Prey for Me - The Hollow Silence, part 6
#13 of The Hollow Silence
A loving couple, a grieving mother, a girl with a mysterious past and a serial killer. Five people with nothing in common, except the desire to change their lives.
How much would you give up for the chance to start all over? Your past? Your self? Your species?
Travel with me to Cobbler's Dell; a forgotten town where man and beast coincide.
This is chapter six of "The Hollow Silence" (Ca 7000 words)
C** obbler ***'s Dell, Idaho; February 20, 1908.*
Father Aaron Buchanan kicked up a spray of snow with every step. He was three miles from Cobbler's Dell, with only three days left for composing a sermon for Sunday. Yet his mind was blank, like an unlit cavern where random words reverberated off the walls and spiralled into a wail of broken sentences. Last Sunday he had used Matthew five_for a talk on tolerance and brotherhood. _Love thy enemy and bless those who curse you. But that sermon only made the faithful snigger, for exactly who were their enemies these days? The Wild Bunch outlaws were either dead or retired and the Blackfoot tribes were Thursday's trading folks. But something sinister had taken hold of Cobbler's Dell; something that made Hilda Porter kill herself. Father Buchanan sat by her side in her final moments, watching the fatal draught of carbolic acid devour her life and lungs, while she screamed for God's mercy. The moment God granted her that wish, her negro husband howled like a wounded animal and took to the hills. "Pray for us," were her final words. "For the love of God; pray for us all."
The thin layer of ice creaked under his boots and rivulets of black lake water tugged at his feet. Standing still on the ice, he watched the tiny cracks spread across the frozen lake like tarry vines sprouting from his bootprints. Evil had found a home in Cobbler's Dell, and now the town was tearing itself apart. Townsfolk left, disappeared or died around him. He heard rumours of folks in high positions taking advantage of the less privileged in ways that were not in accordance with the good book, and for the first time he was scared, nay terrified of staying in Cobbler's Dell.
"Salve me!" Hilda Porter had scribbled the prayer hundredfold on the same torn bible page, before she committed the ultimate sin -or the ultimate sacrifice. "Salve me, Iesu domine." _What had she witnessed?_Wondered the priest. He unfolded the page, now crumbled and torn, but the original print showed through the blotches of red ink.
Isaiah 34:14
The desert creatures will meet with the wolves, The hairy goat also will cry to its kind; Yes, the night monster will settle there and will find herself a resting place.
Denver, Colorado; November 04, 2015.
Tommy Cole lit a Winston and put his rifle down; an AK47 fitted with a sniper scope and a custom paint job. His eyes were red and itchy. He had liquidated more than a hundred shambling zombies over the span of five hours. At least that's what the scoreboard told him, but he had lost track in the heat of battle. His monitor showed a simple flash screen coldly stating
"Green team wins!"
"Good work everyone!" Tommy grinned into his headset and eased into his_Steelcase Leap Gamer's Chair_. His team had totally pwned the reds, even though Pr3d47or_79, his ace player had gone AWOL. Tommy had tried to reach him all morning; on Skype, on messenger, on Telegram but Pr3d47or never replied. Eventually Tommy left a message for his missing team-brother: Dude, the rest of us are leveling up like mad! We're BULLISH. Tommy checked his watch; it was almost noon and he'd been playing_Zombie Nosh online_since seven this morning. That _'s five hours worth of teambuilding_, he convinced himself. Yet, a small but annoying voice at the back of his mind insisted it was only another five hours wasted out of his life. He pushed the nagging thoughts aside; time invested in networking is never a waste_and _Alph4_male,Wolfdood_93_and _MorralDeViante_were his online buddies. Okay, maybe leave out _Alph4_male, because Tommy discovered his latest online friend was a thirteen year-old kid from Houston. God, I_'m old enough to be his father._Wolfdood_93 was somewhere in Nebraska and _MorralDeViante_was a street performer from South Korea. This left Pr3d47or as the only fellow Denverite. Although they'd never met in real life, Tommy knew his buddy's real name was Jamie and that he worked in a downtown library. Every time he passed the building, Tommy was tempted to walk in, check out the nearest random book and introduce himself. "Hi' I'm MacAroon88, we play on the same team." But what if they didn't hit it off in RL? He couldn't allow that to happen, so he always kept walking; It was safest to keep their friendship online only.
