The Skinwalker's Tale

by Christopher Carrolli

  Soon, the wolf arrived back on the vast acres of Uncle Jack’s land, right up to the porch where Brett’s clothes had been scattered a few feet away. The wolf sniffed at the clothing, reuniting itself with a smell all too familiar. The scent sparked the change. He felt the hair quickly receding, the tingling sensation evaporating, and the numbness of his face as it contorted, yet he felt no pain. His breathing was less heavy, and before he knew it, he was on his knees in front of Uncle Jack’s porch.

  The night’s darkness was pierced only by the moonlight, and it was even darker out here in the country. There was no need to scramble to hide his nudity this time. He pulled his jeans up over his legs and then found the ripped remains of his tee-shirt.

  “Damn, another one.”

  His body was covered in sweat, soaking through his jeans at the thighs and buttocks, and trickles ran down his neck from his dampened hair. He slung the tee-shirt over his shoulder and searched around in the dark for his shoes. Once he found them, he carried them in his hand as he climbed the porch steps, back into the house.

  * * * *

  Once inside, he looked at the oven’s digital clock in the enormous kitchen where Aunt Viv had once baked homemade pies and many of her famous concoctions. It was 11:15; over two hours had passed. He felt the sudden guilt of leaving Uncle Jack for such a length, even though the dying man had safely dozed in a drug-induced slumber all evening. He proceeded up the stairs to Uncle Jack’s bedroom.

  He opened the door slightly and peered inside. Then, he tiptoed over to the bed and stood over Uncle Jack while he slept, watching his chest slowly rise up and down in a consistent rhythm. The man of eighty years looked older. His appearance had aged by at least a decade from the cancer and subsequent treatment. His once full face was sunken in, his body an emaciated wraith of what it once was.

  Brett was relieved every time Uncle Jack’s chest moved up and down, thankful that he still breathed. Uncle Jack had refused to be in the hospital when the moment arrived. He’d been receiving round-the-clock hospice care, here in his home.

  Brett turned away and tiptoed back through the door, careful not to wake him. He needed a shower, and within minutes, he felt the hot massaging torrents washing away the angst, the pressure, and the thought of losing Uncle Jack. Then, he stood in front of the mirror, blow-drying his shoulder-length hair and thinking about everything.

  He thought of cutting his hair and shaving his goatee. It took an eternity, washing his hair and drying it, and the long hair caused him to feel so much hotter in the summer months. Most of the time, he wore it in a ponytail. It was cooler that way. But he was getting older, and at this point in his life, the need for change was enveloping him in many different ways.

  Thoughts of explaining and describing what he was to the team—not to mention demonstrating his ability for them—had becoming burdensome to even think about. The prospect of revealing the inevitable truth to them consistently nagged at him. They knew something was amiss with him. It was only a matter of time before they confronted him about all of his strange behavior.

  He pictured their reactions in his mind. He thought of himself enduring Sidney’s endless stream of jokes and wisecracks, listening to Susan as she analyzed him to death, and both Leah and Dylan would probably scold him for keeping the secret so long. He’d known Dylan the longest; he’d have a harder time explaining his secret life to him. He wished that Tahoe was here right now.

  That’s it. He would start by explaining how he’d discovered Tahoe so quickly before they’d all gone into Cedar Manor. After all, he’d used his ability as an investigative tool. Maybe he would approach it from that standpoint. But, they knew him well. They’d be able to tell that a great deal was bothering him right now; they knew about Uncle Jack.

  He sighed in frustration, standing in front of the bathroom mirror as myriad thoughts unwound in his head. He even wondered how the team would react when they discovered that he wasn’t limited to shapes like the hawk or the wolf. In his life, he’d changed into a dog, a snake, and even mastered the art of being the fly on the wall, though that one had been dangerous. He’d often wondered if the range of metamorphosis was an endless one, one that he hadn’t fully discovered.

