A Werewolf in Mims, page 1
J. Lynn Carr
A Werewolf in Mims
First published by Page Thirteen Press 2023
Copyright © 2023 by J. Lynn Carr
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
J. Lynn Carr has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
First edition
ISBN: 979-8-9882084-0-2
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Contents
I. THE HOWL HEARD ACROSS MIMS
1. 1
2. 2
3. 3
4. 4
5. 5
6. 6
II. IN THE FIELD, UNDER THE MOONLIGHT
7. 7
8. 8
9. 9
10. 10
11. 11
III. A PICNIC AT MIMS CEMETERY
12. 12
13. 13
14. 14
About the Author
Also by J. Lynn Carr
I
The Howl Heard Across Mims
1
1
Everyone in Mims suspected that the newcomer was a werewolf but it wasn’t until the first full moon after Hamish Kelly was bitten that they knew for sure.
Although by no means geographically isolated, Mims is still made up of space—sprawling emerald fields populated more by cows and sheep than people. There is a small town square with a grocery store, a church, a library, and a pub—but Hamish’s home is on the outskirts, the last address before the town line. Indeed, he is the farthest he can be from the town square and still call Mims his home.
He breathes in the morning air, tinged with the smell of freshly brewed coffee and ice. His hand is wrapped haphazardly, but effectively. The wound itself bled for three days but has just begun to heal, skin stitching itself together with a preternatural speed. The tug of the moon beats a constant song in his heart, a reminder that he will need to make some adjustments to his home and his lifestyle.
He turns to look at the fields that make up the bulk of his property. Once, they held rows and rows of trees—oranges, grapefruit, and peaches bursting from the branches. Behind that, were vibrant rows of lettuce and tomatoes, and a few bunches of strawberries so sweet that everyone in Mims swore the Kellys must be witches. In the back, there was a wild grapevine that he would tame just enough to make a few bottles of wine to keep at the back of the pantry every summer.
But now the fields are bare, peppered only by a few sheep that must have broken out of the Appleton farm next door. He can see the Appleton house in the distance, a tall, white rectangle with a wraparound porch and a detached red barn just to the left of it.
He’s not sure how the transformation will work and he wishes his neighbors—Frank and Mary Appleton, and their son, Billy—were out of town, or a little farther away at least. He shudders to think that he might hurt one of them—or anyone for that matter. Perhaps he will retain some sort of consciousness or a presence of mind? He certainly hopes so.
Not for the first time, he thinks he should tell someone about his current predicament. Surely, they will have noticed the wound on his hand, his bandage soaked with blood no matter how tightly he wrapped it. It was quite obvious and he made no attempt to hide it the last time he went down to the pub. Worse though, is the fear that everyone already knows about his upcoming transformation but feels that it’s not their problem.
More like, people are busy these days, he thinks. And anyway, he can take care of himself, even now that Emmeline is no longer with him.
He takes a moment to think of his wife. The remnants of her favorite plant, a wisteria vine she planted in their first year of marriage, are still clinging to the side of the house and although it hasn’t bloomed since she passed, he swears he can smell the purple flower on the edges of the wind.
* * *
Soon, he begins to feel the fire in his veins grow hotter. The tang of copper sits permanently under his tongue now, a thirst that cannot be quenched by water. His vision becomes cloudy with red. The sudden desire to run barefoot across the field seizes him almost completely.
He could give in, but there is still work to do.
He manages to find a steel chain and padlock for the door, hidden among the remnants of a life he can no longer live. He orders a few extra pounds of raw meat with Tim, the butcher, to help him through the next week or so. He trades a few of the nicer steaks with the Appletons, in exchange for the leftover timber from their recent barn renovation.
He uses it to board up his windows, working on the assumption that the beast growing inside of him will emerge on the full moon hungry and thirsty for a meal he would quickly regret.
Best to stay inside.
Billy watches Hamish attempt to hold the plank level while hammering nails into the window frame. He’s not sure why Hamish is doing this, but he offers to hold the wood steady while Hamish works.
When Billy gets home, his hands dirty and beginning to callous, his mother frowns.
