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Cobbler's Dell, Idaho ** (March 29, 1916) ***.*

“What IS that contraption?"

Demolitions expert and part-time piano player, Gerry Badger studied a curious piece of machinery his friends were carrying into the back-room of the saloon. Placement of the new furniture required the assist of two panting and swearing friends who wiped sweat off their faces with the sleeves of their miner 's shirts. They were accompanied by nervous cries of “don't scratch the floor" from the saloon keeper.

“It's a recording lathe," said Ernest Thomson, a tall, handsome man of thirty years who played guitar in the Cobbler's Dell Swingers. “For recording our band."

The most prominent feature of the lathe was a large brass horn with a stylus at the far end. The stylus rested on a flat, revolving disk mounted on a large wooden stand.

“So, where do you insert the cylinder?" Gerry rocked the tone arm back and forth, and eyed the invention with suspicion. Ernest sniffed, annoyed with his friend's apparent ignorance. “Wax cylinders are a thing of the past, Gerry. The modern record revolves at seventy eight revolutions per minute. You're looking at the future, my friend."

Gerry took a flat wax disk from the cabinet in the lathe, and held the fragile sliver to the light. No grooves had been cut into the surface yet and Gerry saw his own reflection in the virgin wax. “It looks expensive."

“We've rented the lathe for the week," added Gordon Wright, the fiddle player of the Swingers. He stood a full head shorter than Ernest, and most people would not recognize them as brothers.

“We paid for it with money from our inheritance."

“Baumann?"

Ernest nodded. “He left a substantial sum, so I say we let the old man pay for the future of our little combo."

“For the record," spat Gordon Wright. “That would be the one decent thing our father did in his life."

“Don't speak evil of the dead," snapped Ernest. “It's poor taste."

Gordon gave his brother a mean stare. “Ask the wolves," he said. “THEY know of his taste."

The piano cut through the air as Gerry struck a dissonant chord with both hands, and the argument stopped.

“Many things can be said about your father, but most things shouldn't. So let's play."

The three friends rehearsed a few songs, before deciding to record a tune called Radium Stomp, written by Gerry. Gordon put a blank wax disk on the lathe, wound the spring with a hand crank, and pushed the start button with great ceremony. The heavy stylus descended onto the blank record and carved a spiraling groove into the wax. He nodded at Gerry and mimed it's recording ! Gerry played a short intro on the piano and was soon joined by Ernest on guitar and Gordon on violin.

Halfway through the tune, Gordon broke into a blistering violin solo, but he was interrupted when a lone wolf nearby let out a long, mournful cry. He lost his concentration for a moment and mimed at his brother, “Can we do another take? _"_ But Ernest motioned at him to “just keep going."

They only had a handful of blanks, and each recording cost them a small fortune. When Ernest took over the solo, the wolves had grown in number and their howls grew even louder. They were very close now, as if they were attracted by the music. Ernest moved two fingers across his throat, signaling to his friends to “cut it after this chorus. " He lifted the recording arm, and showed his friends the mint record.

“No fair," complained Gerry. “I didn't get a chance to do a solo."

Ernest unscrewed the recording-arm and replaced it with a lightweight playback stylus. “Now we can hear it." The friends gathered around the brass horn, from which the familiar music poured out.

“Amazing!" laughed the awestruck Ernest and peeked into the brass horn with one eye squinting. “You'd think there was a tiny band hiding inside."

One minute and thirty one seconds into the song, Gordon rose with a jolt and gave the Saloon table an angry kick. “Listen! Those damn wolves made it onto the record," he cursed. “The take is ruined with all their howling."

“Howling?" Gerry gave Gordon a quizzical look. “They're not howling.

Can't you hear they're singing?"

[Author's note: The actual wax record is in the private collection of Rosalee Anderson, Granddaughter of Sheriff Baumann, and niece of Ernest and Gordon. You can hear it HERE. I played the 78RPM record on a modern turntable at 45RPM, then sped up the recording in Audacity and did a bit of noise-removal.]

---

Denver, Colorado (May 1, 2016 ).

