DOURLOCK A gravel trail cut through the thick forest of trees and twisted for miles beneath their shadow. The sun had just peeked out above the horizon. Its long rays sprawled across the dewed grass and tinted the morning orange. Sweat tickled to the surface of my forehead. Not even 8 AM and I was already starting to sweat. 90 degrees in November. There’s a hell on earth, and it’s called Dourlock, Texas. Pepper, my pitch-black Saint Bernard, pulled at his leash, anxious to begin our run through the Dourlock Woods. “Hold up.” Pepper was a towering specimen of his breed. Weighing in at over 225 pounds — 50 pounds heavier than myself — the top of his head almost reached my chest, and he could have dragged me helplessly after him if he had wanted to. But he obeyed. His tail lopped back and forth, and his eyes turned to mine. “Just a sec.” I bent down to pick out a pebble that had found its way inside my shoe. “Okay, you ready?” I wrapped Pepper’s chain leash around my hand twice, pulling him closer to my side. We approached the trees and entered the woods at a slow clip. Slow enough to keep me unwinded for several miles. I wasn’t there to burn calories. I just needed to clear my head. You see, I’m not originally from Dourlock. Until two months ago I had never even set foot in the state of Texas. Chicago was my birthplace. Buffalo was where I grew up. And I had spent the last decade in Portland, Oregon. It was in Portland where I met, fell in love with, and eventually knocked-up Zahara Bitar. A series of events which occurred in no less than seven months. As I approached the age of 30, the specter of fatherhood loomed over me like a terrible wraith. Zahara, nine years my junior, seemed entirely confident with the whole mess. She wanted to keep the baby. With or without me. I landed a part-time job at Cascade Community College teaching ‘Beginning Drawing and Illustration Techniques’ while continuing to do freelance design work. Zahara remained in university while working part time at a local movie theater. We worked and saved and spent nothing, but it still wasn’t enough. Portland is an expensive city. And the baby was coming. So, when Zahara proposed we move closer to her family, I agreed. In the late 1980s her staunchly religious Muslim family had taken up residence in the Christian community of Dourlock, Texas. Her father was a software engineer, working for IBM in Austin, and her mother stayed at home to care for Zahara and her six siblings. From the moment we set foot in Dourlock I regretted my agreement to move. And after the events that transpired I can safely say my regrets were well-founded. We rented a two-bedroom home with a fenced in backyard on a street filled with others just like it in a neighborhood that stunk of depression. Dourlock seemed to be where the old came to die. Our neighbors were old. The McDonald’s burger flippers were old. Our mail man was senile. And the nurse at the doctor’s office actually had a stroke and died while taking Zahara’s blood pressure. Zahara was five months pregnant when we moved in, and two months later I wanted out. Out of Dourlock, out of fatherhood, and out of the relationship. After leaving my job at the college our financial situation was even more dire than before. When complications arose in her pregnancy — something about abnormal lung development — we had to take charity from her parents. Her family despised me. The first night I met them ended with her father spitting a wet lougie onto my plate of food. And then Zahara suggested we move in with them. “Fuck no!” “Ted, I’m not saying we have to. I was just thinking. Tossing some ideas around. Okay?” “Because your shitty ideas have really done a lot of good, huh?” Zahara covered her eyes and sobbed. Fuck. “Zahara.” She entered the bathroom and closed the door gently. I waited outside but didn’t say anything, only listened to her muffled crying. She needed some time. I’d leave her alone and she’d get over it. I had been too rough. Too mean. But, fuck it. There was no way we’d move in with her parents. I grabbed Pepper from the backyard, leashed him, and we began the mile walk through the neighborhood and to the Dourlock Woods. The woods sprawled for miles around the perimeter of Dourlock, and you had to drive through their twisted, un-maintained roads for twenty minutes anytime you entered or left the town. The gravel path we set in on was the start of a four mile trail. It was a winding loop that eventually brought you back to where you started without ever covering the same ground. It had been the first path I took when I came to the woods initially, and I had yet to try any others. In truth, the woods frightened me. Upon reaching the two mile mark — the furthest spot from the entrance — you find yourself at a point where the real Dourlock Woods begin. New paths split off from the four mile loop and are swallowed into a darkness of twisted trees so closely knitted that they black out the sun. We approached this point on that absurdly hot November day, and the depths of the woods belched a frigid breeze. The chill wind froze the sweat pouring down my forehead. The temptation to enter was strong, and Pepper felt it too. She whined and pulled, not away from the depths but towards them. The woods audibly sighed and another breath of air enveloped us. This time it was less frigid. It had an odor of sweetness so thick it left me salivating as I pulled Pepper away. We picked up our pace. The steady beat of my feet on the gravel trail, along with my deliberate breathing, helped clear my head. The closer we got to the end of the trail, the better I felt. And then, right on cue at mile three, a skunkish smell hit me. It smelled just like marijuana. Every time we reached this bend in the trail, marked by an overturned log, the smell would flood my nose before quickly fading away as we passed. The last time I had smoked weed was at a get-together with a few of my colleagues several days before the move to Dourlock. The frequency of my marijuana consumption had slowed considerably since the halcyon days of college. But I still enjoyed it when the opportunity presented itself. Portland’s first recreational marijuana shops opened just days after we relocated to the anti-drug haven of Dourlock. Of course everyone and their great-grandmother in Dourlock was doped up on about forty different prescription painkillers, but god forbid marijuana entered their borders. Some teenagers, or more likely an aged hippy, had planted the weed somewhere in the forest to keep it hidden. But the smell was quite obvious, and I wondered how it had not been discovered. I myself had never spent time wandering that patch of woods trying to locate the source of the smell. The ground was thick with underbrush, and by this point in the trail I was tired and ready to go home. I finished the four miles and returned to the grassy field outside the woods. Away from the protection of the forest’s shade, the heat bore down on me even greater. I was considerably winded, but my anxiety had not abated as it usually did. I continued with Pepper out of the field and toward the alley that would bring us back to our street, but the dread of returning home brought me to a standstill. Today. Today was the day I would return to the woods, find the weed, roll a blunt, and smoke that fucker until the last few months became a cosmic joke. I expected the search to take awhile, but the wind was kind. The smell wafted straight to me. It lead me into the woods maybe ten yards before I found the source. “Jackpot.” Well, not really. It was a marijuana plant. But the plant was dead, or dying. It was growing in a patch that obscured it from direct sunlight, and for this it suffered. The stalk was thin and weak, and the bud of marijuana sprouting from the top looked dull and lifeless. But it was better than nothing. I pocketed the entire bud, which weighed no more than a couple grams, and hurried back. Upon returning to the trail I almost bumped into an elderly couple. The man was tall and bald, with thin wisps of white hair swirled around his head like fragments of cotton candy. The woman was short, stout, and her bob of hair was dyed a dark shade of brown. They both wore track suits and had a vaguely French look about them. I excused myself quickly and muttered something about skunks in the area when I noticed their sniffing noses. Pepper and I jogged the rest of the way home. --- “Zahara?” She wasn’t there. Probably went to her parents’ house to vent. I grabbed my phone and called her, but I hung up after the first ring. She needed some time. We both did. In the bathroom I peeled off my t-shirt, which had soaked completely through with sweat. I took the weed from my pocket and set it on the counter. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and practically shuddered. I looked exactly like what I was: A man rapidly approaching middle-age. I had built up an extra coating of fat over the last few months, as if I was preparing for hibernation. Despite doubling my workout time and drastically cutting how much I ate, my flesh continued to grow and descend like thick mush toward the ground where I would one day be buried. I grabbed the weed and left the bathroom. Maybe this wasn’t the best mindset to be in if I was going to get stoned. Without a pipe, bong, rolling papers, or even an apple I would have to improvise. I ended up stripping off a paper towel, which I layered some of the marijuana in, and attempting to roll it like a joint. It didn’t really work. The paper towel ripped. The weed spilled out. And once I finally got something together that looked like it sort of might work, I realized I didn’t have a lighter. A search of the house turned up nothing. So, I cranked up one of the burners on the stove and waited for it to get hot. As the dark coil turned a glowing red, I spotted from the kitchen window two figures walking down the street. Pepper threw himself downstairs, launched at the front door, and began to bark. “Pepper, shut up!” I dipped my head to the stove, lit the end of the joint, and inhaled. Smoke flushed down my lungs. I held it in for a few seconds before exhaling. I took another hit. Pepper’s barking picked up again. “Pepper!” I took a third drag on the joint before glancing out the window. The two figures stepped off of the road and onto our front lawn. They were approaching the house. I coughed and smoke shot out of my mouth. “Fuck.” The doorbell rang and Pepper went wild. I started for the stairs, but realized whoever was at the door would see me run past. So, I stayed in the kitchen. The doorbell rang again and after a moment was accompanied by rapid pounding on the door. “Shit.” I stood motionless, like a deer trapped in headlights. A muffled voice called from outside, but I couldn’t quite make out what it said. The pounding continued for what felt like ten minutes. They weren’t going away. I tossed the joint, still gripped between my fingers, into the garbage disposal and then threw the rest of the weed in after it. I destroyed it all. Before leaving the still-hazy kitchen I flipped on the fan above the stove, hoping it would help disperse the lingering smell. BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG! The door pulsed after each slam. “Open up, asshole!” A gruff voice called from outside. “Alright, alright,” I said. I unlocked the door and cracked it open, expecting a couple of police officers to force themselves inside. Instead I was greeted by the old couple I had bumped into at the park. “Oh. Hey.” “Where is it?” The man spat in my face. “Huh?” “Where the fuck is it?” “Jack, please,” his wife said. “What are you talking about?” I said. The old man whispered in my ear, “The ganja.” My lips pulled back in an unintentionally huge smile. “Oh. Shit. That was… Uh, that was your weed?” The woman piped in, “We didn’t mean to frighten you, but could we please step inside? I don’t think we want to draw too much attention to ourselves.” I glanced behind them and noticed several neighbors staring at us from their front lawns and windows. “Oh, sure. Yeah. Come on in.” I ushered them into the front room and sat down on a futon with a crumpled frame. I invited them to sit down, either with me on the futon or on one of the two bean bag chairs sprawled across the other side of the room, but they declined. “We’ll stand,” the man said. “My name is Nancy and this is my husband, Jack.” Nancy held her hand out to me. I shook it and offered my hand to Jack, but he refused. I sat back down. “Uh, I’m Ted.” “Well, Ted,” Jack started in, “You’ve stolen something very valuable from us, and we’d like it back.” “Yeah, your weed. I know. I, uh. This is embarrassing. I kind of just threw it all down the garbage disposal.” “You, what?!” Jack launched into the kitchen. “Yeah. I thought you two were cops or something. I don’t know. I kinda freaked out. You know how people in this town are.” Nancy’s face dropped. “I’m sorry. Can I make it up to you somehow? Pay you back? I feel bad. You guys seem pretty cool.” Jack returned from the kitchen with dark gunk dripping down his hand. “Pretty cool? You know what’s not pretty cool? When my wife has an attack ‘cause she can’t get her goddamn medicine!” “Oh, shit. It’s medicinal? Ah fuck. I should’ve… Ah, I’m such an ass.” “Ass… HOLE!” Jack screamed. Nancy grabbed his shoulder and tried to calm him down, “Jack, it’s okay.” “No, Nancy. It’s not okay. You think it’s going to be okay tonight when the… When the... You know?” “Let’s just go.” “You have seizures, or…?” I asked. “Mind your fucking business, prick.” Jack pushed his wife outside and slammed the door. Jesus. I stood up to lock the door behind them, but Jack pushed it open one last time before disappearing. “You’ll be lucky if you’re still alive tomorrow.” “Wha—” SLAM! I laughed. I couldn’t do anything but laugh. Two crazy old hippies had just threatened to kill me over some fucking weed. I tried to stop myself. That poor woman had seizures or cancer or something and needed the medicine. I stole medicine from a fucking sick person. But it was just too fucking funny. I busted up laughing and returned to the kitchen to grab an ice cream cone. I sure as hell wouldn’t be laughing the next morning when I saw the body. --- Zahara returned home a couple hours later. By then the effects of the weed had mostly worn off. She had been at her parents. I embraced her and apologized for yelling at her. I explained to her that I just wanted to try to make this work before we ran for help from her parents. She explained that she just wanted me to understand that help would be there if we needed it. We made up, fucked, and went to Walmart for about 18 pounds of marshmallows and corndogs. Pregnant cravings, I guess. I kept the events of that morning to myself. The weed. The old people. She didn’t need to know. Didn’t need to worry. I thought I was protecting her. Shielding her from unnecessary stress. But she was the one that found the corpse. Her scream woke me three minutes before my alarm. “Zahara?” I drifted out of bed and downstairs in a dreamy daze. Cold air wafted through the kitchen and I saw that the door to the backyard was open. I could see Zahara bent over something outside. I went barefoot to join her. My feet sloshed down into cold mud, which filtered up between my toes. “Zahara, what’s—” I went to grab her shoulders, but stopped when I saw what she