Tale Of A Werewolf

CHAPTER 2

The morning after burying Uncle Pete felt unreal, like I’d woken into someone else’s life a version where the house was too quiet, the kitchen too empty, and the world too big in all the wrong ways. But grief didn’t paralyze me the way I expected. It sharpened me. Focused me. Every breath I took reminded me of what I had to do.

So I packed a backpack, locked the farmhouse door behind me, and headed into town.

I rarely visited town unless Pete needed supplies, and walking its streets alone felt strange. People moved around in their routines opening shops, sweeping sidewalks, chatting by truck beds completely unaware that my world had been ripped apart the night before.

My first stop was McClaren’s Gun & Gear, a squat building with faded red paint and a door that screeched every time it opened. McClaren himself stood behind the counter polishing a shotgun. He was a broad-shouldered man with a beard so thick it looked bulletproof.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said when I walked in. “If it ain’t Josh Campbell. Haven’t seen you in months.”

“Hey, Mr. McClaren,” I said, trying to sound casual.

He squinted at me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, boy. You sick?”

“No. Just… tired.”

He shrugged and leaned an elbow on the counter. “What can I do for ya?”

“I need ammo,” I said. “A lot of it. And traps. The heavy duty ones.”

He frowned. “What’re you huntin’? Bears?”

“It’s hunting season,” I answered quickly.

He snorted. “Hunting season my ass. You almost never come in for gear. Now you want enough firepower to start a small war?” He chuckled and shook his head. “Teenagers.”

I tried to smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace.

Still, he didn’t push the issue not much, anyway. He packed cartridges, shells, steel traps, and even an old hunting knife into a brown box. When he slid it toward me, something in his gaze softened.

“Be careful out there, kid. Woods ain’t the same as they used to be.”

If only he knew.

I paid him and headed out into the sunlight. The air felt thicker somehow, like even the sky knew what I was planning.

As I crossed the street, someone called my name.

“Josh?”

I turned and saw her Macbeth Lane. The only person my age in town I ever really knew. She wasn’t actually named Macbeth; her parents were theatre people who thought it would be “unique,” which she claimed meant “doomed.” She always wore her hair in a messy ponytail and carried a sketchbook everywhere, filling it with images of animals, landscapes, and people she found interesting.

She walked closer, her expression tightening when she saw my face. “Hey… you okay?”

“Not really,” I admitted.

Her eyes flicked to the box in my hands. “That’s a lot of ammo.”

“I’ve got... things to do.”

“Josh.” She stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “What happened?”

I swallowed hard. “Uncle Pete. He’s dead.”

Her mouth fell open. “What? How?”

“We were hunting yesterday. Something attacked us. Something fast. I tried to get him back home but…” My throat closed up. “He didn’t make it.”

Her hand flew to her chest, shock washing over her features. “Oh my God. Josh, I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.”

She hesitated, then reached out like she wanted to touch my arm but stopped halfway. “Listen… what are you planning to do with all that gear? You going back to the woods?.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.

She shook her head and stepped closer. “Josh, please don’t. You could get yourself killed. Whatever attacked you it’s probably long gone.”

“It’s not,” I said quietly. “It’s still out there.”

“Then let the police handle it.”

“They can’t,” I said. “They wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t even believe me.”

“And you think you can handle it alone?”

“I have to.”

“Josh, no.” Her voice cracked. “You’ll die chasing shadows.”

I met her eyes soft brown, full of fear. Fear for me.

“My mind’s made up,” I said.

She clenched her jaw. “uncle Pete wouldn't want this for you.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

She looked like she wanted to say more, but finally she just stepped back, defeated. “Come back alive,” she whispered.

I nodded, turned away, and walked home.

Back at the farmhouse, I laid everything on the dining table: rifles, ammo, traps, the knife, a flashlight, rope, and enough adrenaline to drown out any remaining doubt.

I loaded the guns. Packed the traps. Sharpened the knife. Every motion felt like a promise.

When the sun slipped behind the hills, I strapped the gear onto my back and headed toward the woods.

The night welcomed me with silence.

But it wasn’t peaceful. Not tonight. Tonight it felt like the forest was holding its breath, waiting.

I moved carefully through the trees, listening for anything , twigs snapping, rustling leaves, breathing. Hours crept by until the moon climbed high, painting the world in silver.

Then I heard it.

A low growl deep, vibrating through the ground.

I turned slowly.

Eyes glowed in the darkness. Yellow. Animal… but wrong. Too intelligent.

The creature stepped into the moonlight, and for the first time, I saw it clearly.

A wolf, massive, towering, its fur black as ink, its fangs long enough to tear through bone. But its limbs were stretched, unnaturally human like. Its chest heaved with breath, steam rising from its nostrils. Every instinct in my body screamed run.

But I didn’t run.

“Come on,” I whispered.

It lunged.

I rolled aside, fired my shotgun, the blast echoing through the trees. The creature roared, staggering but not falling. It charged again, faster than I could track. Claws raked across my side I felt the searing pain immediately, tearing through skin like paper.

I screamed, swung the knife blindly, felt it sink into something hot and living. The beast howled, wrenching back. I grabbed a trap from my bag, snapped it open, and slammed it onto the ground between us.

The creature leaped right into it.

The steel jaws clamped onto its leg with a crack. It thrashed, snarling, ripping at the trap. I seized the moment, raised the shotgun, and fired again.

And again.

And again.

Finally, the monster collapsed, its breath slowing, its body twitching once… then going still.

I stood there shivering, blood running warm down my ribs, the world spinning. But I forced myself closer, trembling as I looked at the creature that killed Uncle Pete.

Up close, it was unmistakable.

A werewolf.

A real one.

All the stories, the legends , I never believed any of them. But the monster lying in front of me wasn’t myth. It wasn’t imagination.

It was dead.

And I had killed it.

But the victory felt hollow. Because the pain in my side was growing sharp, burning, spreading.

I staggered toward home, every step blurring, my breath shallow. By the time I reached the porch, my vision had faded to black around the edges.

I collapsed inside.

The last thing I remember before darkness swallowed me was the thought that maybe Macbeth was right.

Maybe I was going to die chasing shadows.