  He closed his eyes while trying to clear his mind and abandon all thoughts. The sapping of energy as a result of the shifting was taking its toll as his muscles ached, and his eyes fought to focus. He would look in on Uncle Jack and then settle into his own bed. Tomorrow, in the light of day, he would rethink everything.

  Brett tiptoed back into Uncle Jack’s room and stood over him just like before, watching him breathe and realizing that he was fine—for now. He turned and walked away from the bed, thankful once again that Uncle Jack would sleep peacefully through another night. He was near the door when the soft waking voice stopped him where he stood.

  “Hey, you, where do you think you’re going?”

  Brett turned and smiled, realizing that Uncle Jack had been either pretending or only dozing. He walked back over to the bed.

  “Uncle Jack, how are you feeling?”

  A stupid question, but he felt the need to ask it every time. Uncle Jack just looked at him with smiling eyes, fully recognizing the denial that he must’ve worn like his trademark goatee.

  “It happened again, didn’t it, Brett?”

  “Yeah, I ran for awhile, but I needed to. It wasn’t long.”

  Uncle Jack’s eyes narrowed in on him. He’d always known what he’d meant by “a run.” He’d been referring to shifting into the wolf.

  “You still haven’t told your friends, yet. Have you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Brett, it’s time to tell them,” Uncle Jack said, raising his voice ever so slightly to prove his point. Brett tried to quiet him, but the old man continued.

  “I once told you that it should remain your secret. But I’m not going to be here much longer, Brett. It’s something you need to do, and it needs to happen before I pass on. It’s critical to who you are. There are things you need to know about yourself and about your mother, Claudia, that you’ve never known before. But, you’re going to need your friends with you.”

  So, this was the moment, the beef of the story he’d never been told before. It was as if Uncle Jack had been aware of his need to know, and of his selfish concern that the whole story would slip away with his dearly departing uncle.

  “They have to know, Brett,” he said. “They have to understand. Then, I’ll tell the story. It’s essential for those that love you to be here.”

  Brett felt a stab of pain in his chest like someone had driven a sword through it. Uncle Jack and Aunt Viv were the only family he’d ever known. This farmhouse was the only life he’d ever known, outside of his own apartment. Aunt Viv was already gone, and now they would both be gone from his life. He was too young for this.

  “Alright, Uncle Jack,” Brett said. “I’m going to tell them. Besides, I can’t keep avoiding them. They already know something.”

  “That’s my boy,” he said. “That psychiatrist woman, the friend of yours, she can help you. Then, after you tell your friends about who you are, I need you all to come back here to my bedside. I’ll tell the tale to everyone. Then, you’ll never have to repeat it.”

  “You want everyone to come here?” Brett thought the request was strange. How much had Uncle Jack and Aunt Viv known about who he was? What was so pertinent that needed the attention of an entire paranormal team at his death bed?

  Now, the thought of a darker side of an already festering secret flared his nerves all over again. He felt a stirring inside of him, one he tried to ignore. It was too late at night to erupt into worry all over again. Brett wouldn’t press Uncle Jack, not now. He was just going to have to face this and be done with it.

  “Okay, I’ll go and see the team tomorrow. I’ll tell them everything, since I was planning to anyway. Then, I’ll bring them all back here, and you can tell me what I need to know.”

  Uncle Jack smil
ed, glad this moment had arrived. Brett sat with him a while longer, until he fell back to sleep. Then, he went back to his own bedroom, the one he’d grown up in.

  As he settled into bed, he prayed and wondered if God heard prayers from people like him. What did God think of shape-shifters, those who’d been able to alter the flesh that he’d so masterfully created? Was he an aberration? Brett thought of the possibility that he might never find out. Then, thoughts of tomorrow distracted him.

  He would call them all one by one and ask to set up a meeting—immediately. They would understand that time was of the essence. They’d wondered what was up with him. Now, they were about to find out.

  Brett let out a guffaw at the thought of being the team’s next case. He lay back on the bed, his eyes staring up at the ceiling. A fan he used in the summertime blew cool air across his body, its dull drone drowsing him to sleep. His last thoughts were of tomorrow, and of an unknown tale that would surely change his life.

