Best New Werewolf Tales (Vol. 1) (15 page)

“Don’t even say that,” Roland warned, shaking his head. “That can’t ever leave this room.”

“Have it your way. But those bodies we took to the crematorium say otherwise.”

“Well, if that’s what they were—what
she
was—why the hell was she still a wolf when I picked her up—it was broad daylight,” Roland argued, patting Roscoe’s muzzle as he lay on the table.

Manny shrugged, bandaged the dog’s last wound. “She was in estrus, remember? Maybe they’re unable to change back when they’re in heat or when they’re pregnant. That would protect them from—being bred by a male when they’re not in wolf form. To ensure they’re in wolf form while they give birth to—well—
pups
. Who knows?”

Roland considered this, looked through the window at the early morning neighborhood. “And she’s out there again, out there and in heat and ready to make another litter of those things.”

“That’s one thing you won’t have to worry about,” Manny chuckled, flicking his gloves into the trash can. “Because I spayed her. Just in case the department of conservation boys wanted to take her, release her somewhere else. So, she won’t be giving birth again, not to babies
or
puppies…
ever
.”

GRANDMA, WHAT BIG TEETH YOU HAVE

ROB ROSEN

The bloodied, dismembered bodies started turning up every thirty days. Like clockwork. Men, women, young, old, bodies torn apart, limbs severed. Rorschach stains of blood canvassing the brutal scenes. An animal, they figured. It had to be. Teeth marks, puncture wounds, claws like daggers, a killing machine. Something big and feral and unrelenting.

Still, Sammy felt he knew better.

No proof, just a hunch. Well, more like an educated guess. After all, it wasn’t like he hadn’t overheard the family history, the rumors, before all this started. Long-lost relatives missing from photo albums, whispers at annual reunions, other murders, and lots of them. Plus, his gut was telling him what his heart and head were otherwise hoping. Then again, none of this involved his grandmother. At least not yet.

He’d never spent the night at her house before, though she lived a scant few miles away. Not that there was much need to he supposed. His parents always took him on vacations with them, and if they needed a babysitter, she’d come over to their house. Still, she was getting on in years and needed some help packing up her place before moving to an assisted living home. Everyone else was busy with other things; Sammy was volunteered. It made him uneasy, and he couldn’t figure out why. He loved his grandmother. Always had.

Thankfully, there wasn’t all that much to pack: two bedrooms, one bathroom, a living room and a dining room. Tiny house for a tiny woman. Grandpa was long-deceased. Yellowed photos were all that remained. Her meager possessions were all easily boxed up, taped up, stacked against a wall.

“Thanks for helping, Sammy,” she said, as she bent over a stack of dishes, her long gray hair cascading over hunched shoulders, mind seemingly elsewhere.

“No problem, Grammy,” he told her, as he carefully wrapped the silverware and cups. All of it ancient looking, even to his untrained eye.

She glanced up, sapphire eyes twinkling beneath the overhead lights. “They tell you why I’m being shipped out?” The twinkle turned to a flame, bursting from behind recessed sockets.

Sammy coughed, a strange sensation swirling menacingly around his belly. “You, um, you need more help these days, I suppose.”

“Yeah, right,” was all she replied, as she turned away.

In truth, her grandson thought, she was strong as an ox and sharp as a tack. Then again, what did he know? Not like the grown-ups told kids much of anything. Maybe she was losing her marbles and was hiding it well enough. “Guess it’s probably safer at the home, even if you don’t need the help,” he tried.

“Safer than what?” she asked, not even bothering to look his way this time. Sammy paused, sensing he was treading in dangerous waters. “You know, the times and all. Crime. And, um,
the murders
.”

This caught her attention, her pause echoing his. “That’s exactly why they’re sending me away, Sammy. But not for the reason you’re thinking, you know.”

A shiver ran up his spine, a cold bead of sweat forming atop his brow. “No, I, um, don’t know, Grammy. Tell me.” The dangerous waters were rising, the tide flooding in, chest-deep, neck-deep, suffocating him.

She started to reply, then caught herself. “Your parents, they didn’t––oh, never mind. You’re right; it’s for my own good.
Everyone’s
own good.”