was holding. Cradled in her arms was Pepper. Or, pieces of Pepper. She pressed the dog’s mostly intact head to her chest, and his tongue lolled disturbingly over her breasts. Blood dribbled off his tongue, and rolled down her chest. I realized the cold mud coating my feet and collecting between my toes wasn’t mud at all but a thick paste of blood and gore. I turned, fell to my knees, and puked. Chunks of unchewed corndog and wads of sticky marshmallow swam in a pool of frothy yellow bile which splattered onto the ground and mixed with Pepper’s pulverized remains to create a horrific tie-dye effect. The chain link fence along the back of our yard had been severely bent in places, and torn to shreds in others. Our neighbors began to creep out of their houses to see what was going on. “Zahara, go inside. Go inside and call the cops.” She didn’t move. “Zahara! Go inside and call the police!” She snapped out of her daze and her eyes met mine. Tears streaked her face. She nodded and began walking inside, Pepper’s head still gripped in her hands. “Hey.” I stopped her before she got into the house. I nodded down at the head, and she almost smiled when she realized she was still holding it. I took it from her and she entered the house, leaving a trail of bloody footprints on her way to the phone. Pepper had been my dog for eight years. I had found him wandering around my apartment complex the night after a terrible breakup. My girlfriend at the time used to call me at night and we would talk for hours while I sat outside on the steps leading up to my shitty one-room apartment. I sat alone that night, waiting for a call I knew was not going to come. I had been just about to turn in when I noticed the shaggy figure on all fours wandering through the orb of orange light cast by a flickering street lamp. He had seemed at first too large to be a dog. I thought it must have been someone testing out their Halloween costume, which was only weeks away. But as the figure came closer, passing into darkness and then reappearing beneath a much closer light, I really saw Pepper for the first time. His hair was dirty and matted. An open wound festered on the back of his head. And you could feel his ribs when stroking his side. But I wouldn’t know about that for quite some time. I stood to greet him, but my presence seemed to surprise him. He stopped, turned, and ran away in a matter of seconds. To take my mind off my ex-girlfriend I made this dog my project. I started calling him Pepper and leaving food and water outside my apartment for him. After almost a month he was comfortable enough to let me touch him, and about a week later I welcomed him inside my home. Upon entering for the first time he had sniffed the floor once, lifted his leg, and pissed all over my stereo. His urine had been streaked with red, and I took him to the vet the next day. I poured almost two-thousand dollars into making Pepper healthy, which was twice what I made in a month. But it had been more than worth it. Pepper always acted like he was the luckiest dog in the world because I found him, but I knew he had that one backwards. We had been through so much together. Multiple moves, a few more girlfriends, and with the baby on the way I expected Pepper would be there for me when things got tough. He always had been. I cradled his lifeless head in my hands. His dead eyes were wide with terror, which sounds ridiculous, but it’s the only way I can describe the look permanently frozen on his face. I set his head down gently on a patch of grass that had not been tainted with blood, and I cried. I was still crying in the backyard when the police arrived ten minutes later. --- Zahara had calmed down and cleaned herself up. She talked to the police in the front room while I downed about a gallon of coffee, which only seemed to make things worse. A glance out the back window of the kitchen gave a clear look at the carnage as well as the growing crowds of people congregating in our neighbor’s yards. They had probably started selling tickets. “Honey!” Zahara called from the front room. The two police officers were old, just like everyone else in this town. One was black, tall, grizzled. Still looked fit. The other was a short, fat man with a greasy comb over and tiny mustache. The fat guy must have been way younger than the black guy, but he looked years closer to death. He hacked into a crusty hand towel throughout our conversation and let the black guy do the talking. “Sit down,” the black guy said. I did. He introduced himself as Officer Scott and his fat partner as Officer Carp. “You have any idea who would have done this?” Scott asked. “No… I mean. He was a good dog. You know?” Scott nodded. Carp wiped his nose. I realized how stupid I sounded and took another swig of coffee. “Wife says you just moved in?” Scott asked. “Oh, she’s not my wife.” “Really?” “I mean. You know, we’re having a kid. We’re living together. But we’re not married or anything.” Scott shook his head and mouthed something under his breath to which Carp chuckled. “Is that a problem?” I asked them. Scott ignored my question. “How long since you moved in?” he asked. I called to Zahara, “Two months, right Zahara?” No reply. “Uh, just about two months,” I said. “Mmhmm,” Scott said. “I, uh, this is gonna sound crazy, but I think I might know who did it. Or had something to do with it. I don’t know. Sounds ridiculous. Um. Yesterday. Pepper and I were—” “Pepper?” “My dog. We, uh, we went to the park. The woods. Went for a run, you know? And we ran into these two old… Uh. Well, this elderly couple.” I stopped, realizing the key component in this story was a plant whose simple possession in Dourlock warranted a minimum of eight months jail time. “Go on.” “We kinda ran into them in the woods. Came around a corner real fast. And, uh. You know. They sorta freaked out a bit. Musta been scared of dogs or something. Anyways, old guy says he’s going to kill me.” “Kill you?” Scott asked. “Yep. That’s what he said. Right to my face. I thought it was crazy too. Just another crazy old— Uh, elderly person. But, you know. Now… I don’t know.” “You think someone scared of fuckin’ dogs did that?!” Carp gestured toward the backyard. His crusty hand towel dangled from his pointed hand. “Well. I don’t know. Aren’t you supposed to figure that out?” “You like to do drugs, Mr. Williams?” Scott cut in. “Drugs?” “Smack, dope, crack, PCP, heroin. You deal? Sell? Or just a middleman?” “What are you—” “You see, none of this adds up. Cute young couple moves into town. Baby on the way. But they ain’t married. No sir. Ain’t married. And then their big ass dog turn up dead.” “I don’t understand where you’re—” “Dourlock’s a peaceful town, Mr. Williams. Lotta nice folk ‘round these parts. But it takes work to keep it that way. I seen a lotta folks like you come into this town. City folk. Move in for the cheap rent. Bring their drugs. Bring their sin.” “What are you talking about?” “It ain’t addin’ up, is all. Ain’t addin’ up.” Officer Scott crossed his arms and stood there eyeing me for a good minute. “Alright, get out. Get the hell out of my house.” They turned and went to the door without a fight. “Got my eyes on you,” Scott said just before he and Carp stepped outside. I closed the door. “Goddamn country dipshits,” I muttered under my breath. “Zahara!” No response. I found her in the backyard, tears streaming down her face, shoveling the remains of Pepper into a garbage bag two sizes too small. It seemed like a hundred of our neighbors had gathered around the fence. Many were taking pictures. They were all talking. Loudly. The cops hadn’t put up any police tape or anything. “Alright!” I yelled at the crowd. “Go the fuck back