“You’ve got to have a special cake ready for him when he returns. That’s what the old lady said. A special cake. And you’ve got to make him welcome. That’s important. You must always keep a special lantern burning out there in the clearing where the deed was done. And you can see, can’t you son? We have made you welcome. You’ll always be our boy. Nothing can change that.”
Stuart banged his fist down hard on the table in anger, making the guttering candles on the cake shake, creating new shadows which leapt threateningly from the corners of the room. The old woman cried out in alarm, and the old man seized him by the wrist.
“Matthew! We’ve done everything that the gypsy woman said. But I should warn you. Arnold has put pieces of silver into the cartridges of his shotgun. Violet! Cut the cake!”
This is absolutely bloody crazy! thought Stuart. And then the nightmare and its logic suddenly fitted together perfectly. The whole insane sequence of events began to make sense.
Quietely, Stuart leaned across to the old man.
“I’m not Matthew. But he is out there – somewhere in the dark. I know he’s a werewolf. He attacked me out there on the road and followed me up to the farm. He’s come back alright and he’s out there prowling around the house. I don’t know whether this . . . this . . . ritual is supposed to placate him or something. But believe me . . . you’ve got the wrong person!”
The old woman shoved a plate across the table with a wedge of cake on it. It came to rest with a rattle, right in front of Stuart. Two warped candles flickered madly from the concrete-hard icing.
“Eat!”
“What?” gasped Stuart incredulously, “You must be joking. . .” A grey worm, cut in half by the cake knife, writhed and squirmed its way free from the cake mixture onto the plate.
“Eat!”
A gossamer thread of cobweb was caught in the flame of one of the candles and hissed as it dissolved. With stomach heaving, Stuart picked up the piece of cake and looked at the trio sitting around the table. Sitting there, in their paper hats, the shadows from the candles creeping and fluttering on their faces. For all the world it looked as if they were engaged in some weird grimacing competition.
“Eat!”
The room vibrated to the ullulating howl of a savage wolf.
Stuart dropped the cake and leapt backwards in his chair from sheer fright – which probably saved his life. As he fell to the floor, there was an ear-shattering roar as the shotgun spat bright yellow flame and sparks across the table and huge slivers of wood were ripped from the wall where Stuart had been sitting. The recoil sent Arnold hurtling backwards.
Hell had suddenly erupted in the cottage.
The fly-blown window beside the oak door suddenly exploded into a thousand glittering fragments, and as Stuart rolled on the floor he had the impression that a long clawed arm had come thrusting through the window.
The old woman screamed again as a howling wind blasted through the gaping aperture and blew out all the candles on the cake. The lantern crashed to the floor and fizzled out. Above the noise of the howling wind, and the reverberating echo of the shotgun blast, Stuart could make out the old man’s voice sobbing in the darkness.
“Matthew! Matthew! We did love you.”
The large oak door shuddered violently under the massive weight of something outside. Hammering. Scratching. Ripping. The bolt of the door rattled and clattered noisily. With the rending noise of a tree being felled, the hinges on the door screeched in protest as the oak burst inwards. Lying nearby, Stuart tried to avoid the oak panelling as it crashed to the floor. But a length of wood struck him on the shoulder as he tried to rise, and knocked him to the ground yet again. For an instant, the doorframe was blackened by something entering. And then Stuart could see the moon shining brightly in the sky as the figure passed.
Something had come into the room.
But as it passed, Stuart heard a voice. Not a human voice. More like an inhuman snarling from behind a mask. Muzzled. Spoken through lips that were never meant to speak.
Stuart kicked the oak panelling to one side and leapt through the shattered doorway. Trees swam at him crazily as he blundered panic stricken through the undergrowth, expecting the nightmare padding sound of clawed feet and inhuman panting which would mean that the thing was pursuing him again. Out into the main road again, he never looked back for fear of seeing that abominable shape crashing through the bushes after him.
Of his flight back into civilization, he could never really remember very much – and would never have thought it possible that he could run twelve miles back into the town. But he did.