He started to press, but she held up her hand. The conversation was over. Which was fine by him. Still, Sammy had a feeling it was more like a temporary reprieve.

That night he didn’t sleep well, the spare room deathly quiet, walls now bare, shelves empty. Just Sammy, the bed, the window. With the shades gone the moon flooded in, silver beams dancing on the closet door. He sat up, squinting into the nothingness, and couldn’t remember emptying the closet or seeing Grammy do so either.
Strange
, he thought.

The boy hopped out of bed and crept over, his heart pounding in his chest. He creaked the closet door open. There wasn’t much in there, mostly boxes from when his Gramps was still alive, some from even before the two of them had met, according to the labels. He opened some of the lids, poking around a bit. Everything was musty, old, age-worn. He put it all back where he found it, preparing to return to the bed. That’s when he spotted it, a box on the top shelf, pushed against the far wall.

Sammy stood on tiptoe and slid it forward. The box was on the small side, light, dusty, much older looking than the others. No label. No date. He popped it open, the aged tape turning to powder. “Clothes,” he whispered, suddenly disappointed.

His disappointment was short-lived.

He grabbed for the garment on top, draping it down. It was a dress, really old, threadbare. Only, that’s not what made it stand out. There was a hole in the back, ripped, not cut. Same for the sleeves, both torn, and not down the seam either.
Weird thing to save
, he thought. Weirder still, the box was full of similar items, clothes, all frayed in the same exact spots. “Keepsakes not worth keeping,” he whispered.

Then he heard the sound.

He jumped, dropping the box, the clothes scattering around his feet. The noise came again, a scratch, a moan, a sigh. His heart beat out a syncopated rhythm in his chest, the sound of it pounding in his ears. He moved to the door. It opened with a squeak. “Grammy?” he managed, his throat tight and dry as the Sahara. No answer, the noise continued. It grew louder as he moved down the hallway, through the barren living room and on to the kitchen.

It was coming from outside.

He unlocked the door, face pressed up tight to the screen. “Hello?” he whispered. The noise abruptly stopped. No scampering of feet, no sound besides his own heavy breathing. He looked around the nearly empty kitchen, reaching for the only weapon he could find: a broom. “Go away,” he managed, his voice suddenly finding itself.

Still nothing. He flicked the switch on, the room suddenly bright, blinding. He rubbed his eyes, squinting into the backyard. Two eyes glinted back at him at the edge of the yard, blinking. Then teeth, long, sharp teeth, glistening white beneath the full moon. White, that is, where they weren’t a crimson red. He froze, the distant growl rumbling through his stomach like a runaway train, the teeth bared further, the bloody carcass dropped to the ground in a sickeningly dull thud.

The animal moved towards the house, its muzzle coming into view, eyes a surprising blue, the snout long, canine in appearance. Except dogs don’t stand on their hind feet, clawed hands extended, walking slowly but with purpose.
Only one animal does that
, Sammy thought.

Knees trembling, stomach lurching, Sammy slammed the door, locking it, his back up against it as he tried to catch his breath. Then a new sound, feet running towards the house, fast, a body slamming into the door frame, claws scraping at the wood, the sound like nails across a chalkboard, grunting coming from the other side.

“Go away!” he screamed, voice cracking, sweat pouring down his face now. “Please, go away!”

It bayed and barked, the sound of its breathing loud in Sammy’s ears, despite the inch or so of wood that still separated the two of them. Then a momentary cold, dead silence, before the creature stopped, then retreated away from the house, letting out a howl from at least ten feet away.

Sammy moved to the window and peeked out, the creature turning again to look his way, locking eyes before disappearing into the night, its long gray mane the last thing he saw.

“Grammy,” he sighed, shivering.

He checked her room to be certain, but she was gone. He bowed his head, walking to her lone window, the moon’s rays illuminating his face as the final howl went up again, causing his very bones to quake.

“Grammy,” he echoed, crashing down on her bed, confused and alone.

Exhausted, he lay down, trying to collect his own disturbing thoughts.

He must have dozed off, waking, surprised to be in his own bed, the sun bright and warm on his face.