inside. Get the fuck away from us.” A few of them chuckled. They all stayed. “Leave us alone!” The crowd quieted, but didn’t disperse. Zahara gasped and began sobbing. I turned to see that the garbage bag had burst open at the seams and Pepper’s gory mush had oozed out. “Let’s go in. Come on. Let’s go.” I wrapped my arms around Zahara and led her inside. I took her up to the bathroom and got a shower running for her. While she washed off, I peeked out of the upstairs window over the backyard. Several members of the crowd had crossed over the destroyed section of fence and were now trampling around in our backyard. I pulled the blinds closed and returned to the bedroom where I waited for Zahara to finish. --- Zahara didn’t feel safe staying at our place anymore. She wanted to go to her parents’. I couldn’t argue with her this time. On the drive over I told her about what had happened the previous day. “You should have saved some for me,” she said. “You’re pregnant!” “I know. Just joking. You really freaked out, though. Huh?” I smiled and nodded. “You think they did that to Pepper?” I shrugged. “If it’s the same Jack and Nancy I’m thinking of, Jack and Nancy Weaver, there’s no way. No way. They’ve lived here since I was a kid. Small house at the end of Woodforest. Type of people that give out the big candy bars on Halloween. Super nice. Sweet.” “She seemed nice enough, sure. But he was mean. Real mean.” “Maybe it wasn’t them. Not a lot of people in this town, but maybe it wasn’t them.” “Right.” When we pulled into the driveway at her parents’ place I remained in the idling car while Zahara got out. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Woodforest you said?” “What?” “Jack and Nancy Weaver. You said they lived at the end of Woodforest?” “Woodforest Boulevard. Yeah. Ted, you aren’t going to—” “Just want to pay them a visit. That’s all.” “Ted—” “Go inside, Zahara. Won’t take me long. Just want to talk to them. I’ll be back in half an hour.” She frowned at me and turned to head up the driveway. I waited until she had entered her parents’ place before backing out of the driveway and pulling away. --- Jack and Nancy’s house was all the way on the other side of town. It took me about five minutes to get there. It stood right at the end of the road, quite a distance from any of the other houses. They had no backyard fence, just a big patch of open land leading straight to the Dourlock Woods which towered behind their property. Upon approaching the house I discovered that the front door was entirely missing. The paneling around the door had been completely splintered and I found no sign of the door itself anywhere. The entrance led into a dim hallway which faded into the inner darkness of the home. “Hello?” I called. The house was still and dark and foul-smelling. It stunk of animals and animal shit. I stepped back off the porch and walked around the side of the house. One of the windows had been broken open, and blood stained the edges of the broken glass that remained. I peered in through the opening and saw a dark bedroom. Bed. Dresser. Large mirror against the wall. Everything appeared in order. There was a large shed in their backyard. The shed’s door remained intact, but the side of the shed had been busted through. Splinters of wood lay scattered in the grass. Swarms of flies buzzed around the opening. I stepped lightly over the boards, gripped the side of the opening, and looked inside. I gagged at the rotting stench of death. I had to clamp my fingers over my nose while I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Once they did adjust, and I finally saw what lay in the shadows of the shed, I dashed away, fell to my knees, and hurled. It was the second time that morning, and all my stomach had to give was the acidic burn of coffee roaring up my esophagus and splattering like black slime on the grass. The shed was a chicken coop. Or had been one. Something had gotten to the chickens. Probably the same thing that had gotten to Pepper. Dozens of small cages had been torn apart. One of the cages was smashed in completely. The chicken inside had been squeezed out through the tiny squares in the metal cage like paper sent through a shredder. Bones and blood and feathers littered the scene, and flies had already gone to work laying their eggs in what little flesh remained. My already flimsy theory burst. Pepper’s death had to be connected with what I saw in the shed. And there was no way the old couple would have done that to their own chickens. Something else was at work here. A giant animal from the Dourlock Woods? Maybe a large bear. Or maybe one of the residents of Dourlock itself. An aging sociopath who got sloppy in his old age. My hand went to my pocket, checking to see if my mobile was there. It was. I took it out and began dialing the police, but I hesitated before calling. I had to see what was inside the house first. Once I called the police they would block off the entire property and I would be escorted away without even a glimpse inside. The thought of finding Jack and Nancy’s mutilated corpses turned my stomach, but a morbid curiosity compelled me to enter their home. I should have stayed outside, called the police, returned to Zahara, and tried to forget the whole mess. But I didn’t. I returned to the open front of the house. I stepped inside. And I fumbled through the darkness. My feet slipped and I realized I was walking through something wet trailing through the dim hallway. Whether it was blood or just spilled water I could not tell, but I assumed the worst. My mind played terrible tricks on me as I stepped deeper into the home. Faint shadows became deformed figures lurching after me in the darkness. I imagined they were creatures from the woods come to drag me into their realm of madness. I was on the brink of turning and fleeing when my hand, which had been tracing its way along the wall, finally found a light switch. I flipped it on and bright light flooded the main room, temporarily blinding me. When my eyes finally adjusted I was thrown off by how normal everything looked. The main room had a tall, vaulted ceiling, which a large light fixture hung from. Flipping the light switch had also turned on the ceiling fan which began a slow rotation. They had a sectional sofa with quilts resting over the back. A large rug. A coffee table covered with magazines and large books. A television across the room had been knocked off its perch and was dangling by a power cord which disappeared into an opening in the wall. I began to notice other oddities. Patches of torn hair sprinkled sections of the sofa as if two rowdy dogs had gotten into a particularly brutal fight. A large hole had been punched into the wall. And I noticed flecks of blood stood out on some of the magazines spread across the coffee table. My nose began to sting from a pungent smell, and I realized the wet trail I had been stepping through was not blood or water but dark yellow urine. I should never have entered this house. I switched off the light and made my way back to the entrance, carefully stepping around the trail of urine. I pulled out my mobile to phone the police but paused just before I stepped outside. I thought I had heard something coming from a small closet near the entrance. I heard it again. A distinct rattling. Someone, or something, was fumbling with the knob, trying to get out. It could have been anything, a homicidal maniac, a crazed animal from the woods. I grabbed the knob and the rattling inside stopped. I pressed my ear to the door and heard a distinctly human sob. I held my breath, twisted the knob, and flung the door open. I couldn’t see anything. It was darker in the closet than