“And he was boarding up the windows? But why?” she asks
“I don’t know,” says Billy with a shrug. He rubs his nose absentmindedly and his mother’s frown deepens as she, equally absentmindedly, wipes the smudge with a damp kitchen towel.
“I hope Hamish is doing ok,” she says, half to herself. “Ever since Emmeline passed…”
Billy swats his mother’s hand away and shrugs again. “Whatever,” he mumbles, pushing his way past her and into the living room. He nearly collides with his father, who laughs gently and steadies him by the shoulder.
“Watch where you’re going, kiddo,” Frank says. Billy nods reluctantly. Frank watches him plop down on the couch and shakes his head, but the quirk of a smile still plays on his lips. He turns to his wife and gathers her in his arms, planting a kiss on her cheek. “Have you seen what Hamish has been up to?”
Mary leans into his embrace and breathes in the scent of soap and woodfire that seems to exist permanently on his skin. “Yes, Billy was just saying that he’s boarding up the house. Do you know why?”
Frank shakes his head. “No, no clue. Maybe a storm is coming?”
Both of them peer upward out of the window, looking for signs of an ill wind as if the mention of a storm will suddenly darken the sky, as if the mere word could call fat droplets of water down to the earth.
From this angle, they can just see Hamish’s house, a tall square of pale pink against the clear blue sky. Not a storm cloud in sight.
Hamish himself is but a speck, surveying the house and observing his handiwork. He walks up to one of the windows and knocks on the plank of wood. Satisfied, he makes his way back inside.
“Well, if there’s to be a storm,” says Frank, holding his wife closer to him, “Hamish is the only one who knows about it.”
2
2
When the storm hits, it is a fire inside of Hamish’s heart, a red-raw pulse that spreads from his chest and down to his toes. He thinks he screams, but he’s not sure if the scream is ripped from his lungs or if it’s happening inside of his head.
There is a crunch.
At first, he thinks it’s because he’s knocked over his glass of whiskey and the crystal has shattered.
But then he wonders if it’s him that’s crunching, bones and teeth gnashing against some secret inside of him. There is a mischief in his blood, an echoing giggle that sharpens his teeth and pulls on his limbs like he’s nothing but a child’s toy. He is coming apart at the seams, stuffing spilling onto the rug.
Hours or minutes later—he’s not sure anymore—he finds himself on the floor. There is lead in his lungs and he gasps for breath. His body is not his own, or at least, it’s not the body he has known for forty years. He flexes his hand and his nails, now long and sharp, carve four shaky lines into the wood floor. He looks at them as if they are a foreign language and if he stares hard enough, he just might be able to translate them.
He turns his head to the side and finds himself framed in the shaft of moonlight that triggered his transformation. There is a calmness inside of his head and he knows this is it for now, for this full moon at least. He is still more man than beast for this one, his wolf-form a wisp at the back of his head, a mere mention in his muscles.
He is still on the floor and when he attempts to push himself up, he finds that he cannot move.
So, he closes his eyes and focuses on breathing. At some point, he lets sleep—or something very like it—take him away.
He dreams that Emmeline is there, her hand a soothing cold on his forehead. She presses her lips to his temple and whispers something in his ear. She smells like wisteria.
Consciousness takes the dream away and he blinks against the brightness of the sun. There is a roaring in his head, but it soon fades enough for him to realize that there is a knocking on the door.
He lifts his head, but his arms don’t follow. He stays pinned to the floor, his body still not quite his own.
A lunar-hangover.
The knocking persists and he thinks, at some point, he is able to call out to the visitor. At the very least, he hears a snap, and the chain barring the door thunks to the ground. The door creaks open.
There’s a whisper of “Oh, Hamish.”
Then, sleep truly takes him.
***
Mary Appleton gently closes the door to Hamish’s bedroom. Frank stands in the hallway. Their frowns are reflections of each other.
“How is he doing?” asks Frank.
Mary sighs. “As well as can be expected. He’s still sleeping, but his body…” She pauses, thinking again of the misshapen limbs, the russet fur lining Hamish’s face so different from the gray-tinged scruff of his beard.