In the months to come, the fact that Crowfast Farm didn’t appear on any map didn’t really surprise him. And when, three years later, he passed that bend in the road again where he had crashed over the gate, he wasn’t at all surprised to find that there was no gate in evidence. He didn’t even bother to look for the signpost which indicated that Crowfast Farm was two miles up the road. He knew it wouldn’t be there.
He would have doubted his own sanity if it hadn’t been for one thing. The warped birthday candle which he had found in his pocket.
The whole sequence of events would never be very clear again. But the voice which Stuart had heard in the doorway would stay with him for ever. Inhuman it may have been. And spoken in a horribly distorted voice. But the words were clear enough.
Matthew had returned home to even the score.
“Many Happy Returns.”
Roberta Lannes
ESSENCE OF THE BEAST
Roberta Lannes is a native of Southern California. She has been teaching junior high school English, art, and related subjects for over thirty years. Her writing career began early in college with a few sales to literary reviews. In 1970 she began a short career in stand-up comedy, doing improv, and wrote for several other comedians.
In 1985, she turned to the genre of science fiction and dark fantasy. Her short fiction has appeared in such anthologies as Cutting Edge, Lord John Ten, Fantasy Tales, Splatterpunks and Splatterpunks II, Alien Sex, The Bradbury Chronicles, Still Dead, Dark Voices 5, Deathport, Best New Horror 3 and The Year’s Best Horror Seventh Annual Collection. She claims she has every intention of finally completing a novel as retirement from teaching approaches.
As she explains, “‘Essence of the Beast’ evolved from a dream I had about burning eyes at the end of my hallway and mad dogs shifting into human form in order to hide their insanity. I’d never written about werewolves, nor do I truly understand the legend and lore of their kind. So, I summoned up four of my friends, set us out at the end of the road, gave us guises and purpose and, amazingly, I had werewolves, of a sort. I am fascinated by innocence and its loss, and this story took me down that path, once again . . .”
It had been too long since our last visitor. Living in a ramshackle house nestled in the folds of low rolling hills, not many wayfarers made it out to us. If they did, we’d baited them or they arrived lost. The UPS man was the last. Of late, our hunger has been making us irritable. Each of us threatens in lean times to go off on our own again – an idle threat since the four of us are bonded in a most unusual way.
Then the young man in his van came, begging for work fixing up the house. Our hunger must have created a vacuum, sucking him from whatever errand he had found himself on along our long road.
The moment we set our eyes on him ambling up the drive, we began our transformations. I grew into Chelsea Wiggens – twenty years old, my eyes a bright yellow-green, set wide apart, my skin olive pale and flawless, my hair auburn, long and soft with curl, and my body the right kind of perfect to create a child. “Ripe”, Quinell would call it. Fromme shifted into my grizzled but soft-hearted Pa, Lyla my jealous (as usual) sister – at once pretty and daunting, and Quinell got his jollies once more playing Ma, his once acute dramatic skills turned shrill and unreliable.
Randall Buss found his way into our parlour after we’d all hurried out to greet him. This fellow had a scent t
hat inspired thoughts of a good meal in the others, but somehow not in me. I found myself hungering for him with a strange visceral longing. The feeling was unfamiliar and it put a host of fears to work in me. I wanted to understand it, but in order to do that, I would have to protect the object of my obscure desire from the feeding frenzy in which my companions were preparing to indulge. No easy task. I saw the ravenous looks on Quinell, Fromme and Lyla’s faces, and confused, I wondered why I, too, wasn’t slavering ghoulishly. His coming disturbed and intrigued me, changed me, though I had no idea why.
He seemed to struggle with an obvious discomfort with strangers. We stood around, waiting to take our cues from Fromme. When he took a seat on the lumpy sofa, we took our places around him.
Fromme eyed the young man up and down. “Sit yourself down. What’s your name, boy?”
“Randall Buss, sir, but everyone’s always just called me Buss.” Buss sat down in the new recliner, Quinell’s latest acquisition.
“So Buss, you say you want to fix this place up for us? You a carpenter? Painter?”