Jamie Adams loved Sundays. These were days of quiet reflection in the public library that had been his place of work for the past twenty three months. Ninety two weeks and seven days exactly. Most of his colleagues hated working Sundays, and would much sooner spend the day with their families. But you could always count on Jamie to take a weekend shift for them;

Good old Jamie, he just loves Sundays.

And they were right; all sorts of interesting people came to the library on that day. People he could meet and talk to.

He was shelving return books when he met Shiri. She was alone, and looking helpless with a pile of A3 sized posters folded over her arm. Jamie parked his book trolley next to her and gave her a quick smile. This one is easy, he thought. She was in her mid-twenties, 5'2'' tall and skinny. Her worn Wrangler jeans were stained with dried paint in bright colors.

Art student if anything. Long-sleeved blouse, probably second hand, and a knitted scarf around her neck.

“Can I help you?" Asked Jamie, and flashed the girl his friendly-smile.

“I'm looking for a place to hang these?"

“Let's have a look." Jamie took a single poster from the pile. It was printed on handmade paper and read:

The Society of Diana invites to

Full Moon Celebration

(May 21st & June 20 2016)

22 to 05

Bear Creek Park

_ _

“May twenty-first!" said Jamie. “You won't have the park to yourself on that day.

When the girl hesitated, he added “The Northwestern Backhunters and Angler's Society has booked the park for a two-day fishing event, that same day. " Jamie pointed to a poster the anglers put up the week before.

Grass-root organizations, artists, local theaters; they all hung up posters during weekends, and Jamie knew of every upcoming event in the state. Kept track of them too, sometimes months in advance.

It pays to have a photographic memory.

“The Backhunter's society can get… lively at times," he whispered and winked at Shiri in mock secrecy.

Jamie was taller than average and carried himself like an athlete. He had long blond hair and good features in a well-shaped face. He was under thirty and should have been handsome, but for some inexplicable reason he wasn 't. Something was missing.

Smile, he reminded himself . Show your teeth, but not past the canines. Premolar smile 's too wide and too fake. Don't forget to smile with your eyes either. Open eyes just a bit more than usual, giving off that slightly surprised look.

“Thanks for the warning," laughed Shiri. “But I think we can handle a few drunken anglers. We ARE dangerous feminists, you know." Shiri smiled at Jamie, but her smile was earnest and wide and Jamie noticed one of her premolars was missing.

“Let's hang it right next to the anglers," said Jamie. “That'll get you maximum exposure."

Shiri took one step back and studied Jamie hanging the poster.

“You don't think there's a conflict of interest?"

“No," he answered. “It's perfect. You've got the male hunting instinct next to the moon goddess. Masculine energy juxtaposing the feminine. Materialism with the spiritual -and all eclipsing under the same full moon… It's beautiful."

“Hey, you're a pretty deep guy," said Shiri.

“It comes with the job," smiled Jamie. “You know, we've got a collection of really deep books here. And I'm knee deep in them."

They both laughed, and Shiri collected the remaining posters and stuffed them into her bag. Then she looked around as if searching for something.

“Say, you haven't seen my scarf around?"

“Ummm. What does it look like?"

“It's a hand knit thing. I've had it for years."

They both looked around, but they found no trace of the scarf.

“Listen" said Jamie. “We have a box up front for lost and found items. If I find it, I'll put it there. OK?"

Shiri nodded. “Okay!"

“Even better," said Jamie." Leave your number with me and I'll give you a call when it turns up."

Shiri left the library, waving and Jamie waved back. Then he turned his attention to the two posters.

Perfect. Hunter and prey, a victim and someone to take the blame. He reached into the book cart and took out a long, hand knit scarf. He pressed it to his nose and inhaled deeply.

_ _

I know your scent now, and the hunt is on.

---

Denver, Colorado (November 2nd, 2015 ).

“Dude, I really don't know about this." Tyler Brock wiped a bit of dust off a resin statuette of a serious looking sorceress.

“I mean, Idaho of all places. I thought you had a news item for me?"

