Monsters in the Midwest (Book 2): Northwoods Wolfman (16 page)

Curiosity
piqued, Dallas sat back down and did as instructed. Clearing his throat, he
began to read the entry aloud.

“Twenty-third,
August, eighteen ninety six. This journey has taken a most unusual turn.”

Chapter 22

23
^rd
, August, 1896

This journey has taken a most
unusual turn.

My Ojibwa guide assured me there is
rich trading to be done with French-Canadian trappers near the state’s
northernmost border. ‘Many furs,’ he promised, and so I traverse the wild
expanse of this Wisconsin, braving its multitude of discomforts in hopes of
future riches. While not pleasant, our travels had been uneventful until two
nights prior.

We camped near a swiftly flowing
stream in a small valley. As I reclined on a bed of fallen leaves and a heavy
wool blanket, my mind began to drift. Perhaps, I thought, some industrious
fellow could develop this valley. Spacious lodgings, fine dining, a variety of
entertainers. A haven for weary travelers such as myself. Drifting on the edge
of sleep, I even gave it a name. Wisconsin Dells. It was a pleasant fiction
that was cut short by a most unnatural noise.

Imagine, if you will, a hog in
passionate search of a carrot in a deep, mud-filled trough. That is the only
image that can even remotely do justice to the sound. While I am not perhaps
the most stalwart of adventurers, I am still a proud man and refused to cry
out. Instead, I lay quietly, cracking my eyes to peer out upon the moonlit
expanse of our modest campsite. Expecting a wild animal, I instead saw a child
by the water’s edge.

Rising from my makeshift bed, I
moved toward the stream and called out softly, “Hello, are you lost?”

As I drew closer, I realized it was
no ordinary child. What child wears beaver furs adorned with leaves and
pinecones and walks by itself through the woods at night? What child has
leathery skin and a full beard? If it was a child, I was suddenly quite
sympathetic toward the parents’ decision to abandon it in the woods. Such an
ugly creature!

Seeing me, it spoke, but the words
meant nothing. Just a collection of sounds like pebbles falling on still water,
like rain on a canvas tarp. My confusion must have shown on my face, for the
little creature grinned and spoke again in perfect English.

“Hello,” it said. “Only children,
simpletons, or medicine men are able to see me. Are you a child?”

It was such a strange question, I
couldn’t help but answer.

“I’m Reginald. Purveyor of wondrous
curements for dreadful ailments and potent panaceas for persistent pains.”

“Ah. A simple medicine man. So.”

An awkward pause followed before
finally I asked, “So, what?”

A twig snapped, and the ugly
thing’s bright eyes looked toward the sound.

“I must go, Reginald. Here. Take
this.”

It plucked a freshwater leech from
its leg and held it out between two grubby fingers.

“It has feasted on my blood. It
might help someone. Or not. Just like the rest of your ‘potent panaceas.’”

A spark of indignation was quickly
quashed by curiosity. Taking the leech in my shaking hand, I transferred it to
a damp leaf, applied a dollop of mud, and wrapped the leech up securely.

“Thank you,” I managed.

“Thank you,” the thing replied
before hopping into the water and vanishing beneath the surface. Soon, a few concentric
ripples reflecting the moon’s light were the only remaining evidence of its
existence.

At that moment, my Ojibwa guide
stepped through the brush.

“Who is here?” he asked.

Haltingly, I started to explain the
ugly, bearded child. As I spoke, my guide’s normally stern face folded into a
terrified mask.

“Memegwesi?” he asked.

Not having the faintest idea what
he’d said, I shrugged. My lack of understanding must have been plain, for he
continued.

“You say,” he groped for the word,
“spirit. Dangerous. Tricks. It give you a…?” again, he struggled for the right
word. “A gift?”

I’d never seen my guide so
distraught, which suddenly and firmly convinced me that the leech I’d received
could be immensely valuable.

I managed a smile and a shrug.

“No,” I lied easily. “It made some
strange noises and vanished into the stream.”

In the ensuing two days, my guide
has barely spoken to me. I suspect he knows I have a secret, but I honestly
don’t care.

***

30
^th
, August, 1896

Where to begin? Oh, Mable. Where to
even begin?

We arrived at the trading camp on
the Wolf River three days ago. I was well received by the French-Canadian
trappers that call this small gathering of tents and semi-permanent sheds home.
While modest, it was a remarkable improvement from my complete lack of
accommodations thus far. There was even some discussion of it becoming a formal
township. I suggested it be called Trapperstown, but my suggestion was met with
laughter and shaking heads.