  Chapter Two

  Tahoe Manoa woke with the rising of the sun every morning as was his custom, and this morning was no different. He rose from his bed, but when his feet touched the ground, a vision stunned the aging seer. It invaded his mind and obstructed him from seeing anything else as it played out in mesmerizing detail. The vision was of a wolf. He waved his arms to grasp something, but his hands gripped the bedpost as the vision grew cinematic in his mind.

  The wolf was running, panting, and its tongue was wagging as its speed increased. Tahoe saw a man’s hands clutching a shotgun; only the lower parts of his arms were visible. Then, he envisioned the man as a dark silhouette against an evening backdrop, a solid, faceless form of opaque blackness. The man in the vision took aim, hoisting the shotgun up to his right armpit. The wolf was zigzagging, distracting the man’s aim, and then its speed increased into a running attack. The dark silhouette squeezed the trigger, and Tahoe saw the bright, fiery flash of gunfire.

  But the bullet had missed the wolf. The wolf had been quick—it lunged at the man’s throat. Then, the vision changed; the wolf was running away. Its black fur was soaked and matted, tainted maroon by the crimson hue of blood.

  And then the vision was gone.

  He could see the mosaic style of his bedroom walls once again.

  Brett...

  The thought of the young man he’d met over six months ago was the next thing to enter his waking mind. He knew what the vision meant. He’d feared that it would come to this point. The first time he’d met Brett Taylor was when the young man appeared as a great hawk on his back porch. The hawk had been following him; he’d seen it with his third eye.

  He’d looked into its eyes when it landed in front of him. He hadn’t understood immediately, not until the giant bird put the thoughts in his mind, the thoughts of Leah Leeds. He’d remembered the psychic girl from when she was a child. She’d desperately needed his help, and it was the hawk that had stared at him and placed that random thought in his mind.

  Even though it was a hawk that had been perched before him, Tahoe had seen a vision of a young man. It couldn’t be, he’d thought. He’d remembered the stories and the legends passed down to him by his grandfather. He’d been just a boy then. He’d never given full credence to such things. And until that moment when he’d looked into the eyes of the hawk, he’d laughed at the old-tribal legends.

  But, every intuitive part of him had confirmed the suspicion he’d almost refused to accept. The hawk that had perched on his porch before him was a shape-shifter, what his grandfather, and the Navahos, and the ancient Hopis had called, “skinwalker.”

  After the hawk had placed the message inside his mind, it flew away, its wings flapping against the vast horizon of the Arizona desert. Days later, Tahoe had found himself in Pennsylvania, helping Leah Leeds fight for her soul inside of Cedar Manor. The battle had been arduous, but the girl had won the war. Now, Tahoe feared that this latest vision showed him danger yet again, this time, for Brett Taylor.

  His grandfather had warned him to never look into the eyes of a skinwalker. For when one looked into the eyes of such a being, he or she would become possessed by the skinwalker. The skinwalker could even assume the shape of that person, therefore stealing the body and eventually the soul. That had not occurred when Tahoe looked into the eyes of the hawk.

  The legends told that skinwalkers were evil beings, witches or sorcerers with the devil’s talent for changing shape to hide their identities. Tahoe hadn’t seen evil when he’d looked into the eyes of the great hawk, or into the eyes of Brett Taylor. What Tahoe had seen was a young man with a secret he failed to understand, a fearful soul, desperate to help his friend. He’d utilized his secret to help her in her time of need, a secret that most would refer to as a curse.

  Tahoe thought back to the moment in Cedar Manor when the young man’s secret had nearly been exposed by the spoken evil of a demon. Fortunately for Brett, his friends had not understood the word or its context, or even to what or whom the demon had been referring. They’d ascribed the word “shifter” to the rambling incoherency of the dead. Tahoe had watched from across the floor as Brett’s color drained from his face, rendering him a ghostly-white.

