Untitled werewolf story

Let me start at the beginning. I’m Native American, from a plains tribe you’ve probably never heard of. And ever since I was little my dad would always tell me and my brothers “we have magic in our blood son.” I never really knew what that meant. As we got older and learned more from our elders, we learned that “medicine” was a thing in our culture. Good medicine and bad medicine. Or “magic” from a generic perspective. And *only* certain families could use it. 

When I was 13 my dad set me aside to tell me something. I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but hey, if I don’t survive today then I must tell someone. He said “we have a sacred medicine bundle in our family. I can’t tell you more, but the medicines power requires me to tell each of my sons to offer it to them. Please don’t take it, don’t even think about it. But some day, you’ll have to have this same conversation with your sons.” I politely declined the offer as he suggested and went on my way with a giant “question mark” over my head that lingered for a long time. I think it’s safe to assume he told all of my brothers the same thing, including my youngest brother who’s 10 years younger than me from a different mother of whom I haven’t talked to either in the better part of two decades.

That leads me to the next part of my story. 

There was a serial killer in my home town when I was a kid. 

Actually, the town didn’t even know there was a serial killer. Or maybe they were just in denial and whenever they heard someone else was killed, they were just like “thank god it wasn’t me this time.”

At first they were all under the impression there was a rabid cougar, or huge wild coyote that for some reason was tearing people to shreds. In their own beds. Or in their cars on the way home from work. Or at the school late at night. 

The summer of my 6th grade year was the summer all the killings started. The first kill was after the Memorial Day pow wow. Some poor drum singer got drunk, wandered off into the woods by the pow wow grounds and the next day his body was found absolutely mangled. Like, his face was eaten off. And his insides were rearranged like if you put a kitchen mixer in someone’s stomach and just let the sucker run like it was mashing potatoes. Well, that was the rumor anyway. My uncle was a part of the BIA (Bureau of Indian Affairs) and was first to the scene and I overheard him describe it that way to my dad. 

The second kill was during July 4th. Our small town is one of the few in the state that don’t have a “no firework law” in place. So during Independence Day, it’s basically a war zone.  I say all that because as everyone was looking at the sky and dodging artillery shell debris, the town Sheriff was found in his car where he’d normally park to “watch traffic”. Really he would drink and fall asleep with the speed gun on and when it went off, he’d pull over whatever poor Indian decided to cross his path that day. 

He was found in his car in the drivers seat, the passengers seat, on the windshield, the back seat, the ceiling, etc. You know, in pieces. 

One kill is a tragedy, the second is a coincidence. The third though, that is the one that made the town go into a full panic. During the first week of school sometime in August, the football coach at the high school was found dead on the football field. He was found on the 50 yard line. And the 30, and the 10, and the end zone. Touchdown?… Okay that was dark, sorry. I’m headed either to my death right now or life in prison. I’m going to make a few jokes here and there.

The small town folk hopped in their trucks with shot guns, baseball bats and pitchforks and went “hunting” for some large animal. They killed lots of animals. But none of them THE killer. The beast. 

And the killings happened Again. And again. And again. 

12 times in fact. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason why killer picked the people he or she picked. Well, that’s what the news papers said. 

For a while, the town hid the killings. Mainly because it’s a small little “touristy” town and they didn’t want to lose their income from white folks that drove in from the city. 

They never found the killer. But there were rumors. The rumors were that it wasn’t a knifed serial killer, but indeed a werewolf. You know, a full moon howling werewolf. A creature of the night. A lycan. Whatever you want to call it. 

The killings stopped right around the time my dad died. I never put 2 and 2 together. 

I moved far away from that small town in college and never went back. Except for this trip back home. 

I’m writing now because the killings have started again. Same town, same place. Except a new batch of victims.  Some I know, some I don’t. But the killing style is the exact same as it was 20 years ago. I can’t help but wonder, who is doing it?

It was years later when I was at a pow wow, when I sat across a fire from one of my distant uncles. He asked me whatever happened to that medicine, I pretended not to know anything about it. He said “it’s powerful. Whenever you call upon it, it will come to find you.” I sat and stared at him and asked one question. “What does it give the user the power to do?”

He sat and stared at the fire, drank from his flask and said “to transform into an animal, a beast... a demon.”

I didn’t ask any questions. But it all the sudden clicked for me. My dad. My dad was the beast that killed all those people. It would take too long to explain the fact that all these people somehow deserved it, there is so much more to the story than people realize. 

But the killings now are good people. And I know who’s doing it. 

I’m going to kill my little brother today. 

A horror short story by Cary Thomas Cody

#summerween