BY DR. AGONSON
In the darkening daylight of evening a cool mist fell. We stood on the top of a rocky hill, the rolling landscape fading from view under the gentle veil of rain. The subtle rises of the wooded knolls peeked through the white fog, and the evergreens stood like the dark shadows of giants; the chill of the breeze touched my face, and the soft drone of the rain played its sweet and dreamy din.
We faced each other. I could see the steam rising off him. His dark eyes were locked on me, their intense expression betraying his fear. His damp bangs sent a trickle down his face. I opened my shotgun, retrieving my spent cartridges.
“The hardest part,” I said reloading, “was believing. I put all the pieces together, added it up again and again, and do you know what that jigsaw revealed?” He stood there silently, his fists balling up. “I didn’t want it to be you.” Still, he didn’t answer. I sighed. “You’ve no alibi, not for the first killing, not for the second, and not for the third. That’s a piece. Motive? No one could find any. Some still think it’s not a man, what with the claw marks. The claw marks. I found your shirt all torn up, thrown out. Figured teen angst until I saw the similarity. You throw out that shirt of that band you were always on about, and it’s got the same claw marks that the victims have. Weird, and another piece. You were always into playing evil, playing. What with the metal bands and your obsession with horror. It hit me one day: This was all very much like the movies you love. What did that one headline say, ‘The Miscatony Werewolf’? A small piece, a meaningless piece, but it kept fitting. Other things too. You were connected with the victims. I mean, it is a small town, and everybody’s connected to everybody, but as I went over it again and again, I saw on the list your school counselor, that bully Larkins you fought with, and Loran. Why Loran? She was sweet on you. Had a crush on you for years. So many things started pointing at you.”
“Is that all you have,” he rasped.
“It was enough to look deeper, to start asking questions. Why’d you come up here?”
“Just out for a walk,” he said.
“Out for a walk ten miles from home the night of a full moon a little before dark? Your parents know you’re out?”
“They don’t care,” he spat.
“I think they do. Your dad talks about you all the time.”
“Complaining.”
“Worrying. Trying to connect. And he brags about you too. Says you’re the smartest kid he knows.” He looks away. “But coming here, that wasn’t smart. I suppose you had to, though. You overheard me talking to your father. He’s the only one I told where I was going, except I know you weren’t playing music on those headphones. Just had them on so we wouldn’t notice you.”
“Why would I follow you out here?”
“Because I dangled in front of you something I hoped you wouldn’t understand. Because I told your dad that Mr. Hensley had shown me some photographs.”
“Who?” he asked, trying to smile.
“An upset rancher. We all forgot about his complaints when the murders started. But he took pictures on his phone. Wanted me to see who was killing his cows.”
“Probably just an animal.”
“Maybe the same one been killing folks. Maybe, you worried I recognized some kid who needed a haircut. That last piece of the puzzle.”
“What do a bunch of cows have to do with the murders?” he asked.
“Well,” I said, turning from him to look down into the valley. It was encased in mist, and I could not see the bottom. “M.O. for one—the same claw marks, the same senseless butchery—and when the one started the other ended. I dare say, a fellow might have to work up to murdering a man, start with animals, and if he wants to make it look like an animal attack, maybe he wants to practice on cows first, make sure that’s what people will think when they find the bodies. But people look a bit closer into the deaths of people than the deaths of cows.”
I stopped talking. Mixed with the lulling of the rain, the familiar chortle of birds filled the air with nature’s evensong, and the clean aroma of the fog filled my nose like the incense from a censer. These wild rituals heralded the oncoming night which was falling like a veil over the sky.
“The real evidence I needed, though, were the claws, whatever you’re using to mutilate the bodies. I figured, if you’d follow me out here, you’d be wanting to use them.”
He lifted his hands with a shrug. “Does it look like I’m carrying any claws?”
I glanced at him. The kid was hardly dressed. His shirt was sleeveless and thin, a workout shirt, clinging to his lithe, young frame. He had thrown on some sweatpants which were so heavy with the rain they were sliding down his waist. He had had sense enough to throw on a jacket, black denim, something of that punk motif he usually wore decorated with sundry patches.
“Where’s your car?” I asked.
“Didn’t drive.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Then how’d you get here?”
“I ran.”
“Ten miles? Hard to believe.”
“I’m stronger and faster than you can imagine,” he declared, his voice dropping to a growl.
“Where are the claws?”
“You want to see my claws?”
He had thrown his jacket off into the mud, and I watched as his shoulders began to bulge, growing larger and larger. His pale skin soon disappeared under a spreading mesh of hair, and the nails of his hands turned black, pressing out from his fingertips, lengthening into deadly razors. He grabbed at the thin shirt he was wearing and tore it off, shredding it like the other shirt I had found. I looked up into his face. His teeth had grown, and his mouth with it, extending out into an animalistic snout.
The monster, standing upon its hind legs, arched its back and lifted its face up into the heavens, letting loose a dreadful howl—a howl cut short by the explosion of my gun. I unloaded both barrels into the boy’s chest, sending a fiery wave of silver buckshot into the monstrous wolf.
He was thrown off his feet, landing on his back. He lay upon the wet gravel stones, a low moan escaping his snout. I opened my shotgun and pulled out the spent shells, burning my fingers a little. Casting them aside, I took a few careful steps toward the beast while reaching into my pocket for a fresh load. There was no need for it. As I came to his side, he let out a little, broken gasp, his body shuddered a moment, and he was still.
“The hardest part was believing,” I whispered over the werewolf corpse.
I looked up over the hills and saw the glow of the full moon hidden behind the ever present fog. She was close to the horizon, and shone out with a yellow, dreamy light. Half obscured by the trees, she cast strange shadows through the misty vale. The distant clouds were saturated with her soft luminance like they might burst over us and pour out her bright tears upon the earth. Below, the nocturnal cries of unseen animals rose from the shadowed forest; above, the clouds broke, and the bright showers fell.
Tale Told 