Tommy reached for a pair of jeans and checked his wallet. He was out of cash again, but he wasn't worried. Time to go to work and earn the beaucoup dolores. He whistled as he checked the stockmarket on tradingview.com. While he'd been busy de-braining zombies, the price of Bitcoin had surged from a long bear trend to $400 a coin. Four-hundred bucks, this was better than sex!_Tommy switched to one-minute view where a green candle of profit swelled and erected itself. _Four-ten and rising, baby. He followed the buywall on the chart, tracing the line with the tip of his finger. Green team wins again!_At the first sign of downwards correction, Tommy slammed the sell button to liquidate two Bitcoins from his wallet at $450 each. _ZAP!_That move earned him a total of $900 minus the $100 for the original purchase. _Superzap!_He wrote a quick comment in the chatroom. _Made $800 today; bears ded.
Tommy rested back into his seat, waiting for his pulse to ease into a steady beat. Eight hundred smackers, not bad for an hour's worth of work._With the monitor sleeping on stand-by, the confinement of his small apartment closed in on him. The noise, screaming and bloodletting of _Zombie Nosh_that had filled his ears all morning gave way to the quiet hum of the refrigerator and a drip-drip-dripping from a leaky bathroom faucet that grew louder by the minute. _That kind of noise can drive you insane, he thought and reached for the phone to call for maintenance. He hung up after the second ring, not wanting his landlady to drop by and see the state of his apartment: the empty pizza boxes, the month-old TV guides and empty cans of Mountain Dew.
"I'll clean it all up... tomorrow," he promised himself before turning on the TV. "Tomorrow I'll start all over."
Cobbler's Dell, Idaho; December 10, 1907.
"Five hundred dollars?" Cheryl Olsen fought to remain calm and kept sorting the laundry while her head spun from the shock. The amount was insane, almost half a year's income.
"That's right Mrs Olsen, your husband owes me five hundred in poker losses - didn't he tell ya?" Sheriff Baumann was a leading personage in Cobbler's dell, a man of power and influence - but rumor had it he also had important backers and a hair-trigger temper.
"We don't have that kind of money," Mrs Olsen stated bluntly, folding a bedsheet. "Mike is a good man, but he makes stupid mistakes when he's been out drinking. Can't you just let it pass?"
Baumann spat a wad of chaw on the wooden floor, narrowly missing a woven throw-rug.
"Poker losses are legally binding in Idaho, just like in Nevada. If your husband don't pay up, I'm sure gonna lock him up."
Cheryl Olsen sighed. "I have money in my purse. I'll see what I can do."
"Unless of course, you and I can come to some kind of agreement," grinned the sheriff. Baumann moved up close to Cheryl and gently massaged her shoulders as if giving her a back-rub. Uninvited, his hands inched their way down her back until they rested on her buttocks.
"Now I don't wanna come across as a man with no heart. I promise; I'll be reeeal gentle with you."
Cheryl Olsen grabbed the laundry basket and turned her back on the Sheriff. "If you want company that bad," she sneered, "why don't you visit the saloon? The girls there are professionals."
"Just think it over Mrs. Olsen; five hundred is a lot of money for taking a few minutes off, while I do all the work." He gave her butt a small squeeze and winked at her before going back to patrolling the mining town, and leaving behind a sour stench of cheap cigars.
Denver, Colorado; May 8, 2016.
Jamie Adams preferred girls with fixed routines in their lives; the kind of girl who takes yoga classes on Wedensdays, goes to the gym every night after work and walks the dog at 8:30, sharp.
But the more he followed Shiri Anderson around, the more he regretted his latest choice of prey. This girl was unpredictable, and unpredictable meant dangerous. He had decided to make his move on the night of the 21st for a full-moon hunt, which gave him only two weeks to learn her daily routines. Three times she had gone to Café Laloupe. Monday and Tuesday on the first week, then Friday of the second week. Each time she ordered fairtrade chai latte, but this was the only consistency to her routines. On the second visit she brought a friend along: some Irish girl who laughed a lot and wore large earrings. The other times she had been alone and seated herself at different tables. With a girl like this, Jamie needed more time. Prior to this one, Jamie had spent six full weeks on tailing Marie, before he hunted her down and finished the game, and eight weeks on the target before her. Jamie didn't recall her name anymore. The names of targets past evaporated from memory, like last night's dreams. They were replaced with faces, scents and feel. Only the sound of their dying screams remained behind as mental trophies.
Jamie turned on his stopwatch when Shiri left the Free University with her Irish friend. Their lips moved, but he couldn't make out the words over the background noise of wannabe-artists discussing painting techniques Jamie didn't know, or care about.
"Hi Shiri, wanna go for lunch," Jamie imagined her friend saying.
"Sure, Irish girl with large earrings, I'd love to. Let me just go grab my hand-knit eco-bag." She left her coat behind in the wardrobe.