it was in the rest of the home. I stiffened as I noticed something move. I heard a moan from inside, and caught the briefest glimpse of the old man’s face emerging from shadow before I felt an icy hand grasp the back of my neck. I spun around, pulling free from the anonymous cold grip, and found myself staring down at an old woman. Nancy Weaver. She was pale, gaunt, and completely naked. Her thin breasts were stretched and lifeless, hanging down to her bloated stomach. A forest of grey pubic hair grew between her legs, a line of which reached up and made its way to her belly button. “Get out!” she bellowed. Her deep voice caught me off guard. “Out!” she said again. “S-sure,” I stammered. On my way out I took one last look in the closet and got a good glimpse of Jack Weaver crouched inside, fully clothed – unlike his wife – and covered in blood. I slipped my mobile back into my pocket, returned to my car, and left. --- Zahara’s parents refused to let me sleep in the same room with her because we weren’t married. I was too exhausted and shell-shocked to put up a fight. Her father pointed to a rug on the floor, and that was where I slept. Zahara lent me one of her pillows, much to the dismay of her father, but I had no blanket. As the night droned on the temperature in the house dropped, and I was unable to sleep. At one in the morning I gave up trying. I entered the kitchen, flipped on the light over the stove, and began brewing some coffee. I heard a door creak open in the depths of the house, and felt the vibrations of someone moving down the long hallway toward the kitchen. The sputtering of the coffee maker must have woken them. Zahara’s father emerged from the hallway and stood at the entrance to the kitchen with his hands on his hips. He was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a thick bathrobe. The flap in the boxers was wide open, and his junk was on the verge of spilling out. “The hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked in a strained whisper. “Makin’ some coffee,” I said. “Shhhh!” The coffee finished up and I went for the cupboard to grab a mug. Mr. Bitar lunged, slapping my hand away. The cupboard door slammed shut. “Don’t you dare,” he growled. I backed off, and he went for the coffee. He grabbed the pot, dumped it all down the sink, and glared at me as he jammed it back in the coffee maker. “Get out,” he said. “What?” He got up real close to me. Nose to nose. I could smell his sour breath. “Get out of my house!” I blinked, took a step back, made sure I had my keys in my pocket, and left. I slammed the door on my way out, and the entire house trembled. I got into my car and watched as lights turned on inside the house and a flurry of activity commenced. I thought about waiting around for Zahara to run out and check on me. She’d leave me to sleep in the car anyway. I was tired. I just wanted to curl up in my bed at home and go to sleep. So I popped the key in the ignition, fired the car up, and drove away. Dourlock is dark at night. Like, really dark. It’s a town without street lights of any kind. So when the sun goes down, it’s pitch black outside. The moon provided a decent glow that night. It was full, or close to it. I drove through the dark streets and was parked outside my house in minutes. Not a single light had been left on, and now the small, two story home towered over me like a foreboding monolith. Pepper’s body was still lying somewhere in the backyard. I’d have to deal with it tomorrow. Bury the poor guy. Utter misery swept over me like a sudden chill, and I covered my face and wept. I must have drifted off after that because the next thing I heard was loud banging on the window. I pulled myself out of a deep, unpleasant sleep. It was not quite dawn. The sky was a dark blue and light hovered on the verge of the horizon. The knocking at the window continued. I turned and saw the old man, Jack Weaver, bent over the car and slamming his palm against the window. I lurched back, startled. “Open up!” he shouted through the glass. It took me a long time in my hazy half-asleep state to find my keys, turn the car on, and roll the window down a crack. “Yeah?” I asked him. “Open the fucking door.” I did. Jack walked around the front of the car and got inside the passenger seat. He looked the same as he had when I found him in the closet earlier. I now had trouble remembering if that had actually happened, or if it had just been a dream. “Earlier. What you saw at our house,” he started. “Yeah,” I said. “Keep it to yourself. Or else.” Jack cracked the door open and started to get out. “Hey! What the hell?” I grabbed the old man’s shoulder and pulled him back inside. “Was that a threat?” Jack shrugged. “I’m calling the cops,” I said. I held onto him and pulled my mobile from my pocket. “Wait!” he shouted. I waited. My thumb hovered over the call button. “You want to know what’s really going on here?” “Yeah,” I said. “You won’t believe a word of it.” “Try me.” The old man nodded, took a deep breath, and sat back down. He closed the door as gently as possible. “Okay. It all started 23 years ago. When Nancy died.” I began to interject, but Jack shushed me. “You want to hear it or not?” I nodded. “Then you keep your fucking mouth shut.” “Fine,” I said. Jack started again. “Like I said. Started just about 23 years ago now. Nancy and I were driving back from a party in Austin. Middle of the night. New Year’s Eve. We’d both had a lot to drink. I had maybe a little less, so I was driving the car. Not a good idea. I was worried about getting pulled over by the police, but I kept the car on the road. Stayed in my lane. Didn’t get pulled over once. Made it back to the outskirts of Dourlock and begin driving through the forest. You know how it is. About fifteen miles of densely wooded roads before you get into town. We had just about cleared the end of the woods — I could see lights from the town ahead; the darkness of the forest was behind us — when a huge deer dashed out into the middle of the road. Like I said, I’d been drinking. Nancy’d been drinking. I didn’t have any time to react, and next thing you know we’re slamming to a stop and the airbag’s exploding in my face. “My nose is bleeding and hurts like hell. Airbag broke it. I look over and can’t see Nancy anywhere. Her airbag didn’t deploy. The windshield’s all busted out. Then I remember her taking her seatbelt off so she could get more comfortable. She was tired, trying to recline her seat, couldn’t get comfortable with the goddamn belt all wrapped around her. So I push the airbag out of my face. Run out of the car. And see Nancy split open in two on the road about five yards away. The deer’s embedded in the front of the car. It’s yelping like a dog. Still alive, but its guts are leaking out all down its torn open side. I just stare at it in a daze for awhile. Don’t know what’s going on. Finally I go to Nancy and she’s already dead. I mean nothing at all. She’s split in two. Right below the breasts. I realize I’m standing on pieces of her ribs. Her lungs and heart are just hanging out from her upper half, all covered in asphalt. Her face is basically scraped completely off. I’m just lost. No cell phones back then, you know? Nobody coming through the woods in the middle of the night. And I’m not just going to leave her there. “So I take her home. I grab her legs and drag them back into the car. Dump them in the backseat. Her intestines are all over the place. Blood leaking out everywhere. Huge fucking mess. I dump the top of her body in the passenger seat. I must’ve kicked the deer off or something. It all became a haze, you know? After I saw her split open like that it all just became a bad dream. But somehow