Werewolf At The Door
Picking A Werewolf's Pocket Can Be Pretty Scary.
God Bless the small towns of America! Like this one, a pinprick on the map of the Michigan, yet just as fascinating as any block of New York City.
The wife and I are tired and want to bed down for the night. We have two choices: Hickory Grove B&B Guest House, or Jasper's Overnight Lodging.
The first is a Victorian manor, painted in bright colors, with a wrap-around porch, decorative artwork and lacing, and a front door out of the pages of 19th century America.
The second is a long concrete building, one level, with a baker's dozen front doors arcing across the facade like a bad set of teeth. It needs paint, decor, and sign age. A black hand-drawn arrow on a piece of cardboard nailed to a stick points to the office.
The town is just a cluster of buildings on the plain. By the time your vehicle shifts from first gear to second you have gone from one end to the other. A gas station with one pump that also serves as the convenience store. A cafe with curtains spread halfway across the front window. An old house that houses a library of paperback books, as well as the towns offices. No police station. No fire department. Maybe a couple hundred residents.
So we entered the Hickory Grove Guest House, all dark mahogany, yellow and pink pastel paint, and a big smoked glass chandelier in the dining room. Our room was more than adequate, with a large wood-post bed, private bathroom, and a dresser with mirror.
The owner of the Hickory Grove Guest House is Charlotte Anderson, we learned from her. She runs it by herself with the help of an 18-year-old son nicknamed "Kicker." When we checked in Kicker was sitting in the kitchen, gray hooded sweatshirt up, whittling a tree branch to a sharp point with a knife that looked more like a weapon than a pocket piece.
"Oh, he hunts frogs, down by the creek," Ms. Anderson said, noticing my curiosity. She then pulled the door to the kitchen shut.
Dinner was a challenge, but the cafe was open for iced tea, cold sandwiches, and potato chips.
With so little to do, we found it especially relaxing, and went to bed early. Around one o'clock in the morning I sensed that a hand was touching the doorknob to our bedroom. The intruder-to-be was a little clumsy and must have butted the door with his shoe. Alerted, I saw in the faint moonlight the door handle turn so slightly and slowly that I marveled at the patience of this intruder-to-be. When the door knob had been turned all the way, the intruder-to-be found the door deadbolt latched. I heard a deep frustrated breath coming from outside the door. The knob returned to rest, but I didn't. I went to the window overlooking the front porch. A figure exited down the front stairs and onto the sidewalk. I could not identify the person because of a gray hooded sweatshirt.
At breakfast, after the other guests left the dining room, I mentioned the incident to the wife.
"Honestly, I did not hear a thing. Oh, I may have heard you get up to go to the bathroom," the wife said. "But that was it. I was out."
"I suspect the owner's son, Kicker," I said. "That gray hooded sweatshirt he was wearing when we got here. It looked like the intruder-to-be was wearing the same sweatshirt."
The wife was distracted by her iPhone.
"Victor," she said, looking directly at my eyes. "A full moon is due tonight." She acted disgusted. I can understand her dismay. Living with a werewolf can be a little, shall we say, frustrating.
"I'm glad we are leaving."
"Maybe we shouldn't," I said.
My name is Victor Talbot. I come from a long line of werewolf's. Larry may come to mind, if you watched him in the 1941 movie. It used to be a curse; now it is more of an annoyance. When the hoofs come out, the bristly hair grows, and the sharp claws extend, I simply occupy the moments until sunrise by reading a good book, usually by Stephen King. Thankfully, the prowling, the thirst for prey, has been refined out of the werewolf culture.
"I've got an idea," I said to the wife. "Maybe we will set up a little scare fest for our intruder-to-be."
The wife: "You and your desire to scare people."
Me: "It seems to come with the territory."
We booked another night. This time, I did not deadbolt the door to our bedroom. As midnight approached, the full moon dipped its bright light into our room, the wife said, "Go ahead. I'm ready."
At midnight, exactly as it flashed on my iPhone, the hoofs began their ascendancy; the nails grew into claws; and my clean-shaven face turned frightfully ugly with bristly hair that extended down my back, out my pajama sleeves and pant legs. Then came the breath; not the sweet human breath that I had after gargling with mouthwash; but the breath of a wild beast, hot and foaming, slathering, the breath of a wild wolf that had just eaten its prey.
Shortly after one o'clock in the morning, I heard a footstep onto the staircase. The intruder-to-be was quiet and I did not hear anything else until the hand touched the doorknob. Quickly I moved to a corner. The knob turned, ever so slowly, then the door moved, startlingly at first, then gradually and evenly. The intruder moved into the room with command and confidence, noticing my slacks hanging over the chair. The hood of his gray sweatshirt covered his face. But his hands moved quickly to extract my wallet from its pocket, pull out the bills, and quietly put it back into its pocket.