Jamie waited in the hallway until they were out of sight. He estimated he had half an hour before they returned. (Monday she'd been gone for 36 minutes, Tuesday 43 minutes. Wedensday she didn't go because she was discussing Miro with a balding professor.) He walked across the hall and reached into her coatpocket. She's lefthanded but holds scissors in her right hand. She also punches in her PIN code with the right hand at the cash-point. Thirty minutes sharp, now._He discovered a keychain with three keys in her pocket: one for her bicycle and two larger ones. He guessed the RUKO style key would be the one for her apartment on fourteenth. Jamie grinned; this little, jangly handful had just saved him a week's worth of preparation._Must be hunter's luck. With twenty-nine minutes to go, Jamie set into a steady jog, running north on Quebec, Crossing 11th ave and continued north until he reached the key-cutters on Colfax. He threw the key on the desk. Copy please.
"Yo, that's an old type of lock," said the clerk. "You oughtta change your lock to a Kwikset Smartkey."
"It's a rented place," replied Jamie bluntly.
The clerk shrugged. "Dude, you don't wanna return to a home that's been burglarized."
"-and you don't wanna go to sleep with a stranger waiting for you under your bed...dude," snapped Jamie. The clerk gave Jamie a disgusted look and turned his back to cut the key.
Denver Colorado; Nov 10, 2015.
The Bitcoin market was stagnant, circling around a support line at $500 and Tommy Cole was growing annoyed, watching an endless tug of war between bulls and bears. "Come ON," he sneered. "We're wasting time here, folks." Among investors, intuition equals decision and the $500 line held a significant symbolic value: one notch above the support line and general agreement had it that Bitcoin would skyrocket into the next FOMO rush. But below that same line, the market was doomed to crumble under the panic-selling by total noobs. Limbo was the worst time to make a decision, but Tommy hungered for a profit before bedtime. Every time some nervous bear sold off his Bitcoin, the bulls and the bots replied by buying up enough Satoshis_to keep the coin above the magic line. _Why couldn't this game be like Zombie Nosh?_Tommy and his green team could easily smoke a few bears and watch the market soar. Finally the value rose to $650. _Maybe the other investors had grown as restless as Tommy, or maybe some nameless whale took action, or a dude in Seoul suffered from insomnia- Tommy didn't care. He liquidated another two Bitcoins, making himself a thousand dollars in profits. He bro-fisted the air with both hands. This kept getting better and better. If only he had someone with him to share his victory. PR3D47OR_79 hadn't been online for days, Brock was away on duty with Reese Allen, and Wolfdood_93 tweeted how he was attending _Midwest Furfest_and wearing a wolf's tail.
When Brock returns __I'll invite him over for a nice Indian_ takeaway to celebrate. Maybe he could even ask him to bring Reese along._She and Brock were colleagues and good friends but Tommy was sure she was safe around him as it was an open secret that Brock was quietly queer. Tommy closed his eyes and turned on his favorite fantasy of undressing Reese, squeezing the breasts he had never known or touched. He'd go down on her and lick...
A growing bulge in his pants insisted it was time to masturbate and he browsed to Reese's Facebook profile for inspiration. Today she'd uploaded two new selfies from her stay in Dubai. The first photo showed her and Brock in an outdoor cafe, slurping Pepsi and eating dates. Brock dangled a filter cigarette from his mouth and looked disinterested, while Reese flashed her wonderful smile at the camera.
The second photo showed Reese seated in her hotel room. She was naked, save for a towel wrapped around her upper body to cover her breasts. Her legs were crossed, but maybe -just maybe, he could see a bit of bush if he zoomed in close enough. The sheets on the bed behind her were ruffled and the ashtray on the nightstand contained a few cigarette butts. A sudden discomfort washed over Tommy and he zoomed in on the ashtray until the pixels grew to the size of Tic-tacs. No doubt they were filter cigarettes. He couldn't tell the brand, but he knew Reese was a non-smoker. Tommy compared the two selfies, and his stomach turned to ice. The lighter next to the soda and the one on the night stand were identical, and that bulge under the blanket; it could only be Brock half asleep -and a few mililitres of semen lighter.
"YOU FUCKED HER!" screamed Tommy, suddenly realizing how the sexual preference of his closest friend was not restricted to his own kind, but towards any human with a pulse. Enfuriated, Tommy re-checked his inbox. The e-mail he received from Brock this morning had seemed comforting at first. We're almost done here. Will return on Thursday. Then we can travel to Cobbler's Dell together. Rewarding trip -I feel like a new man. Best wishes, Brocky.