  Now, he considered the vision once again—a wolf. He hadn’t seen Brett take the shape of the wolf, but when he encountered the young man’s guise as the hawk, he’d known instinctively that there were others. He’d tried to persuade him to tell his friends, but he feared that Brett hadn’t listened.

  Tahoe closed his eyes and tried to gain further insight into Brett Taylor. He saw an older man lying in bed, the pall of sickness surrounding him, and a spry spirit that fought to leave the man’s body. Eventually, it would. He saw Brett alone in a farmhouse, engulfed by the pain of grief as death brought final and permanent absence to his young life.

  Then, Tahoe saw the wolf again. Its snout was projected upward to a night sky, while its mouth rounded in a rhythmic movement. It was howling. He could almost hear the wolf calling out through the dark night in the vision.

  Then the vision was gone, but he could feel a deep foreboding stirring within him. Tahoe knew what it all meant; he would have to return to Pennsylvania, this time, to help Brett Taylor. The series of unfolding events that were about to occur would change the young man’s life forever. Brett was going to need him, just as much as Leah Leeds had needed him.

  At his age, travelling was not a thrill, and he wasn’t as fast on his feet as when he was younger. He prayed that he would make it in time.

  * * * *

  Sidney Pratt had been thinking about his pal, Brett Taylor, for quite some time now, mainly about how he’d only seen him a handful of times in the past six months. It was just before they’d all gone into Cedar Manor that Sidney had noticed a drastic change in Brett’s personality. His behavior had been erratic, rash, and unlike him. He would dash out of meetings early in sudden and unpredictable displays of impulsiveness that were seemingly out of character. He’d even skipped out of their Christmas Eve celebration when they’d had much to celebrate.

  But what baffled Sidney most was how fast Brett had found Tahoe Manoa. Brett had left town without a final goodbye, rushed to Arizona by means he never explained, and then returned two days later with the older, Native-American man in tow. Sidney assumed that Brett had taken a flight, yet when asked, Brett would change the subject. Plus, the society had never been billed for any such flight. Surely, Brett couldn’t have spared his sparse funds for the excursion.

  After leaving the holiday gathering at Susan’s house on Christmas Eve, Brett had begun to keep his distance. Granted, their cases since Cedar Manor had been uneventful and benign hauntings, but Brett began to curtail his appearances at their headquarters and communicate by phone. He’d been avoiding them all. Then, Susan had announced the news about Brett’s uncle, Jack.

  Uncle Jack’s cancer had been pronounced terminal. Sidney would give anything to be able to assume that Brett had been privy to some unexplainable premonition regarding U
ncle Jack, and that’s what had triggered his strange behavior. But, he knew that wasn’t the case. Whatever was consuming Brett had now become compounded by Uncle Jack’s illness.

  Sidney thought back to the time when he’d first met both Brett Taylor and Dylan Rasche. They’d deduced that Sidney’s interest in their then, two-man group was of a personal nature. In his quest to understand more about himself, Sidney felt it next to impossible to lie to them. He’d revealed his own psychic secret to them: the fact that he could hear the dead.

  But how he’d revealed it had been a shocker for Brett. Sidney had heard the voice of Brett’s Aunt Vivian. She’d told him to tell Brett to take care of Uncle Jack. Sidney had lived that moment over again while in a coma, and he thought of it now, sitting at his breakfast table, finishing his pancakes and drinking his coffee. He wondered how the thought of Vivian’s admonition was affecting Brett right at this moment.

  It was the beginning of a lazy Saturday for Sidney. He’d been hired recently as a public speaker, attending different universities and functions to speak about his clairaudience and what role it played in his life, and his work as a paranormal investigator. But he had no bookings scheduled for today, and the idleness of the weekend began to set in early. He felt the awe of déjà vu when his iPhone rang, and he glimpsed the flashing name in the window.

  Brett.

  He didn’t waste time thinking about the irony; he pressed the talk button and spoke.

  “Brett?”

  “Hey...”