Overall, the trappers are a jovial
lot and expressed an instant interest in my wares. By the end of my first day
at camp, I had amassed a significant credit for fresh pelts. Settling into an
actual tent (oh what bliss!), I opened a penny dreadful, sipped on rough
Canadian whiskey, and eventually slept. A more auspicious start to my venture I
could not have hoped for.

That is, a more auspicious start to
my venture I could not have hoped for, until I was robbed.

I awoke the next morning to find my
chest of medicinals vandalized. Someone had snuck in during the night, and no
less than five of my vials were gone, including the one I had stored the small
leech in. Short moments later, I heard screaming.

“Vous devez venir! Venez vite!”

I burst from my tent, looking for
someone to translate the commotion.

“Come quickly,” a burly trapper
said, frowning and moving toward a ragged tent on the far side of camp. I
hurried to match his long strides.

Arriving at the tent, the man who’d
called for help stood back and held the flap open. The first thing I saw was
one of my missing vials, empty and discarded on the dirt floor of the tent. I
confess, I felt a tingle of glee. Of the missing vials, one was a potent
diarrhetic. Bursting into the tent, I prepared to give the thief what-for and
laugh at his misfortune. However, I quickly realized that what I saw was not a
man writhing with pained bowels. Instead, what I saw was man-sized and
man-shaped, but was most decidedly not a man.

His skin had turned a glistening
grey-brown, striped and patterned with black lines and closely spaced dots. His
arms and legs bent and twisted like four snakes all trying to flee the torso in
different directions. No human appendages could ever move in such a fashion.
Most alarming was the fellow’s face. As I watched, his eyes sank into the
grey-brown, mottled skin, nose following closely behind. His mouth stretched
into a near perfect circle. Such a thing should not be possible, but after
seeing his writhing limbs, my brain did not challenge the obvious reshaping of
his jaw and cheeks. Some teeth had already fallen out and more were following.
At the same time, row upon circular row of sharply pointed, glistening fangs
pushed out in their place. Even the poor fellow’s tongue was changing into a
fleshy proboscis, round and hollow and lashing back and forth.

I swear, Mable. Each word I write
is God’s own truth. I stood transfixed by the horror, unable to move or make a
sound. Despite all rational thought insisting the contrary, I was witnessing
the transformation of a man into a man-sized leech. It bucked and twisted and
flopped onto its belly. Moving like a collection of water snakes but with a
speed that belied its size and assumed awkwardness, the monster slithered out
of the tent. Men screamed and jumped out of its path as it pushed its way
through the camp and toward the river. Reaching the banks, it plunged into the
water and disappeared from sight.

Shaken to the core, I scanned the
water, trying to find some indication of where the poor trapper-turned-monster
had gone, but saw nothing. Nothing, that is, except a small, huddled shape on
the far bank. There, blending almost perfectly with the rocks and mud, was the
Memegwesi. It looked directly at me and waved in a manner that I can only
describe as congenial before it too slipped into the water and was gone.

Chapter 23

“Lemme
get this straight,” Dallas said, closing the journal. “Jerry’s great-granddaddy
was a travelling salesman, he met a meme-whatsit, transported some magical
leech across Wisconsin, and accidentally turned some poor guy into a monster? Come
on, Lois. That’s ridiculous. What are the odds of that happening?”

Lois
just shrugged. “Think about it, Dallas. That journal is over one hundred years
old, and it tells us that, even then, there were supernatural creatures
interacting with people right here, right where we live today. Also, it wasn’t
just a fluke. Reginald’s Native American guide knew about the Memegwesi, so
their people must’ve had contact with them for generations.”

“Right,
which is why the Society exists. We kill ‘em dead, no offense Herb.”

“It’s
okay, Dallas. I mean, it wouldn’t have been, but Lois brought me back, and
we’re gonna get me my body back too, so we’re good,”
Herb replied, tinny voice chipper
with anticipation.

Dallas
looked hard at Lois. “What’s he talking about, getting his body back?”

Lois
hurried over to a bookshelf against the far wall and retrieved a large, black
book with metal bindings, excitement plain in every step.

“It’s
all in here. It’s where I learned the spell to reclaim the spirit of a lost
one. If Herb still had a body, I could have put his spirit right back into it
and brought him back to life. Pretty great, right?”

Lois
started to flip through the pages.