"Best wishes, my ass!" Sneered Tommy, "Reese was supposed to be mine". He slammed his fist into the monitor, sending it spiraling across the table where it died in a rain of blue sparks. "I don't need you anymore." He stuffed his suitcase with maps showing the way to Cobbler's Dell, grabbed his coat and the keys to his KIA.
"I don't need anyone, anymore."
Cobbler's Dell, Idaho. Dec 20, 1907.
"You've got a real owl's nest in there." Lillie Olsen combed Hattie's hair with a wooden brush. The porcelain doll had a mop of golden hair that tangled all too easy. Getting it straight was time consuming, but so was following mother around as she delivered freshly washed and mended clothes to the miners of Cobbler's Dell. "You're pretty," she told the doll. "You have two blue eyes." Lillie loved the looks of her doll more than she liked her own. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she always closed one eye. Some days she closed her blue eye, other days the brown one. One day a crazy woman had stumbled out a miner's shack as Lillie walked by. The woman had lunged at her, screaming. "That girl's a witch. She's got the devil's eye." The woman kept hollering until two men dragged her back into the shack, where they continued drinking. From that day she avoided that street and took the back road, until the crazy woman left town with her friends. Now the shack was deserted and doll Hattie danced in the snow to the tune of a waltz. Mother's basket was empty and it was time to walk the mile back to town from the mine. They had taken only a few steps towards safety, when the tell-tale scent of air-cured Maryland leaf caught up with them. Cheryl Olsen exhaled quietly and closed her eyes. Good Lord, why won't he leave us be?
"_Oof-da!"_The voice of Sheriff Bauman cut through the frosty air like a sickle. "It's cold out here, missus. Why don't ya let me keep ya warm?"
Cheryl Olsen cursed at the sheriff and fought to keep his restless octoped hands from touching her.
"But I'm only taking what is rightfully mine," grinned Baumann. "Five hundred dollars worth of company, and I ain't even asking for interest."
Ungloved fingers, cold and hard like talons grabbed on to her blouse, probing and tugging at the buttons. Sheryl winced and turned her back. With a soft snap, her blouse tore open to expose her breasts. Cheryl Olsen covered herself with both hands and looked around for help, but in the cold winter's day there was none to be found.
"I'll scream!"
"You let out a single sound and I'll knock your darned teeth out of that head of yours."
"You touch me an' I'll tell everyone in town. Oh, they'll know about you, Sheriff Baumann."
Bauman laughed. "It's your word against mine, toots. Who are they gonna believe? The wife of a drunken gambler, or a state official?"
Baumann slid a hand up the front of her dress. Cheryl felt his cold and calloused fingers probing her thigh, when she heard a terrified gasp next to her. Lillie had stayed quiet behind the snow dune, but now she had come out, clutching her doll and standing wide eyed with her mouth quivering at the corners.
"Run, Lillie, RUN!" Screamed Cheryl, and the girl bolted like a jackrabbit from the pile of rubble and sprinted towards the woods.
"What the...?" gasped the Sheriff. "You brought that misfit girl with ya?"
The sudden interruption made Baumann take a step back, and the probing hands let go of her. The stench of straight Whiskey and pure lust stuck to the sheriff like molasses and Cheryl knew it was only a matter of seconds before he'd return his hormone fuelled attention back to her. With the fury of a cornered animal, Cheryl swung at Baumann's face with her basket, and the moment he fended for himself, she quickly kneed him in the groin. Through her thin leggings she felt bony kneecap impact with fleshy scrotum and the sheriff doubled over in a series of howls and curses. Saliva and blood sprayed from his mouth as he bellowed at her.
"I'm not done with you just yet, missy," he screamed. "I'll come back an' claim my money worth... every last damn cent."
"Damn you!" cursed Cheryl Olsen as she ran towards town. She looked back over her shoulder, watching Baumann and the silvermine that was sucking the life out of her and her family. "I hope you die, Sheriff Baumann," she whispered. "I hope you die, screaming."
Cobbler's Dell, Idaho. Dec 20, 1907;
Lillie Olsen was knee-deep in snow but still she staggered forward. She never liked sheriff Bauman, but now he had done something to hurt mother. The snow stung her eyes and she blinked and wept while she ran, trying to find her way. Cousin Jeremy lives in a place called Nevada. Maybe she could hide out there.
Her frozen fingers found the familiar shape of the large rock that gave Cobbler's Dell its name. Some people said it had fallen from heaven, and others said you could get well from sleeping by it because it had Radium. But right now, it was just plain, cold and ugly.
She slumped down with her back against the rock, trying to catch her breath. So cold. Her teeth chattered and her legs hurt from running. Just five minutes, then I'll move on.