During this brief time I moved behind the intruder, and when the time was ripe, slammed the door shut and turned on the lights.
The intruder was in fact Kicker. He not only was startled by the door slamming and the lights coming on, but when he saw the werewolf blocking his only exit, his face flattened like a pancake, his lungs took in a huge gulp of air, his tongue shot out like a spongy missile, and his eyes glowed like electric hotplates.
Killing frogs may not turn his stomach, but facing a werewolf whose breath would extinguish a campfire, was too much. He collapsed in a bundle of clothing, the few dollar bills floating around the room.
The wife was sitting up in bed, shaking her head. "did he deserve that, victor?"
I opened the door, and pulled his body out into the hallway, spread him out on his back, and left him there. he was breathing.
This werewolf "costume" makes it hard to get comfortable in a bed, so I grabbed a Stephen king book and sat down in the old goose neck rocker to read until the full moon went down and the sun came up. once a month, every month. The wife turned out the main lights and went to sleep.
Sunrise, according to my iphone, is set for 5:02. Shortly before that I heard the intruder rustle around a bit, coming to life. He crawled down the stairs head first as fast as he could.
We went down for breakfast at 7:30. I didn't get much sleep and hadn't yet shaven.
The owner, ms. Anderson, appeared at our table, with her son, kicker, in the distance behind her.
She seemed not to know where to start. She turned to look at kicker.
"Was there a disturbance last night," She asked us.
"What kind of a disturbance?"
She again turned to the background to look at her son.
"A wild animal type of disturbance. A large stray dog. a wolf."
"Do you have wolves in this area?"
"Not that I know of."
"We can't say that we did witness anything like that. Is everything alright?"
"My son said he was in the hallway and was attacked by a wild animal with long claws and a face full of hair."
"What was he doing in the hallway?"
With that, Ms. Anderson thanked us for our visit, and turned away.
In the background, going into the kitchen, we saw them arguing.
As we checked out, Ms. Anderson thanked us again, and said, "I hope the incident with my son doesn't prevent you from a return visit."
"We'll do you one better," I said, business-like. "The next time your son sees a wolf in the hotel, please call us. we would like to see it."
The wife laughed. the hotel owner laughed. Peeking out the kitchen door it was obvious that her son kicker was not laughing. In fact, his eyes still glowed like electric hot plates.
The wife and I are tired and want to bed down for the night. We have two choices: Hickory Grove B&B Guest House, or Jasper's Overnight Lodging.
The first is a Victorian manor, painted in bright colors, with a wrap-around porch, decorative artwork and lacing, and a front door out of the pages of 19th century America.
The second is a long concrete building, one level, with a baker's dozen front doors arcing across the facade like a bad set of teeth. It needs paint, decor, and sign age. A black hand-drawn arrow on a piece of cardboard nailed to a stick points to the office.
The town is just a cluster of buildings on the plain. By the time your vehicle shifts from first gear to second you have gone from one end to the other. A gas station with one pump that also serves as the convenience store. A cafe with curtains spread halfway across the front window. An old house that houses a library of paperback books, as well as the towns offices. No police station. No fire department. Maybe a couple hundred residents.
So we entered the Hickory Grove Guest House, all dark mahogany, yellow and pink pastel paint, and a big smoked glass chandelier in the dining room. Our room was more than adequate, with a large wood-post bed, private bathroom, and a dresser with mirror.
The owner of the Hickory Grove Guest House is Charlotte Anderson, we learned from her. She runs it by herself with the help of an 18-year-old son nicknamed "Kicker." When we checked in Kicker was sitting in the kitchen, gray hooded sweatshirt up, whittling a tree branch to a sharp point with a knife that looked more like a weapon than a pocket piece.
"Oh, he hunts frogs, down by the creek," Ms. Anderson said, noticing my curiosity. She then pulled the door to the kitchen shut.
Dinner was a challenge, but the cafe was open for iced tea, cold sandwiches, and potato chips.
With so little to do, we found it especially relaxing, and went to bed early. Around one o'clock in the morning I sensed that a hand was touching the doorknob to our bedroom. The intruder-to-be was a little clumsy and must have butted the door with his shoe. Alerted, I saw in the faint moonlight the door handle turn so slightly and slowly that I marveled at the patience of this intruder-to-be. When the door knob had been turned all the way, the intruder-to-be found the door deadbolt latched. I heard a deep frustrated breath coming from outside the door. The knob returned to rest, but I didn't. I went to the window overlooking the front porch. A figure exited down the front stairs and onto the sidewalk. I could not identify the person because of a gray hooded sweatshirt.