“See?
It’s old English, so it reads a little funny, but it really is like a recipe.
Take the flesh, usually the body of the deceased, and place it in the circle
with an object precious to the deceased. Everything else is just ingredients in
the right amounts at the right time, a few arcane symbols,” she pointed at the
strange geometric shapes drawn on the surface of the coffee table, “and the
right incantations. In Herb’s case, all I had was some ash from the karaoke
bar, so I had to find a vessel for his spirit and something precious. As it
turned out, Milwaukee’s Best was precious to Herb, and the can was the perfect
size to hold a soul.”

“You
know me, Dal. I’ve loved that beer since I was old enough to reach the top of
the bar,”
Herb
added.

“So,”
Lois continued. “I put his ashes in the can, stoppered it with wax, and
anchored his spirit within. Not ideal, I know.”

“Could
be worse. At least now I don’t have to worry about matching my socks.”

Lois
smiled. “But it would still be nice to get you back into a body.” Looking back
to Dallas, she pleaded with her eyes.

“I
know this is a lot to take in, but I really can bring Herb all the way back. I
just need a body. According to the spell, it doesn’t even really matter what
body. The spirit will shape it when it is returned.”

Dallas
exhaled slowly. “For real? Like, for real for real? You can make Herb Herb
again?” He looked at the beer can on the table that held his best friend and
fought back tears.

“Herby,
does that mean it could be like it was? You, me, Stanley, drinking beers and
bowling, and everything could be normal again?”

“Oh
heck yeah,”
Herb replied.
“I
mean, pretty much, yeah. Just like it was before, um. Mostly. I guess.”

Dallas
frowned. “Whadaya mean ‘mostly?’ What’s the catch?”

“Ah,
well. Hmmm. Well, there’s Lois, you know. I mean, me and her, we’re a thing,
now, so there’d be that,”
Herb started, causing Dallas to laugh.

“You
got nothing to worry about. I’m not going to try and steal your girl. Hell, you
two have earned each other, that’s a fact. I swear, Big D won’t get in the
way.”

“How
very generous of you,” Lois remarked dryly.

“Well,
that’s good. Um, real good, Dallas. The other thing is... So, you and Stanley
can definitely drink those beers up. As much as you want. Me, though... Well,
here’s the thing. When Lois brings me all the way back, I’m still gonna be a
vampire, Dallas. Same rules. No sun, no church bake sales, and I’m gonna have
to, you know, drink blood.”

At
the mention of blood, Dallas felt his face suffuse with it. As his face
reddened, his quick temper flared.

“No,
no, no! No way. Lois, what the hell? You said you could bring back Herb.
Herb,
not a vampire!”

“Dallas,
that’s who Herb is.”

“No.
Just shut up. Shut the hell up, both of you,” Dallas snapped, running his hands
through his hair.

“I
can’t believe this. Herb’s a vampire, you’re a witch, and now you’re a witch
that wants to bring back a vampire. What’s next? You gonna bring some zombies
over from the local cemetery and let ‘em snack on our brains? Maybe get a
werewolf from the local pound? Moses on a molehill, Lois! This is insane!”

Panic
drove Dallas toward the door and away from Lois’s pleas.

“I’m
sorry, Lois, but that’s it. You and Herb, you gotta get out of town. I can buy
you a day, maybe two, but Colton’s gonna find out about this. You pretty much
guaranteed that when you started flinging spells at Tia.”

“She
started it,” Lois protested, but Dallas wasn’t hearing it.

“So
pack your shit,” he continued. “Toss Herb in your purse and leave. If you’re
still here in a few days, there’s gonna be hell to pay, Lois. Hell. To. Pay.”

Dallas
slammed the door behind him and practically ran to his truck. Revving the
engine, he whipped a tight U-turn and sped for the highway, for his house, for
his waiting bottles and flasks. He’d killed Herb once and might have to do it
again. Lois, too, if she didn’t shape the hell up. It wasn’t a thought he could
face sober.

Pressing
down on the accelerator, he tried to outrun his thoughts. Night had fallen
while he was at Lois’s. The dashed lines of the highway were caught in his
headlights and sped past in a blur as he raced toward home. When he reached his
house, he stormed inside, a thundercloud of confused rage. What was he supposed
to do? Pushing his way into his kitchen, he rummaged through the detritus of
bachelor life, looking for a beer or bottle of whiskey. The fridge was unacceptably
empty, and the countertops only held a collection of empty bottles and cans.

“Figures,”
he griped aloud. “Of all the times a fella needed a drink, now’s a helluva time
to run dry.”

Leaning
back against the counter, he looked around the room in search of inspiration
when his eyes landed on a mason jar. Picking it up, he looked at the small wood
tick inside.

