Howl of The Wolf

It’s October! In keeping with the season, Maine Crime Writers will share some of the scariest scenes from their work. They will post either in their personal posts or in a group post later in the month. In this post, I’m posting a section of the book I am working on now. It is my second novel featuring Native American Game Warden John Bear. John is a member of the Malaseet tribe (also known as the Wəlastəkwewiyik; I’m glad they shortened that!) of the Algonquin-speaking nation, which starts at the Canadian Maritimes and goes west to Minnesota. John is knowledgeable in Algonquin Myth and religion–including their Gods (called Manitous) and monsters. In the first novel, Wendigo (Finalist for 2018 Maine Literary Award – Crime Fiction Category), John deals with the evilest of Manitous. In the second, he’s taking on a Loup-Garou.

Some Background.

The Loup-Garou is a werewolf on steroids. There are two types of werewolves: the European and the American. The European version is common in Hollywood movies. There are some differences. Most people are familiar with the European, a vicious killer that is dependent on the appearance of the full moon to transform from human to wolf. When a wolf is an animal, it is usually killed with a silver bullet. The Loup-Garou is physically taller than its counterpart and is not moon-dependent. It can transform at will. I see some major differences in that the Loup-Garou can be defeated. Like the movie Werewolf, he can be killed with a silver bullet. However, unlike the European, the Loup-Garou maintains its human memories and human mind. It knows what it is doing and is known to make plans.

Here’s an excerpt from the 1st draft of my novel (working title:Loup-Garou).

Some background

Bethany Moore is a professional musher. She and her sled dogs live on a mountain away from people off-grid. At this point, she has already had a confrontation with the Loup-Garou, who killed her lead dog and ran off with the rest.

1:30 a.m. Bethany Moore’s Place, Violette Settlement, Maine. The wolfman returned to the woman’s den once again. He stood before a window, pressed his snout against the glass, and peered in. The inside was dark. The glow of the ashes burning in the fireplace was so weak it was barely visible. He returned to the yard and circled the empty dog pen. He raised his nose and sampled the air for any source of danger. Finding none, he trotted to the back, surveilling the house’s perimeter as he did.

He found what he sought on the house’s western side: a bulkhead door fastened by a rusted set of hinges. He gripped the metal door by the handle and pulled. The door came free with a loud screech as the rusted nails anchoring the hinges against the wood frame broke free…

 

1:46 a.m. Moore sat up in bed and seemed bewildered. Something had awakened her, but she had no idea what it was. Although groggy from emerging from REM sleep, she sat still, listening. There was noise, ever so slight, coming from the cellar. She grabbed the silver-coated Bowie knife. Its sharp silver-coated blade sparkled in the moonlight from the window, and she slipped out of bed. Moore did not do anything that might alert the source of the sounds. She positioned herself beside the open doorway, leaned back until she was against the wall, and waited.

She heard steps on the creaky stairs leading to the cellar and pulled tight against the wall, making herself as small as possible. She knew that her chances of survival weren’t good. Still, she’d be double goddamned if she’d go down without inflicting damage to her attacker.

The cellar door opened, and she smelled the strong odor of a wild animal. A dark humanoid shadow crept through the threshold. Her breath caught as she saw the silhouette of a large animal—although this one walked upright—like a man. She heard a low growl from deep in its throat and knew Bear had been right when he told her what she was up against.

The dark shadow moved closer.

Moore gripped the knife and raised it above her head.

The shadow crossed the threshold and then stopped. Its nostrils expanded and contracted as it inhaled and exhaled her scent. While it was still confused by something, she struck, driving the blade deep into its back ….

1:50 a.m. The silver-coated blade struck bone, and the wounded werewolf’s howl of pain reverberated through the house. She ripped out the knife and drove it in again. The angered canid spun toward her. Its lips curled, and an aggressive snarl bared its fangs. Moore’s legs seemed to lose all strength when it hunkered down, and a deep, menacing growl came from deep inside its throat. Saliva dripped from the sharp canines and sparkled in the bright moonlight. She could see its eyes flash bright red as it thrashed, trying to reach the source of its agony.

She retreated toward her bed and grabbed the hatchet from the nightstand. The beast ceased trying to remove the knife and turned toward her. It dropped down into an attack position and slowly advanced.

Moore raised the hatchet and, when she believed the wolf was about to attack, drove it into the animal’s back beside the knife handle. The beast jumped back, lost balance, and fell to the floor. The impact extracted the knife, and it spun to face Moore again.

Freed of the agonizing blade, the wolf jumped forward, spun around, and leaped at her throat. It barely missed her, and its jaws shut with a loud SNAP. Driven by fear and anger, she struck again. Moore’s hands were covered in blood, making her grip on the hatchet slippery. The wolf’s sudden movement almost pulled the hatchet from Bethany’s hand, but she tightened her grip, retrieved it, and drove it home again.

This time, the hatchet barely missed the ravenous animal’s skull. The wolf slowly backed toward the door, and she followed, the hatchet raised like a tomahawk. She waved it back and forth, keeping the bloody blade in its line of sight, and slowly walked toward the wolfman.

The beast backed away from the deadly threat and began to change, becoming less of a wolf and more human. When it reached the open cellar door, it was more man than a wolf. Moore’s legs trembled from exertion and fright, yet she stood her ground. She knew from experience with large animals that showing fear would only encourage the beast. She screamed at it, “Back! Back!” At the same time, she raised the hatchet to ward off another attack.

Rather than charge, the animal spun around, darted down the stairs, and disappeared into the black void. She wanted to follow, to ensure it was gone, but her bare foot slipped in a pool of blood. Moore caught her balance, then turned, raced into her bedroom, shut the door, and braced her back against it. She saw a black form run across the moonlit snow through the window across the room.

For at least five minutes, she stayed put. Hearing nothing, she reached down, grabbed the Bowie knife, and ventured out of the bedroom with the knife in one hand and the small ax in the other. Moving slowly, Moore turned on the ceiling light in the hall and saw the bloody footprint where she’d stepped in the pool of blood on the hardwood floor. She cautiously checked the entire house to convince herself the attacker had left.

Satisfied she was alone, she entered her kitchen and turned on a light. She saw blood covering her hands and the front of her nightgown. She ran into the bathroom, ripped the nightie off, and threw it to the floor. She turned on the shower and waited for the water to become so hot it could scorch her. She stepped into the water, grabbed a soap bar, and scoured her hands and forearms. When satisfied that she was as clean as possible, she returned to the bedroom and got a robe.

She returned to the living room, thanked God for the cell tower in Violette Settlement, and called John Bear. When she finished her phone call, she heard a noise from the dog kennel. She was surprised at how clear and loud the slightest sounds were for a brief moment. With the knife in hand, she walked out the door and to the end of the porch. She immediately recognized what she’d heard—her dogs were back in their pen. She approached the enclosure and stopped when she saw her dogs backing away in a submissive posture. It was as if they feared her.

Her feet grew cold in the snow, and she reversed course, returning to the cabin.

The Werewolf who lives with me!