I get home. The car’s a mess. I leave Nancy’s body in there and I go inside and just break down. Only time I cried in my life, I swear it to you before God almighty. Only time I cried in my life, and it’s just like a switch went off. I’m crying for hours. Openly sobbing. Begging God of whoever the hell is out there to take it back. Make things right. My head’s swirling. If only we didn’t go to the party. If only I hadn’t drank. If only we left a few minutes earlier. If only we’d stayed there the night. If only Nancy hadn’t taken her seatbelt off. If only… You know? “Anyway. I’m crying like a baby and in one of the lulls I hear footsteps climbing up the patio out back. Heavy footsteps. Like boots or something, right? I wipe my face off and go to check it out. There’s this figure standing out there. Short. Four feet tall I’d guess. I think it’s a kid or something, so I says ‘Go home kid,’ or something like that. I worry he maybe saw my wife’s body in the car and… I don’t know. It’s barely four in the morning. Still pitch black outside. No reason for a kid to be out there. Anyways, the figure just stands there. I see it move. It grabs the knob and the knob turns. The door’s locked, by the way. The door’s locked and dead-bolted. But the knob turns and the door opens. And I stumble back into the front room, this short thing walking after me. I still can’t see it, but there’s a dim light on in the kitchen, and as it passes down the hallway and through the light for a moment, I have the briefest glimpse of this thing. It ain’t no boy. It’s a monster. An imp from the woods. What I thought sounded like boots were actually hooves. Huge cloven black hooves that clomped down on the hard wood floor as this thing made its way after me one slow step at a time. The rest of his body was ape-ish. It stood on two legs, like a man, but its body was covered in thick, matted hair. The face itself was almost human. It even had a sort of twisted mustache growing above its protruded mouth. Two tusk-like fangs curved up from its bottom lip. Its eyes were black. Small, beady, black dots. Pointed ears. It was a demon. A demon from the woods. And when I realized this I clutched my chest and shrieked. “The demon’s mouth curled into a perverted smile and it bellowed with laughter which echoed from the backyard, and I realized there were more of these creatures. I could see several of their silhouettes out the back window. They were coming out of the forest and walking up to our house. I wanted to run, but I feared what might happen if I turned my back on this perversion of nature. I fell to my knees and begged for my life, and again the demon cackled. Then it opened its mouth and began to speak. And its tongue was of such a brutal and guttural sound that it evoked in me even more fear. Its speech sounded like a depraved replication of human ecstasy. Moans. Grunts. All deep and bubbling in quality, as if this creature did not have vocal cords but a pool of thick sludge that bubbled over in its throat. Its language was meaningless to my ears, but somehow my mind understood. It wanted Nancy. It wanted to make her better again for me. And as it continued to speak the fear dripped away and it sounded not at all like a demon or even a human, but like some angelic creature that had been sent from heaven to give me a second chance. “I know not how long it spoke for, but it felt like years. It wove a world around me. A world in which Nancy never died. A world where we lived happily together into old age. A fantasy. A fairytale. But I bought it. And when the demon ceased its speech, and that beautiful life was suddenly taken away from me, I felt as if I had lost Nancy a second time. “I begged. I cried and I pleaded and I begged this demon to make it better again. The demon smiled, and at once I knew I had made a mistake. I knew I had made a deal with a demon. A deal with the devil. The creature walked around me, its hooves clomping over the hard wood floor. It stepped out through the front door and I saw it unite with several other demons around my car. They pulled Nancy’s body out. They hoisted her up, and they carried her around to the back of the house and towards the woods. I ran outside and shouted after them. They all stopped at once. They did not turn. They did not speak. They just stopped. The woods parted around them. The trees bent to allow them passage, and they waited. The forest groaned, the woods themselves spoke the same tongue as that of the demon. It was brief, but the sheer terror caused me to lose all control. My bowels loosened and emptied. Warm feces filled my underwear, and hot urine dribbled down my leg. My legs trembled and I felt like I was about to fall over. “And then I wake up. Nancy’s waking me up. It’s just a dream. A horrible nightmare. Nancy’s asking me what’s wrong and I realize I had pissed and shit all over myself in my sleep. I don’t dare mention the dream. It’s still far too real and close, and I excuse myself to the bathroom to clean up. I take a shower. When I get out of the bathroom I see that Nancy has taken the soiled bedsheets away and put fresh ones on. I start putting my clothes on and Nancy begins talking. She’s talking about the party we’re going to that night. The New Year’s Eve party. I think she’s joking with me at first, but I soon realize that it was not the previous night that had been a dream but the entire day. I tell Nancy we’re not going to the party. I don’t give her a reason. We spend the night at home. She’s upset with me but I barely notice. “I spend most of the next couple days staring at the forest behind our house. Waiting for the demons to show themselves again. I still believe it was a horrible dream, but the possibility that is was not keeps me from entering the woods and searching for confirmation myself. “And then things just move on. Life goes back to normal. The dream fades. I forget all about it until several weeks later. The night of a full moon. Nancy’s heating up some leftovers for dinner. I’m in the other room watching television. And all of a sudden I hear this horrible heaving sound coming from the kitchen. I rush in and see Nancy curled up on the floor in convulsions. She’s retching and gasping like she can’t breathe, and the timer on the stove starts going off, and I don’t know how to shut it off. I run to grab the phone from the front room, but I stop because something odd is going on with Nancy’s face. Her mouth and nose are all protruded out, like the snout of a dog. She’s screaming in pain and her body is warping before my very eyes. Her ears are growing pointed and shifting further back on her head. Her whole skull is transforming. I can hear the snaps and pops of bones breaking and cartilage tearing. She must feel everything because she’s crying out in this horrible wail that sounds more animal than human. Then the hair starts to come in. Thick dark hair sprouting up so rapidly that it tears through her skin and leaves her bleeding. “Then I realize what’s going on. This all goes back to New Year’s Eve several weeks before. The demons from the woods. It wasn’t a dream at all. They spared her life at the expense of her freedom. The transformation completes, and a snarling, oversized wolf stands before me in tatters of my wife’s clothes. I dash into the pantry. The door never worked properly, so I have to hold it tight as my wife launches herself at the door. She throws her entire weight against it, and each blow bent the door in a little more. I was convinced she would tear through and get me, but something caught her attention. A loud noise from the television which I had left on. I felt her rumble away from the pantry door and into the front room. Several