands in his lap.
Seconds ticked by. Mel could barely breathe, couldn’t move. Couldn’t take her eyes off the screen. Her hands grew sore from clenching into tight fists. Don’t let it happen. Please let him be just some crazy who thinks he’s a werewolf.
But after less than half a minute, Caleb’s face scrunched up in pain. He tilted to one side, hands clutching at his ribcage. He gave an anguished, guttural moan, shifting position until he was lying flat on the floor, his left side to the camera.
He could be faking it. Anyone can pretend to be in pain. Wait and see. . . .
She waited . . . and saw dark fur sprouting on the kid’s arms and face.
Shit. Her heart hammered, and her breathing quickened. Special effects? Film student working on a final project?
This early in the semester?
Her logical side could argue back and forth all evening, but instinct told her what she was watching was real.
Maybe this is just a bad dream. I’ll wake up, and the video won’t exist.
Cringing fingers twitched over the mouse button; she could turn this off. She didn’t have to view the rest.
But her eyes stayed glued to the screen; her finger failed to press the button; the video played on.
Echoes of pain from her recent transformation coursed through her as she watched Caleb writhe. The macabre scene was all too familiar: His face bulged outward. His nose shrank and blackened. Fangs blossomed before his mouth was ready, shredding his lips. Fingers shriveled, and the skin around his thumb split open, revealing white bone. The digit plowed several inches up his arm to form a dew claw. Mel rubbed her wrist, shuddering.
Fur washed like a wave over Caleb’s torso and legs. His limbs warped, twisted, and crunched. Bones ground and knee joints popped as they reversed.
Finally, the transformation ended. The creature that had been Caleb stopped moaning and whining. It lay still, recovering.
Then, with a snarl, it leapt to its feet. Its head swiveled as it took in the small, bare room. A menacing growl rumbled in its throat. It turned to face the camera.
Whimpering, Mel closed the browser. She’d seen enough—more than enough.
That wasn’t special effects.
She slumped back in her chair and closed her eyes. How long she sat like that, she didn’t know. Her head was full of everything and nothing. Thoughts whirled and mixed so frenetically that she couldn’t distinguish details. Like sparks in a pool of darkness, her fears grew, coalesced, threatened terrifying scenarios. She shoved them down again and again.
A loud thump downstairs broke her reverie. Giggling followed, and Brianna said, “You’re so clumsy, Chris!”
With a gasp, Mel returned to the world. Surely not that many people will hate us and fear us, she told herself. Not to mention lots of people would think the video a hoax.
But that doesn’t give him the right to expose our whole kind!
Everyone was so big on consent these days. Had Caleb Connor stopped to think about that for even one second before trampling all over her and the other werewolves’ right to privacy? Even though he hadn’t named names, he’d brought the kind of publicity that would open countless more watchful eyes and maybe would encourage people to speak up about what they had seen or suspected or knew.
And she knew people had spoken up. The video had been live barely three days and already YouTube’s sidebar was full of suggestions. Mel went back in and saw titles like: “My Neighbor’s Furry Little Secret,” “What I Saw down by the Lake,” and “My Math Teacher is the Wolf Man.” She hovered over some of them and almost clicked.
Don’t. She’d had her fill of disturbing videos today.
Switching over to a search engine, she typed in “anti-werewolf groups.” Her jaw dropped as more than 800,000 results popped up. Clicking a few links and skimming the pages gave her a glimpse into a hobby—a sort of club—she’d never known existed. “Werewolf hunters,” she whispered, shivering although the furnace was on.
There were three chapters in her region of Pennsylvania alone.
Some of the websites already mentioned Caleb Connor. Grisly images were splashed across most: messily hacked-off lupine limbs, tails, and other body parts—many unidentifiable. Collections of teeth and skulls. Internal organs in pools of blood. Blood everywhere. Men in camo gear holding up shaggy, severed heads that looked nauseatingly like Caleb’s wolfish one. “You’re next, Connor!” one site proclaimed under such an image.
Mel couldn’t take any more. Closed the browser again. Groaning, she put her head down on the desk.
Three local
chapters.
Why were people like this? Why were they so horrible? Those poor people! Except . . . Mel was one of those “poor people” now. She was the one they wanted to capture (and torture?) and hack into pieces. Did werewolves not change back after being killed? Would her parents ever know what happened to her? Or Pam or Jocelyn?
Gory images flashed through Mel’s brain again. These people hated her. They didn’t know her, but they hated her. Could any of them know about her?
My claws came out in front of Jos. What if it happened again, in front of someone else? Someone less friendly and trustworthy? Someone with a grudge—like Timmy?
“Timmy believes in professional wrestling,” Pam had said that day in class. Timmy had been chased by the beast and heard its howls. If Mel ever slipped up in front of him . . .
It could be the last mistake she ever made.
Shivering, she straightened. It felt like hours had passed. “No use sitting here frozen in fear,” she told herself. She had to decide what to do about this new problem.
She grabbed her phone and texted Chandra, asking if she’d seen the video.
The reply came after a few minutes.
“Watched it. Telling the others.”
The others. The ones Mel would meet on Thursday. Apprehension gnawed at her. She both did and didn’t want to go. She’d always found it difficult to interact with strangers.
What if they didn’t like her? What if they were weird and scary?
Quit being silly, she told herself. You have no choice. Joining them is the only way to get your hands on the cure—or partial cure. The only way for her to stop living in fear.
And, quite possibly, the only way for her to stay alive at all.
21
McCullough’s
January 18, Last-Quarter Moon
“What?! You haven’t seen it yet? What planet have you been on?”
“I don’t get what all the fuss is about. It’s gotta be fake. Reality check, people.”
“At first I thought no way could it be real, but then I did some research about special effects. . . .”