He looked around in Tommy Cole 's two room apartment. His friend had collected comic books and video games, ever since they hung out in high-school. But it seemed his obsession was growing worse lately, there was dust everywhere and a lingering smell of unwashed clothes snaked its way from the bedroom.

“It's all over the Internet forums," said Tommy. “People travel to Cobbler's Dell from every state. It's like a modern pilgrimage."

“It's an abandoned mining town," said Brock. “What's there to see in November?"

Tommy dumped a large pile of printouts on the table and read aloud from the topmost sheet:

_ _

In 1979, two hikers decided to spend the night in Cobbler 's Dell. Only one of them returned. When questioned, he told the police his friend turned into a wolf.

“Aw for fuck's sake, Tommy."

“There are loads of cases," continued Tommy. “Look, it happened in 82, in 87, in 95…" He pushed sheet after sheet, all printed from the web in front of Brock. Some had crude pencil illustrations of wolves and wolf-like creatures."

“-and people bit into a Kentucky Fried Rat in 79, in 82, in 87…" Brock was growing tired of his friend's theories, and sent long glances into the kitchen where he knew Tommy had a coffee machine. “I'm not driving you to Idaho so you can chase after some urban legend."

“It's a phenomenon!" insisted Tommy. “I personally know Wolfdood_93 who did this drawing." With an agitated finger, he tapped a three-panel drawing of a woman transforming from human into wolf. Her breasts grew noticeably larger with each panel. “Dude, this was drawn by some fifteen year-old furry, daydreaming in math class. Are we done yet?"

“This is the last one," promised Tommy and plucked out a single sheet from the still impressive pile of printouts.

Chris McCandless travelled through USA from 1990 until his death in Alaska on September 6, 1992. Most of his journey is well known from his diaries, except for one week in March, 1992. McCandless spent this week in Cobbler 's Dell.

“I rest my case," said Tommy and motioned with his hands to show they were empty.

“That's err… great, Tommy. But how does Chris McCandless fit into your little conspiracy theory?

“They found his diary in Cobbler's Dell. He wrote himself that he needed to leave, otherwise he'd stay forever."

“They?"

“You know… people, on the internet."

Brock sighed.

“They also say it increases your intelligence if you stick two fingers up your nose and blow."

“Come on," pleaded Tommy. “You spent a week covering the Rocky Mountain FurFest in August. The readers loved your article, and that was just a bunch of people in cartoon costumes. This is much bigger - this is REAL, man! "

“Alright! Alright!!" Brock massaged his temples. The air in the apartment was stuffy and he was developing a headache. “I'll go with you to Cobbler's Dell, just to get your ass off-line and into the fresh air."

“Thanks, man."

“But only after I get back from Dubai in two weeks. I'm doing a feature on camel-milk cheese for the business section."

Tommy laughed out loud. “And you complain about MY idea being off the track?"

“It'll be OK," said Brock. “I'm taking Reese with me."

“Reese…Allen?"

“She knows Arabic."

“Plus," added Brock. “She's good company."

Brock rose from his seat. Tommy had gone strangely quiet, and seemed preoccupied with other thoughts.

He's probably aching to get back to playing some online game.

On his way out, Brock noticed a plastic mask on the wall. It resembled a young boy with a faint smile and yellow hair in a spit-curl. “Is this TinTin or what?" When he lifted the mask from its hook, he found a 9mm pistol dangling from the wall behind it.

“You have a fucking Glock in your apartment?"

“Be careful with that one," said Tommy. “It's a rare Fallout 4 promotional mask."

“Screw the mask. Why are you packing heat?"

“Home defense, if someone breaks in."

“You play too many games, dude" said Brock and hung the mask back up.

From the window, Tommy watched Brock get into his car and drive off.

Somebody's playing games, he thought.

But I'm not the one.

Tommy opened Facebook on his computer and clicked Reese 's profile. She had posted a few updates today.

Going undercover in Dubai. Below the post, she had a link to the programme of some dairy conference.

“Third Emirates Dairy conference, 2016 " and a picture of the “ Hotel Al Qasr" where they'd be staying.

Tommy navigated to her pictures folder and found his favorite photo.