“I’d
forgotten about you, ya little jackass.” Holding it up for a better look, he
contemplated the bug inside. “So what would you do, huh? Any advice for your
old buddy Dal?”

As
if in response, the tick started to quiver and shake. Dallas peered at it,
perplexed. The little bug seemed to be rippling, and its eight legs bent and
twitched. As he watched, its torso bloated like a tiny balloon, and small, dark
hairs began popping out across its back.

“What
in the hell?” he managed to wonder aloud before a sledgehammer slugged him in
the gut.

For
a moment, Dallas was sure someone had just shot him with a Colt .45. Dropping
the jar, he clutched his stomach and cried out in surprise at the sudden and
unexpected pain. Pulling up his shirt, he started to frantically look for the
bullet hole he was sure must be there. Dragging his hands across his abdomen,
he experienced a short moment of relief when no bloody hole was discovered. The
relief was short-lived though. As his fingernails raked across his flesh, they
left deep, bloody gashes in their wake. Crying out again in response to this
new and equally unexpected pain, he pulled his hands up. His fingernails were
lengthening as he watched, growing into yellowed, pointed claws. The hair on
his arms was darkening, thickening, and getting longer. Losing control of his
hands, he watched them bend forward and back while his wrists made sickening
popping sounds.

Groaning
in agony, he doubled over and landed hard on his hands and knees on the kitchen
floor. His back arched convulsively, and he felt each vertebrae snap. His eyes
roved wildly, looking at everything and seeing nothing, until they landed on
the Mason jar he’d dropped. Inside, the tiny wood tick arched and writhed, a
tiny parody of his own torment.

“What
the hell is happenaaaaaarrrrrrghhh?” he moaned as invisible hooks snagged his
cheeks and pulled until his jaw snapped, sending lances of pain spidering
across his face and down his neck.

“Wha
wha wha wha,” he chuffed in agony. Back arching again, he heard fabric rip and
felt his shirt and jeans loosen. Still looking at the Mason jar, his vision
warped and shifted. Colors were fading, but the myriad of shadows cast by the
overhead light were sharpening. Swiveling his head in an unnatural way, he
looked at his arms, at the strange, clawed paws that used to be his hands. The
pain reached a blinding crescendo, and Dallas’s blacked out.

A smell roused him. As his mind
pulled into focus, Dallas realized it wasn’t just a single smell but an entire
spectrum of smells. Clarity followed the coalescing of his thoughts, and he
realized he’d been aware of those infinite layers of scents for quite a while.
Now, however, he knew that what he was able to smell was far beyond what he
should be able to smell.

That small fact noted, he began to
prowl. The objects of his environment were strange, unfamiliar things. Hard
angles and clean lines delineated the smells into compartments that seemed
contrary to nature. It was frustrating, so he moved toward where the smells
were more familiar.

A thud on his snout brought him up
short. Snuffling, he extended a paw and pressed. A flat surface that he
couldn’t see blocked him from the forest that was so close it threatened to
overwhelm him with its nearness. Everything he wanted was right there. Why
couldn’t he move toward it?

Pressing his snout to the barrier,
he inhaled a mix of odors that irritated his nostrils.

Windex, some small part of him
noted. Grease and graphite. Plastic, metal.

Frustrated, he chuffed to clear his
nose of the unwanted smells. He wanted to be in the forest. Why couldn’t he be
in the forest?

It’s a door. A sliding glass door.
I need to open it.

Claws raked across the unseen
barrier, and Dallas cringed at the resulting noise. Turning in a tight circle,
he raised his paw again and swiped at the unseen annoyance. Another screech
rent his ears, and he answered with an angry howl.

I need to use the... handle. Door
handle.

Curved claws started to scratch and
scrabble. Wind and wood and earth and food were so close. Dropping down to all
fours, he scratched with renewed fervor, trying to dig his way forward.

No. This isn’t right. It’s a door.
A door! I just need to open the door.

Whining, Dallas abandoned trying to
dig and simply rushed toward the woods he needed to be in. A cacophony of
sounds and he was free! The force of his movement through the... the...

Door. Shit. I just smashed through
a glass door. My door. Why would I do that? What’s wrong with me?

Impulse and a fierce hunger drove
him onward. The fresh grass beneath his paws turned to fallen twigs and drying
leaves as he moved into the trees. A joyous howl sounded out. He was here. This
was his territory. Rising up on his hind legs, he placed one, then a second
forepaw against a tree and let loose a warm stream.

Mine. All mine.