Buss folded his hands in his lap. His paint-spattered khaki pants were short enough to expose bare ankles over well-worn moccasins. I watched his muscles ripple under his faded blue T-shirt as he flexed nervously.
“Yes, sir. I’ve rebuilt eleven houses from foundation to roof since I was thirteen and I have licences to do just about everything from wiring to plumbing. Lots of experience. Have references, too, if you want to see them.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lyla wipe drool from the corner of her mouth. She scared me most of all. Her hunger had always been the fiercest among us.
I stepped in. “Pa, you’ve been complaining about this relic for the last five years, saying it looks like it should be torn down. Give him the chance. What’s there to lose?”
Fromme cleared his throat. “Well, Chelsea, if you and your sister want to do the extra housework for this boy now as well as for your Ma and me, I suppose we can try him out.” “Pa” glanced back at Buss. “What’s a boy like you going cost me?”
Quinell arched “her” back. “Now Pa, we must be careful with the inheritance. Can’t go spending it all on an impulse.”
Fromme frowned at “her”. “I’m the one who signs the cheques. You keep your worries to yourself. If you think this boy is out to gouge us, just say so.”
Quinell sniffed the air, sighing with resignation. “Whatever you say.”
Buss grinned. “Sir, I think you’ll be pleased with my estimate. Why don’t I take a look around and figure out what needs attention and write you up a list with costs?”
“Why, that’s a great idea, boy. Then we’ll make us an educated decision. How’s that Ma?”
Quinell looked away. “Fine.”
Buss rose up, nodded to each of us, his eyes taking me in just a little bit longer than the others, then went off outside to make his calculations. Inside, we began making our own.
Lyla was the one who detested the ritual of dancing with the prey. She was anxious to just get to it. Quinell enjoyed the dance more than the meal. And Fromme and I had always found ourselves adaptable. How we’d ever managed together and keep ourselves satisfied, I’ll never be sure, but now the stakes were different. I wanted the dance to go on as long as possible. I wanted the opportunity to know the forces driving me and what would come of them.
“I can just taste him.” Lyla slipped back into her bestial ugliness.
Quinell shook his head. “You’re so . . . repugnant when you’re like this. Don’t you want the taste of fear on his blood when you rip the flesh from his bones, dear?” “Ma’s” snout lengthened a little as Quinell’s control slipped, too.
Fromme stood up and growled. “Oh, shut up you two. We have a meal hovering about outside like a fish ready to take bait, so stop this posturing. Chelsea, you’ve got a way with the young ones. Why don’t you go on out there and do some charming?”
“I don’t know, Fromme.” I sat still, the power of being the baby among us settling in my stomach. “I got a feeling about this one. Something’s wrong. Off.” I stared outside, my brow wrinkling. “He’s trouble, this Buss.”
“Don’t listen to her!” Lyla barked. “She just wants him all to herself.”
I stayed put and watched the hierarchy working. Quinell tsked. “Lyla, Lyla, Lyla. Always the jealous one. You’re an old hag and you just refuse to face it.”
Fromme let his head fall back to the chair, exasperated. “None of us has ever seen Chelsea go after large prey on her own, and I will not entertain thoughts of her doing so now. She was right with the runaway wife and the home teacher. Both brought repercussions, but without her warnings, we might have been found out. Destroyed. So stop this and listen to her.”
“I don’t care what Chelsea says, I’m hungry and I’m going to have me some Buss stew.” Lyla hurried out of the room and down the hall to her room. Her claws clacked on the hardwood floor until her door slammed.
“I’ll listen, Chelsea, dear. I’m the eldest and have no desire for trouble here.” Quinell stuffed grey hair into a dishevelled bun on his “Ma” head.
“Go on.” Fromme nodded to me.
“I know we’re all hungry. The next visitor isn’t expected for another week, so I’d better have a good reason if I want to hold off. I think I do.” I closed my eyes, hoping for a reason to pop into my head. “I think he knows what we are. I think he’s a very intuitive boy. Sort of psychic. That and . . . perhaps he’s been sent here to check us out. Sort of a front man for . . .”