He got down on his knees and adjusted the monitor till it was at eye-level, then he unzipped his pants. Slowly he began masturbating to the image of the smiling woman.

Will you love me? He asked the picture of Reese.

Will you love me when I've become a wolf?

---

---

Cobbler's Dell, Idaho ** (March 29, 2016) ***.*

Ian Parks turned the water tab and let out a loud “Whoop!" when the first jet of warm water hit him in the face.

He had connected an antique zinc tub on the first floor of the house he and Therese called “Our Manor" to a portable gas driven water heater. A hole in the bottom connected to a rusty pipe he 'd found in the old silver mine. It extended through a hole in the floor, through the ceiling of - what was once somebody's kitchen, and sprayed out through the head of watering can.

_ _

He chuckled to himself as he shook water from his eyes. Imagine that: the first hot shower in Cobbler 's Dell, constructed from a rusty pipe and a roll of duct tap e. The soapy water sprayed onto the wooden floor and drained away through the cracks between the floorboards. Granted, his invention was imperfect, but it sure beat washing yourself in cold water from the well.

He walked through the “living room" naked, but he didn't mind Therese seeing him in the buff. Not anymore. They'd begun sleeping together for warmth and company, and he concluded that life was pretty good. But one thing kept nagging him: Somebody might still own the rights to the mine and the silver deposits.

“Therese," he called out. “I'm heading down to Coeur d'Alene today."

When she didn't reply, he put on a suit of clean clothes and packed the laundry into bags. Maybe he could construct some kind of washing machine; that would save him the drive to the laundromat in Coeur d 'Alene. He was considering the possibility of mounting a 12V motor to a beer barrel from the saloon, when he heard Therese sobbing softly. He found her in the bedroom; staring into a metal mirror they'd discovered three houses down the street.

“Ian?" her voice was thick and nervous, her eyes wide in near panic.

“There's something wrong with my eyes."

Ian squatted down beside her and looked into her eyes.

“I don't see anything wrong," he said. “Nothing bloodshot or cloudy."

“They are changing color!" she cried. “I've always had green eyes, but they're turning yellow."

She was right - a light ring was forming around both pupils, turning her eyes an unusual shade of yellow hazel.

“Are you sure they weren't always like this?"

“I've had this set of eyes for thirty-three years; I think I know damn well what my eyes look like."

“Can I see your eye-drops?"

Ian studied the plastic vial. “Latanoprost," he said. “It lowers the eye-pressure but it's been known to change the eye color." Ian remembered the fact from med school, but he'd never paid much attention to that particular side effect. Like most Afro-Americans, he had dark brown eyes, and a few extra granules of pigment weren't going to be noticed. He tossed the vial back to her. “That's what it is: a harmless side effect. Just switch to Timolol and you'll be alright."

Ian kissed her on the cheek. “I'm going to the town hall and check out the ownership of the mine. Need anything?"

Therese wiped her eyes and shook her head. “I'll be alright."

When Ian started the jeep, Therese dug into her backpack. She took out the photo from the old school, a photo of a small girl clutching a porcelain doll. Lillie Olsen radiated health and smiled knowingly to the camera, one day before she disappeared.

“What's the secret you're keeping?" whispered Therese, but the girl only looked back at her with odd colored eyes. Therese was used to working with photos and portraits, and there was something unusual about this girl. Therese covered the right half of the girl's face with an empty envelope. The visible left half of Lillie's face was that of a little porcelain angel, her dark gaze innocent like the doll she was holding. Then she covered the left side of the portrait, and she saw a completely different child. Her hair was unruly, the mouth was tight and determined, and the bright eye stared intensely into the camera. This side of Lillie Olsen was no longer an innocent porcelain girl - she was getting ready to attack.

“You were changing too, weren't you?"

When the photo remained silent, Therese sandwiched it between two pages of Fatal Radiance and hid the book in the bottom of her backpack. Ian didn 't believe there was anything to this place, and saw it only as an opportunity to pay his way through med-school.

I will be alright, she thought.

But nothing can stop the change.

---

CONTINUES