moments later I heard her break through the front door and escape into the night. I didn’t leave the pantry until the following morning. “The house was a mess, much like you saw it this morning. Blood, hair, broken furniture and windows. Nancy had not yet returned, and when she finally did return at mid-day she was naked, covered in blood and dirt, and wandering around in a daze like she had Alzheimer’s. She was back to normal the next day. “Five teenagers died that night. Their car was overturned and it looked as if the side had been ripped open. I worried for years that they would pin it on Nancy, but the case went dry and they never did. Nancy had no memory of the night, and my attempts to talk to her about it were met with ridicule. She thought I should see a doctor. I probably sounded insane, spouting off about her transformation. She didn’t even admit the blank spot in her memory. Insisted she had probably gone to bed early. Wasn’t feeling well. “As the next full moon grew closer I sought help from a professor of demonology in San Antonio. I travelled to meet with him and spent a considerable amount of time telling him my story. He said no more than a few words and gave me a small package wrapped in brown paper before I left. He instructed me to give it to her on the night of the full moon. I unwrapped the package in my car, and the scent of cannabis overwhelmed me. The professor had given me almost an ounce of the stuff. I quickly rewrapped it and returned inside, assuming he had made a mistake and given me the wrong package. But he was gone when I returned. I went back to my car, shoved the package in my glove box, and drove back to Dourlock. “As the night of the full moon approached I realized I had to at least try something, so I brought the package of cannabis in from my car and decided to try to use it somehow. I assumed that getting Nancy to smoke it was out of the question. So I checked out a book from the library about marijuana, which contained several recipes in the back for making baked goods using the plant. I spent the night before the full moon working away in the kitchen on a batch of incredibly potent weed brownies. The house stunk of marijuana, and it woke Nancy up the next morning. She did not recognize the odor, and thought perhaps a skunk had died under our house or something. I assured her I’d check it out. I left work early that day and came home in the afternoon. I had planned on offering one of the brownies to Nancy that evening, just before dinner. But I realized upon entering that she had partaken herself. I found her sprawled out on the couch in a half-asleep daze with brownie crumbs spilled all over the floor. I found the half-empty plate of brownies in the kitchen. She had eaten them. Now I just hoped they would work. “I spent the rest of the day watching television with her. She drifted in and out of sleep, waking up just long enough to giggle at something before drifting off again. Day passed into night and I waited for something to happen. I watched Nancy dozing peacefully on the couch, and as the minutes dragged on tension gripped at my chest. Just before 7 PM, something happened. Her nose seemed to twitch just a bit. Then nothing. I convinced myself that I had been imagining it. My anxiety was conjuring images in my mind that did not exist. But then I saw it again. Her nose twitched and I heard a sickening POP as the bones in her jaw snapped and pushed outward until she had an elongated snout. Then the ears. Just like last time. “I cursed the professor and darted upstairs, locking myself inside the bathroom in the already locked bedroom. And I waited. I heard nothing for several hours. Around midnight I heard some rusting in the kitchen. Drawers opening. Utensils clanging onto the ground. Then silence. At 2 AM I dared to leave the bathroom and listen at the bedroom door. Nothing. At 3 AM I unlocked the bedroom door, but did not yet leave. I waited with my hand gripped tight to the door knob, until 3:30 AM, when I opened the door, held my breath, and went downstairs. “Nancy was still asleep on the couch but in the form of a monstrous wolf. I shuddered, not daring to step off the stairs and into the television room. I peered through the hall and spotted the mess in the kitchen. Drawers open. Utensils on the ground. Food boxes torn open. Nancy had fed, alright. But she had fed on cookies and ice cream and cereal. Snacks. She had sated her hunger with human food instead of eating humans. I returned upstairs. “The next morning Nancy woke me up. She was alert and perky and had no memory of the night before. She realized what I had put in the brownies, though, and assumed that was the reason she found herself naked on the couch surrounded by empty snack boxes at sunrise. She didn’t mind, and suggested I make some more of those ‘special brownies’ sometime. So I did. Every full moon. For the past 23 years. Until last night.” He sat staring at me for a long moment before I realized that was the end of his absurd story. “Your wife is a werewolf?” He nodded. “But if you get her stoned on the night of a full moon she doesn’t get the munchies for humans, she’s fine with just some cookies and Taco Bell and shit?” He nodded again in complete earnest. “Get the fuck out.” “You don’t believe me?” “She killed my dog!” “She was not herself!” “Get the fuck out.” He paused before leaving, started to say something, decided against it, and left. That was the last time I saw Jack Weaver. --- Life went on. We cleaned up the backyard. Work picked up. Jack and Nancy Weaver moved away. I heard they went to Colorado. Zahara gave birth to a baby boy one month premature on February 11. Taj Bitar Williams. His lungs were weak, and he remained in the hospital for almost six weeks before he was released to us. It was a long six weeks. I spent a lot of time running. A lot of time trying to clear my head. I hadn’t gone running since I lost Pepper, and the first few times were hard. But it got better. The weather wasn’t too bad this time of year in Texas. 50s and 60s. Good for a jog. After several weeks of the same four mile loop I decided to put away my paranoia – which I will admit had been greatly boosted by the absurd story from old man Weaver – and try out one of the other trails that led deeper into the woods. I picked one at random and continued jogging. Each footfall brought me deeper into the twisted jungle of Dourlock. The trail was thin. Not wide enough for two people to pass side-by-side. But it was clear of brush and well-maintained. The trees grew far taller than I expected this deep in the woods. Some seemed to reach over 100 feet high. They were thin and straight and devoid of leaves. They stood like solid pillars of wood reaching toward the heavens. I noticed something toward the top of one of these tall trees. I wanted to stop but forced myself to continue jogging. Another tree in the foreground blocked my view for a moment, and when I had a chance to see the taller tree again the thing was gone. I had imagined a figure up there, clinging on. But that was all it had been. Imagination. As I continued my run, the strange sensation that I was being watched came over me. I glanced behind myself several times, spotting nothing. Nor did I see anything in the forest bordering the trail. I came to a point where the trail coursed down a hill. From my vantage point at the top of the hill I could see it winding down and through the woods ahead for what must be many miles. There was no clear loop, so I decided to turn around and head back. Upon turning around I glimpsed just a quick flash of movement in one of the shorter trees. My eyes caught it, and my heart stopped. Clutched to a