Lights moved and danced before her eyes; yellow like a procession of torch bearers moving nearer, closing in on her. The villagers must have sent out someone to search for her. A sensation of warmth flowed through her body and she felt the ice melting away from her veins. She smelled warm stew and cornbread waiting for her on the hot stove, and the snow felt like a mother's comforting embrace. She could see them now; mother was smiling again and dad played the fiddle. All she needed was a little sleep. There was something she had to do, but she had forgotten what it was; something about a long march, but that was something that could wait till spring. It was time to sleep, now. She covered herself with snow for a blanket and watched the moving lights around her merging with the stars until they too blinked out, one by one.
Cobbler's Dell, Idaho. Dec 21, 1907;
It was still dark when Lillie opened her eyes. Her every breath turned into clouds of steam that dissipated into the night, but she was no longer shivering from the cold. She wasn't tired either. The nap must have done me good. She reached for porcelain Hattie, but the doll kept slipping out of her hands. Something not right with my hands? Living shapes were moving around, only feet away. Silent yet liquid as if the boulders themselves had come alive. Lillie blinked in the moonlight and was surprised to see that the moving boulders weren't made out of rock, but large wolves, glowing silver and almost blending with the snow. They were close, so close. Touching her and keeping her warm with their bodies.
"Please don't eat me," she stammered.
"Why would we do such a thing, little one?" asked the wolf closest to her. It was an old female, greying around the muzzle and blowing hot air into her face. Lillie's heartbeat grew faster, stronger and to her surprise, the beating of her heart synchronized with that of the wolves. For a brief moment they touched noses, and it felt like a mother's kiss.
"Can... can I join you?" Asked Lillie.
"You already have," chuckled the wolf.
Denver Colorado, May 10, 2016.
Jamie Adams knew he had made a mistake when he stood outside Shiri's apartment. He cursed under his breath, how could he not have seen the girl had two keys to copy? The door was fitted with not one, but two individual locks.
Both were old-fashioned spring locks, but the lower lock was almost a relic from the sixties and easy to open. Even though the girl was unpredictable in her free time, she had art classes today until half past noon. This gave him at least four hours alone in her apartment. Jamie slid a credit card into the slip between the door and the latch, and gave it a firm push. He nodded satisfied when the latch moved to the side to release the spring. Too easy. This method scratched up the credit card really bad every time, but Hannah Cassidy didn't have any use for it any more. _Hannah_he repeated to himself while he tried to recall her face.
Hannah had been a heavy set Afro-American with bright brown eyes and curly hair. She lived alone with her cat, Otis, she worked in a nearby photo shop and loved Motown records. People kept telling her how she looked like Gladys Knight. She was pretty, beautiful even, some would say. But they hadn't watched her tongue protruding from her mouth, greyish and bloated when Jamie wrapped the belt from her own dressing gown around her neck and tightened it until his fingers hurt. He remembered her body going limp and the following sense of disappointment when her body rolled onto the floor. It was over much too soon. Jamie sighed; the chase was always better than the kill. Overcome by a sudden wave of nausea, he staggered into Shiri's bathroom to wash away the memories. Having washed his face with organic soap, he studied himself in Shiri's mirror but didn't like what he saw. I'm growing fat, he realized. It's been too long since the last hunt. This is not who I am. He wanted to ram his fist into the lying mirror and shatter the image of a white middle-class man with a comfortable WASP upbringing.
"I'm the wolf!" he whispered. "I'm the silent predator, I'm the master of the hunt."
Shiri's one-bedroom apartment was a mess of knitwork, books of the month, mugs of cold tea and unfinished paintings. Jamie didn't need to open her fridge to know she was a vegetarian who still ate sushi from_Safeway_. Her bedroom was surprisingly tidy, though the bed was unmade. He climbed into her bed and pulled the covers over his face, taking in her scent. The sheets smelled of woman, ylang and sandalwood fragrance, but no scent of a man. Jamie checked his watch; he had at least three hours before Shiri returned. He yawned and placed his switchblade next to him on a nightstand, just in case she returned early. He closed his eyes and relaxed and let Shiri'stie-dyedsilk scarf run through his fingers. "Just imagine," he whispered before nodding off. "On the twenty first, I'm going to strangle you. I'll strangle you with your own scarf."
Cobbler's Dell, Idaho, April 2, 2016.
Therese paced the deserted streets of Cobbler's Dell with no particular purpose in mind. She gravitated towards the house Michael Guerro shared with Jordan Hodges, and once again she climbed the familiar staircase to the one room where the couple had lived, loved and created. Michael was an avid reader of sci-fi and fantasy and he'd left behind a small library of paperbacks. Jordan made drawings of the surroundings and also a few fantasy-themed illustrations.