“The home teacher’s family!” Quinell shrieked. “She’s right! We keep wondering when the other shoe’s going to drop on that scandal.”
Fromme’s brow knit. He looked to Quinell, then me. “Is he right?”
The fates were favouring me. “That’s the feeling I had. It’s only been ten months. The company could have hired a private detective by now, and sent out someone . . .” I wrung my hands. “I remember when that woman showed up, the wife, how agitated and paranoid she was. I knew there was someone not far behind her, searching for her. She was running away, for god’s sakes. The teacher wasn’t so obvious. Who’d have thought his company sent out a supervisor to check on the progress of the student-teacher relationship. There wasn’t much to bank my sense of dread on, there. And now my assertion is even thinner than that, so I understand why everyone’s so sceptical. But, the ominous feeling is no less strong.”
“Then it’s settled. We send him away.” Fromme bit his lip.
“No!” I countered. Quinell and Fromme looked at me, startled. “If he is the man sent to check us out, then we need to let him stay here, snoop around, and find that we are only what we claim to be. The Wiggens at the end of Bradford County Road. And if the subject of the teacher comes up, we say what we said then, that the man never showed up. When Mr Buss is pleased, he’ll surely say his work is done and be off. We send him away now, we may let on we’re scared.”
Fromme, the ever-cautious and wise, opened his palms and cocked his head. “We’d have to be so careful, Chelsea. What about our shape-shifting? The cycles and rhythms we respect. Our condition. Over time, we’ll be found out, surely.” Quinell nodded in agreement.
“Our lives are at stake. We’ve grown lazy out here. We can hold our shapes at will for days. Weeks if we want. We’ll have to.” I frowned then, thinking of Lyla.
“Lyla won’t do it. I know her. But she’ll go off and find some large game in town, I’ll bet. Anything but hold her shape for days until she can feed here.” I prayed it wouldn’t be so. She’d put us all off our dance before, inviting unwanted attention to us with a mysterious death too close to home.
“And what if he turns out to be nothing more than a carpenter?” Fromme asked.
I smirked. “We feast.”
Quinell lurched out of the chair and minced to the hallway. “I’ll inform Miss Fur-face of our decision.”
Fromme looked doubtful, but acquiescent. “Go on, then.�
� He turned to me. “This is your dance, Chelsea, so go out there and charm him.”
I went to Fromme and hugged him. I felt his affection and acceptance, and hated to be taking advantage of it.
Buss was crouched down at the side of the house, his head inside the hole where a metal grille once protected a crawlspace. I tried humming as I approached so as not to startle him. He pulled his head out and stared up at me.
“Well, hello, Mr Buss. Don’t mind me. I was just checking that you didn’t fall into the old well or trip over one of those nasty vines from the banyan tree.” I smiled my best.
“I’m all right.” His head disappeared again into the hole.
“What’s so interesting in there?”
He mumbled something. I went and stood right beside him.
“I can’t hear you. You want some lemonade or something? It’s hot out here, today.”
He leaned out of the hole and gazed up at me, grinning. He shielded his eyes from the sun. “Water, please. No ice.”
I nodded, turning to go before I let him see the flush I felt coming up my neck to my face.
When I returned, he was resting on an overturned washtub that sat by the path down to the glen. The view was best at sundown, but he seemed to like it just then. He emptied the glass and set it on the ground before speaking a word.
“Thanks.” He drank me in with his eyes a moment, then looked away.
“I’ll bet we’ve got hundreds of dollars worth of repairs around here.”
“Yes ma’am, you do.”
“Are we going to make you rich?”
He smirked. “I take my time and do a good job, but I don’t make a lot doing it that way. I usually get a set fee.”
“So why do you do it?” I sat down beside him on the washtub. There wasn’t much room and our hind ends touched.
“I love it. Simple as that. I’ve loved building and repairing things since I first could grab onto a crib rail. My folks like to tell of a time I wasn’t even two years old, I tried to fix my night light.”
The Mammoth Book of Wolf Men Page 14