branch, peering down at me, was a creature that could only be described as an ape. I realized at once this thing fit the exact description of the imps in Jack Weaver’s story. Thick hair, human-ish faces with up-turned fangs protruding from their lips. I glanced at the creature’s feet and saw two cloven hooves balanced on a thick branch. I blinked, hoping the creature would vanish. When I opened my eyes and the creature was gone, I grew even more terrified. Movement in the trees above suggested many more of these creatures. I broke into a sprint and made it out of the forest as fast as I could. I vowed never to return to the Dourlock Woods. --- From the moment we finally brought Taj home from the hospital, Zahara and I were in a constant state of worry. Taj needed non-stop surveillance. If his lungs gave out, and we weren’t there to administer a puff of his inhaler or a steroid injection, he would be dead in minutes. Pills, inhalers, steroid shots, breathalyzer. Every day was a constant battle to get him to take all the medicine without fuss. At night he was connected to a device that helped him breathe. One of those sleep apnea machines. He was a sickly, miserable kid. On Christmas Eve, a few months before his third birthday, he came down with a bad case of pneumonia. We rushed him to the hospital as soon as we realized we were in over our heads. He died on New Year’s Day while Zahara and I were getting breakfast in the hospital cafeteria. It hit me hard. Much harder than Zahara. She jumped right into planning and logistics. Funeral arrangements. Picking a cemetery plot. Purchasing a coffin. Finding a mosque to have the service in. I wasn’t any help at all, and I found our already strained relationship beginning to fade away. I had no illusions we would remain together after all of this. I spent much of the next few days locked in our bedroom, crying. Zahara told me to man-up. She said I looked pitiful, embarrassing. She packed a suitcase and went to stay with her parents. I went for a run. I delved into the deeper part of the woods without hesitation. After an hour the ache of my legs and the strain of my lungs faded. After two hours the sun began to fall and I thought about turning back. After three hours my body just stopped. I stood gasping for breath as the woods around me quickly faded from dimness to complete darkness. Night had fallen, and the path leading back was almost invisible. I turned and began a cautious return. I veered off the path several times, but eventually reached a rare patch where the trees above provided little cover and the light of the full moon broke through and gave some illumination to my surroundings. I thought it best to just stay here and wait it out ‘til sunrise. So I sat down against a tree and closed my eyes. Any fear I had for these woods was far outweighed by the overwhelming grief that still clouded my mind. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I clearly remember the methodic CLOP-CLOP, CLOP-CLOP that woke me up. The imp bared its fangs in what looked like a grin when I opened my eyes. It gnashed its teeth together in a quick chomp-chomp-chomp that was echoed by other unseen ones surrounding me from all sides. My breath caught in my throat. “P-puh-please.” I managed to eke out. The imp titled its head to the side in a way that did not just reminded me of Pepper but somehow seemed to evoke his very essence. “My son. I know you can… I just want him back. I just want my boy back.” The imp pressed its hands, curled into fists like a gorilla, down onto the ground on either side of me. It leaned forward, inches from my face, and began to speak. It was just as Jack described. A horrible gurgling groan. A perversion of human ecstasy. The other imps joined in, speaking in unison, until it sounded as if the woods themselves were speaking. The trees groaned and shook, and my terror quickly turned into awe as the world around me seemed to fall away and I was returned back home. It was Christmas morning. Zahara and I were sharing a cup of coffee, waiting for Taj to wake up. I went to go check on him and I found him fast asleep. Healthy. No loud breathing apparatus covering his face. He was fine. Just a boy. A normal little boy sleeping in on Christmas morning. Time passed. Years. Taj grew up. Zahara and I had two more children. Twin daughters. Beautiful little girls. Life was good. Normal. Any memory that this was not reality vanished years ago. Years became decades. Taj graduated. High school and college. Our daughters as well. They moved on. Had families of their own. Children of their own. The last thing I remember was slipping into a deep, warm sleep at the age of 81 surrounded by Zahara, our three children, and many grandchildren. The woods screamed back at me, and I came to trembling on the ground. Gravel pressed into the side of my face and saliva dribbled out of my lips. My head pounded. I saw the hooves. The hairy legs. The upturned fangs. The glinting eyes. The imp cackled, and so did the others. I realized this was hell. I had been here all along. Those many years of life had been but an idea. An illusion. Of course I cried. Of course I begged for that perfect life. I had lived it. I thought it was real. I knew it could be real. If only Taj was still alive. They could bring him back. They could bring him back just like they brought Nancy Weaver back for Jack. The imp bent his head and departed. I heard the trees bend and sway as the other, unseen ones followed. --- I awoke on Christmas Eve. It was four in the morning when I rushed out of bed and into Taj’s room. He was asleep. Breathing fine. A face mask, which covered his mouth and nose, was connected to the huge apparatus humming in the corner. I returned to bed but could not fall back asleep. I took a shower, threw some clothes on, and left. When I returned with coffee and donuts Zahara and Taj were both awake. “Where were you?” Zahara called from the kitchen. I entered with the coffee and donuts and set them on the table. “Just thought I’d grab a little something.” “Oh! Thanks, Ted,” Zahara grabbed a cup of coffee. “What those?” Taj said. “Donuts,” I told him. “What a donut?” “You’ve had donuts before, remember?” He scrunched up his face at me. “Try one.” I handed him a chocolate cake donut from the box. He took a tentative bite and his face lit up. “Mmmmm.” --- I wasn’t stupid. I knew there would be a price to pay. The full moon was in two days. I had no idea if Taj’s punishment would be the same as Nancy’s. I hoped so. At least then I’d have some idea of what to expect. I needed to find weed in a place like Dourlock, and then somehow get my three year old son stoned without Zahara’s knowledge. Not so simple, and yet not impossible. I could have done it. Should have done it. But with Christmas and my family visiting, time seemed to get ahead of me. Now it’s too late. Now all I can do is hope for the best. As I look out the window into the backyard I can see the sun dipping behind the Dourlock Woods. I managed to send Zahara off for a few hours. She’s at a movie with a friend. Not long enough. While day turns into night and the full moon casts a glowing bloom upon our house, I hold Taj tightly in my arms, rocking him back and forth. He’s fast asleep. I haven’t hooked him up to the breathing machine, but he seems to be doing fine. I wait. Minutes crawl by at a snail’s pace as I watch him closely for any unusual movement. His nose twitches a bit. Or did it? Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me. No. It happens again. A slight twitch of his nose. I’m sure of it. I grip him tighter. Anticipating the inevitable. Waiting for the transformation. Taj wakes suddenly and begins screaming.