One drawing in particular caught her attention; it was a fantasy illustration of a fox-like girl sitting on her haunches. Therese picked it up and, rather than taking in the image with her eyes, she pressed the paper to her nose and sniffed softly. Immediately, her senses filled with the scents of mildewed paper, ink and oil paint. The smell of each individual color burst into its elements of poppy-seed oil, metal and minerals, smoke and earth. The small illustration became a vivid canvas of fragrances that danced in her airways, mixing with the shifting breeze pouring in from the window. She no longer needed her sight to know how the mountains behind the fox-girl had been inked with cold, instant coffee. Her sense of smell picked apart the fruity notes of Kenyan beans, heavy-bodied java and cheap robusta, with the precision of a microscope.
Therese left the house with a rekindled sense of purpose; she was discovering the world anew like a child, finding everything a new experience in a world of vibrant scents.
The clear sun bothered Therese; it was too bright and hurt her eyes. Besides, the world seemed flat with unsaturated colors. The vision she had thought so essential gave way to a new world of scents. She took a few careful steps with her eyes closed and laughed; I can find my way following my nose. With her eyes shut, she tracked the familiar smell of pine-trees down to the edge of town, passing the raspberry bushes that formed an entrance to the deep forest, and crossed the mineral soil towards the meteorite crater. Here she opened her eyes. _How was this even possible?_Was she imagining things and had peeked through almost closed lids?
The breeze carried a new scent of a living creature approaching. Not alone. Therese spun around. A solitary wolf had left the forest. It was old and walked towards her, slowly and carrying something in its mouth that looked like a bundle of rags. When it noticed Therese staring back, the wolf sat down and waited. Her sense of smell and sight had returned to normal, like she had just snapped out of a waking dream. Disappointed that the world had returned to normal, Therese approached the animal, one step at a time. The wolf didn't bolt or make any sudden movements as she crept up close. When she was only seven feet away, the wolf opened its maw and let the bundle of rags drop to the ground, inviting Therese to take it. She remembered feeding the squirrels in Denver's City Park with Sophie, back when life was uncomplicated. Sit still and offer it a peanut, she had told her daughter. Show you don't mean any harm, and don't make sudden movements. Tempted by the food, the squirrel would eventually overcome his natural shyness and accept the token offer while Sophie shrieked with joy. It had been almost seven months since that laughter died and her world plummeted into drink and darkness.
"You're the one with the peanuts now, and I'm the squirrel, huh?" Therese picked up the bundle. It was an old porcelain doll, wearing a long, elaborate dress. The doll was dirty with patches of brown mildew and the dress was torn and falling apart, yet the porcelain head remained untouched by age. Therese recognized the doll Lillie Olsen had clutched in her arms when she had her picture taken in the old school room, one hundred years ago. "Lillie!" she whispered and when she looked up, she met the wolf's gaze. One brown eye and one blue eye looked back at her.
"You never left?" said Therese. "None of you did; You, Walter Krause, Marley, Dakota... all those names on the list."
"-are they still here?"
The wolf got up, turned and walked back towards the opening between the raspberry bushes leading into the woods.
"I...don't know if I should go with you." Therese remained still among the raspberries. The thorns tore at her legs and her jacket, holding her back. The forest was black and impenetrable, while the smell of berries, and the sun warming her back confused her senses. She knew if she took one step into the darkness beyond, there was no turning back. But one step into the sunlight would lead her back into the world she knew; a world she loved and hated with equal measure.
"Crap!" she sighed. "Juuust great."
The soft padding of paws faded among the trees while Therese contemplated her next step. "Now, listen..."! She started, but her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Ian's jeep approaching from the path to Ceour d'alene. With the spell broken, Therese left the bushes and walked to meet him. He drove slowly and carefully, more so than usually. She knew Ian was level-headed and not prone to taking risks, but he slowed down at every hole in the road to an almost crawl. Then she noticed another shape in the passenger's seat. Ian was returning to Cobbler's Dell, but this time he wasn't alone.
Cobbler's Dell, Idaho. April 2, 2016.
Ian Parks brought the jeep to a halt outside the old school building and assisted his passenger as she got out. "I haven't been to this place for thirty years," said Rosalee Anderson. [Author's note: at the date of writing, Rosalee is a sparky lady of 89 years, and has been of great assist for me in researching this story. She currently lives in Spokane with her two cats, Whiskey and Soda.] Rosalee sniffed the air in search of familiar smells, but the scents of firewood and cooking remained in her memories only. "Jus like I remember it." Rosalee pointed out each individual house as they walked the streets.