At breakfast, after the other guests left the dining room, I mentioned the incident to the wife.
"Honestly, I did not hear a thing. Oh, I may have heard you get up to go to the bathroom," the wife said. "But that was it. I was out."
"I suspect the owner's son, Kicker," I said. "That gray hooded sweatshirt he was wearing when we got here. It looked like the intruder-to-be was wearing the same sweatshirt."
The wife was distracted by her iPhone.
"Victor," she said, looking directly at my eyes. "A full moon is due tonight." She acted disgusted. I can understand her dismay. Living with a werewolf can be a little, shall we say, frustrating.
"I'm glad we are leaving."
"Maybe we shouldn't," I said.
My name is Victor Talbot. I come from a long line of werewolf's. Larry may come to mind, if you watched him in the 1941 movie. It used to be a curse; now it is more of an annoyance. When the hoofs come out, the bristly hair grows, and the sharp claws extend, I simply occupy the moments until sunrise by reading a good book, usually by Stephen King. Thankfully, the prowling, the thirst for prey, has been refined out of the werewolf culture.
"I've got an idea," I said to the wife. "Maybe we will set up a little scare fest for our intruder-to-be."
The wife: "You and your desire to scare people."
Me: "It seems to come with the territory."
We booked another night. This time, I did not deadbolt the door to our bedroom. As midnight approached, the full moon dipped its bright light into our room, the wife said, "Go ahead. I'm ready."
At midnight, exactly as it flashed on my iPhone, the hoofs began their ascendancy; the nails grew into claws; and my clean-shaven face turned frightfully ugly with bristly hair that extended down my back, out my pajama sleeves and pant legs. Then came the breath; not the sweet human breath that I had after gargling with mouthwash; but the breath of a wild beast, hot and foaming, slathering, the breath of a wild wolf that had just eaten its prey.
Shortly after one o'clock in the morning, I heard a footstep onto the staircase. The intruder-to-be was quiet and I did not hear anything else until the hand touched the doorknob. Quickly I moved to a corner. The knob turned, ever so slowly, then the door moved, startlingly at first, then gradually and evenly. The intruder moved into the room with command and confidence, noticing my slacks hanging over the chair. The hood of his gray sweatshirt covered his face. But his hands moved quickly to extract my wallet from its pocket, pull out the bills, and quietly put it back into its pocket.
During this brief time I moved behind the intruder, and when the time was ripe, slammed the door shut and turned on the lights.
The intruder was in fact Kicker. He not only was startled by the door slamming and the lights coming on, but when he saw the werewolf blocking his only exit, his face flattened like a pancake, his lungs took in a huge gulp of air, his tongue shot out like a spongy missile, and his eyes glowed like electric hotplates.
Killing frogs may not turn his stomach, but facing a werewolf whose breath would extinguish a campfire, was too much. He collapsed in a bundle of clothing, the few dollar bills floating around the room.
The wife was sitting up in bed, shaking her head. "did he deserve that, victor?"
I opened the door, and pulled his body out into the hallway, spread him out on his back, and left him there. he was breathing.
This werewolf "costume" makes it hard to get comfortable in a bed, so I grabbed a Stephen king book and sat down in the old goose neck rocker to read until the full moon went down and the sun came up. once a month, every month. The wife turned out the main lights and went to sleep.
Sunrise, according to my iphone, is set for 5:02. Shortly before that I heard the intruder rustle around a bit, coming to life. He crawled down the stairs head first as fast as he could.
We went down for breakfast at 7:30. I didn't get much sleep and hadn't yet shaven.
The owner, ms. Anderson, appeared at our table, with her son, kicker, in the distance behind her.
She seemed not to know where to start. She turned to look at kicker.
"Was there a disturbance last night," She asked us.
"What kind of a disturbance?"
She again turned to the background to look at her son.
"A wild animal type of disturbance. A large stray dog. a wolf."
"Do you have wolves in this area?"
"Not that I know of."
"We can't say that we did witness anything like that. Is everything alright?"
"My son said he was in the hallway and was attacked by a wild animal with long claws and a face full of hair."
"What was he doing in the hallway?"
With that, Ms. Anderson thanked us for our visit, and turned away.
In the background, going into the kitchen, we saw them arguing.
As we checked out, Ms. Anderson thanked us again, and said, "I hope the incident with my son doesn't prevent you from a return visit."
"We'll do you one better," I said, business-like. "The next time your son sees a wolf in the hotel, please call us. we would like to see it."
The wife laughed. the hotel owner laughed. Peeking out the kitchen door it was obvious that her son kicker was not laughing. In fact, his eyes still glowed like electric hot plates.
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