A dream
, he thought, but knew better.
A nightmare
, he corrected.

He sprung up and tiptoed to the door, making his way down the hall. She was in the kitchen, a hot cup of coffee in front of her, some juice already waiting for him. “Morning,” she said, forcing a smile.

He sat down across from her, both their eyes intent yet wary. “I already know it was you, you know.”

She nodded, eyes closed for just the briefest of seconds. “I suppose it’s best you find it out from me, anyway. Maybe that’s why they sent you here yesterday.”

“Not to help you pack?” he asked, terror suddenly rising up his chest.

She laughed, despite the circumstances. “Does it look like I need help, Sammy?”

He took a sip of his juice. “No, ma’am.” He paused, his eyes taking her in, looking for the beast he’d seen the night before. Not a trace. No surprise there. “So you’re a, a
werewolf
?” The words barely made it out from between his lips.

She smiled and nodded. “I think you always knew, Sammy. Felt it at least. Makes sense.”

He frowned. “Nothing makes sense. None of this. All those murders. You.” He paused, unsure of how to continue. “I saw you eating last night. It’s been you all along.”

She sighed and shook her head, the mane of steely gray hair rolling down her shoulders. “No, Sammy. Just a rabbit. See, the home I’m going to is for werewolves.” She rose and stood by his side, a gentle hand on his shoulder. “When werewolves get older, they lose the ability to control their most basic instincts.”

“Like to kill?” Sammy interrupted.

“Like to kill,” she replied, the nod returning. “And the home protects us from that. And that population, of course. That way, our kind can still live among them, as we have for centuries.”

He gulped, his stomach now tied in knots. “Our kind?”

She tightened the grip on his shoulder. “Sometimes it skips a generation.”

He remembered the torn clothes in the box, his own pajamas still in one piece. “When I get a little older, these will rip when I, when I change?”

Again she sighed. “You’ve already changed, Sammy. Last night, during the full moon. And before that one. And before that one, too. When we change, we have little remembrance of it, just flashing images, sometimes. The torn clothes come later. Still, we can control what and who we kill. When we get older.”

He turned and looked up at her. “Unless you’re too old to control it.”

That’s when the agonizing images suddenly flashed in his head, bolting through like white hot lightening. Muscles and joints aching, stretching, morphing. Claws and hair and teeth so sharp they could cut bone. The pain and confusion. Anguish and ecstasy. The blood. So much blood. A veritable river of it.

She bent down and kissed his forehead. “Or too young to control it, Sammy.” She turned and taped up the last of her meager belongings. “Or just a little too young.”

SCARRED FOR LIFE

MICHAEL LAIMO

Every night I dream his face. It is just as I remember it, staring, accusing––and yet, unbridled in its potential to forgive.
Do you love me?
He asks. I try to answer but in this ongoing dream I am incapable of expressing my feelings for the boy––the boy who is my very own flesh and blood––an extension of my love. By reason of my inability to illuminate my affections, he senses only my fear, rising from me in an invisible musk that only he can detect. His rosy cherub innocence vanishes from his face, morphing into a bestial visage secreting hot fluids from the snarls of his formed muzzle, strenuously taut from pleading.

If you say you love me, father, then why did you let me die?

I let him die because I had to. Because I did not love him.

* * *

My son died during childbirth. It had become no true shock after all the painful difficulties my wife tolerated throughout the latter months of the pregnancy. Fourteen hellish months it lasted. Nine of those joyfully anticipated, the remaining five painfully endured.

I sat by her side in our bedroom for most of those five months, gingerly running my fingers along the purple gnarls lining her swelled abdomen. I could feel the baby kicking, moving, answering the gentle tracings of my finger as I prayed for its escape from the womb, my mind searching for a reason as to why the attempt of Caesarean childbirth would be fatal to both wife and child. Why the inductions had failed to work. And then why my wife vehemently refused medical attention, choosing the herbal remedies of a naturalist midwife.

Even here, before his birth, he haunted my dreams, my fetal child running the show like a mysterious ringleader, we the parents its unwitting puppets, answering his every beckon.

* * *