"That's where the Clevelands lived, and there's the school I went to." Rosalee was a fountain of historical information, and Ian and Therese began to piece their own observations together, with Rosalee's remeniscence as glue and mortar. They stopped outside a two-story building that is almost ruined today, but still bears the hallmark of wealth. The remaining woodwork is elaborate and a brass knocker in the shape of a lion's head is still fixed to the front door.
"That's my grand uncle's house," said Rosalee. "I never liked going there."
"He must have been wealthy," commented Ian.
Rosalee bit her lip thoughtfully. "My grand-uncle was..." She hesitated before continuing. "... a man of great influence. I only remember him as someone with piercing blue eyes and a Wyatt Earp moustache. I've heard so many things about him, told by so many people. But nobody ever said anything nice about him."
"He wasn't well liked?" guessed Ian.
Rosalee spat out a bitter laugh. "Feared, hated, despised... take your pick. But mostly feared." Had Rosalee been sixty years younger, shee would have kicked the door off its hinges in anger. "He was a bully, an extortionist, a professional gambler ... and a rapist."
"Did... did you ever hear of a girl named Lillie Olsen?" asked Therese. "She went missing."
"Sweetie, settlers came and went all the time."
"There are photos in the schoolhouse, of the missing townsfolk. They look so happy."
"Happiness comes in many shapes," said Rosalee. "Maybe they made a few hundred dollars from working the mines and left for somewhere else. Believe me, once they met my grand-uncle, they were happy to leave this place."
Therese had stayed quiet for most of their walk together, but now she seemed to come alive, asking endless questions about the disappearances. There was a certain look in the young woman's eyes; a look Rosalee had seen many times before. It was the look of the outcast, searching for answers no one could give her, or the misfit seeking company. They had travelled to Cobbler's Dell, lured by the promise of the_magical radium rock_outside town. Some travelled alone, others with sick relatives in search of a cure for their ailments. Most brought their savings with them and spent them on food and lodging, and they were welcomed into the town until they had spent their life savings on dreams and disillusion while the townsfolk went to work in the mine. One by one, the pilgrims watched their funds dry up. Some disappeared into the night, others left with the Indians. Almost one hundred years had passed but so little had changed. When you don't fit in, the loneliest place in the world is not in the mountains, but among other people. The young Therese had arrived one hundred years too late. Rosalee knew the legends by heart. "The blackfoot traders often stayed the night," she said. "The grown-ups sat around the fire and smoked tobacco and listened for hours while the Indians told tales of the Nunne'Hi_little people_who shape-shift into animals."
Rosalee stopped to massage her aching back. She wanted to return to Spokane, but Therese was eager, almost to the point of being pushy, to learn about the old legends. "They had this story teller, _Hoke'ee._He could tell stories all night until we children dozed off. My granduncle must have taken the story to heart, because he began accusing everyome who fell out of favor of being a werewolf. That way he could run them out of town. But you don't believe in any of that, do you?"
Therese didn't reply, but remained strangely quiet for the rest of their walk through Cobbler's Dell.
Cobbler's Dell, Circa November 12, 2015.
Tommy Cole parked his KIA next to the meteorite. He emptied the contents of his briefcase on the passenger seat to study his maps and directions printed from WWW.lycanthrope.me_and _www.werewolf.org. The forums all agreed: This place will change you forever, 100%. Tommy liked the promise of everything rising to 100%. At first he had been sceptical of anyone promising great returns, but he bought one hundred bitcoins at five cents a piece, only to watch their value soar to one thousand bucks. He laughed in the faces of the online bears; I'm the wolf of crypto-street, bitches!
But you you can only wank to so much internet porn before your balls turn blue and your interest stains the carpet. I'm here, now change me; change me into something better. He slumped by the monolith, resting his back against the silent rock and checking his watch. It's okay, I can wait. He thought about his two "best" friends who had sex behind his back, pretending to be on duty. Oh, you're in for such a surprise when I return and change before your eyes. He could see them now, arriving at his apartment, holding hands and smiling; "hey, how are you, buddy?" Slowly he would transform before them -not agonizing like in "An American Werewolf in London" of course, or "The howling III". But gracefully, and Reese would fall in love with him and leave Brock. She would stroke his fur and kiss his muzzle, and he would mount her and make her squirm in orgasmic delight as he went down on her and nibbled her labias. "I've never done it with a wolf, before," she'd groan while Brock would watch in jealousy. Tommy unzipped his pants and began stroking his cock, like so many times before to his favorite wet daydream. He looked around to make sure nobody was watching, but it was okay, he realized. I'm alone, here.
I'm alone, everywhere.
Cobbler's Dell. April 5, 2016
"A scholarship?" Therese watched Ian uncork a bottle of One Hope sparkling wine."
"Can you believe it?" grinned Ian. "I can go back to Boise and finish my degree. No more shuffling around in abandoned mining shafts."
"I... don't think I should be drinking that stuff," said Therese, not wanting to tempt and awaken the alcoholic inside her.
"- and that's why I brought you THIS!" Ian reached into his bag for two cans of Mountain Dew. "Seems fitting, right? We're in the mountains."
Therese laughed and set the table with two aluminum mugs. She lit a candle, although it was only noon.
"Listen," Ian said. "I want you to come with me. Let's pack up and get the hell out of Dell."
"Ian, I'm not ready to go just yet."
"I've found this great place on Harrison Boulevard. There's cafés, and a theatre just around the corner."
"Don't TEMPT me, Ian," cried Therese. "I might just do it."
"Then, what are we waiting for?" Ian was growing restless. He had had enough of sleeping on folding camp beds and waking up with snow sticking to his beard.
"I'm changing," shouted Therese. "You might not be affected, but this place changes people. People who NEED change."
"You're not well," shouted Ian. "And if you still believe this place will turn you into a wolf, you're going batshit." He grabbed Therese by the shoulders and shook her. "If you continue down this path, You'll...need...medical...help."
"You need to leggo of me, or you'll be the one needing medical help." Therese bared her teeth in a snarl. Shocked, Ian took two steps back. How come he hadn't noticed the canine teeth in her mouth were unusually long and sharp. Her eyes too had turned from green to increasingly yellow, and the wrinkles above the bridge of her nose seemed almost feral.
"You're one crazy bitch! You know that?" he burst out in shock.
"You need to leave, NOW!" shouted Therese. "You don't belong here anymore."
Stunned, Ian grabbed his belongings and raced out of the house, his heart still poundingas he climbed into the jeep. "Insane!" He repeated to himself as he left Cobbler's Dell at full speed." This is insane."
Cobbler's Dell, Idaho - Feb 23, 1907
Sheriff Bauman awoke from a troubled sleep. Wiping cold sweat off his forehead, he struck a match to light his bedlamp and checked the clock. It was four in the morning, too early to get up, but he knew he couldn't go back to sleep. The face of an odd-eyed girl had haunted his every night ever since she ran away. "We'll find her," he promised the grieving parents, just to get them off his damn back. He'd even put up a reward and hired a team of hunters to track down the girl. They hated him, but he didn't care. Half the town wished him dead, but noone had the guts to face him. But there was _something_about that girl. The way she looked at him when she ran away upset him in a way that spoiled his sleep. Even though she was long gone, the child with demon eyes was quietly judging him. "Get OUT of my head," he snarled. "This town is mine."
He hadn't felt this way since he was a young boy in Minnesota, back in '76. His pa had taken him along to pick up groceries and do some banking in Northfield. He and pa were waiting in the queue behind a negro woman with a large hat, when three men brandishing revolvers burst through the doors, screaming for money. The lady cried out "Sweet lawd Jesus! That's Jesse James," and one of the men turned and lifted his hat in a greeting. "Pleasure's all mine, mam!" He was a handsome man in his early thirties with a gaunt face and piercing eyes. When Mr. James turned towards his partners, he locked eyes with the young boy, and for a moment, time stood still and the young Baumann saw something the adults around him didn't notice. The eyes of the robber didn't match with the rest of his person. He was well dressed and sporting an elegant haircut and a short beard, yet he had the eyes of an animal, a predator disguised as a human. His eyes were full of hunger and determination, bloodlust and loneliness. In that moment, the local sheriff burst through the doors and everyone began shooting. Baumann's pa dragged the boy to safety behind the counter while the adults fought and chased away the outlaws. Baumann and his family moved north shortly after that day and Jesse James got himself killed six years later. Baumann never told anyone about the beast hiding within the man, but the incident returned to him this night. The Olsen girl had looked at him the same way, only quietly judging him as he made advances towards her mother. "Damn you," he cursed. "I was only taking what's rightfully mine."
He put his boots on, and left the house, breathing the night's air. The girl had disappeared but the rumours were growing. Rumors that Baumann was abusing his status as sheriff of the town, secret whispers of him having illegitimate children, talk of extortion and intrusion. With his own eyes he had seen a timber wolf turn into that negro Walter Krause, but he had still spared his life. "I know what you are," sneered Bauman. "and it ends tonight!" He grabbed his rifle and loaded it with five rounds. But these shells were not of the kind you would buy from Schader's groceries; these were cast from silver; the only metal that hurts a man-beast.
........