“It was the man who stayed above the pub last month, wasn’t it? Tim said…” His voice trails off as he shakes his head.
Mary knows what he is hesitant to say: Tim had lost three cows that week and he told them it was an animal that did it. “A large wolf, almost as big as the cow, but definitely stronger anyhow,” he had said. “Large teeth. The cows were ripped apart. It’s that Newcomer, I know it is.”
Mary suppresses a shudder. “Right, well. Hamish wouldn’t do that. He’s our friend and we have to help him.”
Frank smiles fondly at his wife. He knows that look—there will be no changing her mind now. Besides, she’s right: he has known Hamish almost his entire life, much like everyone else in Mims. He is a friend and, even with a second form, he always will be. “We’ll do whatever we can,” he says.
3
3
“This is highly irregular,” says Arthur. “As the Mayor of Mims, I—”
“Oh, sit down Arthur,” says Frank.
Arthur does as he’s told but not without a few huffs of indignation. Almost everyone in Mims is gathered at the Wizard & Goose and they look at Mary Appleton expectantly. The sun slants through the window, illuminated dust particles dancing above everyone’s heads. The smell of beer and freshly baked bread lingers in the air. The pub looks smaller in the daytime, with its dark wood paneling and vibrant red booths that look too bright with sober eyes.
Mary clears her throat. “Thank you for coming here today,” she begins. “I would like to discuss Hamish Kelly. It would seem that the bandage on his hand was in fact from our Newcomer last month. Last night’s full moon has hit him quite hard.”
“I knew it!” shouts Tim from the back of the room. His short laugh is accompanied by a slight whistle as his breath passes through the gap between his front teeth. He takes a gulp of lager to reward himself for his astute observations.
“Yes, Tim,” says Mary patiently. “You did. And now Hamish is affected. His body tried to transform last night, only it wasn’t complete and he isn’t well.”
“Why should we help him?” asks Rose, the owner of the pub. “If he ends up anything like the Newcomer, he could wipe out our livestock. Or worse.”
“And what do you propose we do instead?” asks Father O’Brien.
The room is silent as they all consider the alternative that is too terrible to say out loud. A hunting rifle hangs above the bar in the back of the room and a few people look at it briefly, before averting their eyes with a grimace.
“Well, that’s settled, then,” says Frank. “We’re helping him.”
“Yes,” continues Mary. “Now, Hamish will be unable to cook for a few days, so I think we should get a roster going, so we can get his meals covered. Then, we should consider the very real possibility that the next full moon will mean a more…complete transformation. We should build a safe environment for him to do so. If he does end up as vicious and beastly as the Newcomer, we won’t have a chance to find out. We’ll keep him from hurting himself or anyone else.”
“Has anyone talked to Ginny?” asks Rose.
As the local witch, Ginnifer Ips is perhaps the only citizen of Mims qualified to handle such matters. She is absent from the impromptu town meeting, but that is not unusual. She lives on the outskirts of town, in a small cottage hidden in the trees. Often, the only sign that anyone lives out there is the lavender smoke from her chimney, wafting upward, reaching for the clouds.
Father O’Brien speaks up first. “I saw her yesterday evening for our discussion on the afterlife. She said she would be foraging and may be in the woods for a week or so.”
Mary nods. “We’ll wait until she gets back then. And maybe she’ll have something to help Hamish with the transition.”
With their plan settled, the townspeople go their own ways. Some head home, to begin baking a casserole or sorting through their pantries for their best jar of jam. Father O’Brien even donates a bottle of 20-year bourbon that he keeps for special occasions. “For a bit of comfort,” he says with red cheeks. Rose donates two loaves of bread and her Famous Meatloaf. Tim and Frank team up with Harold, who is not quite a carpenter but skilled in woodworking nonetheless, to start planning Hamish’s transformation room.
“Now, it’s not a cage,” says Frank. “Remember that. It’s got to be a little homey, at least. But practical. Strong walls. A good lock.”
Harold nods. “Should be easy enough.”
4
4
Hamish grips the door frame.
They’ve built an artificial wall in the corner of their barn and the resulting room is not the largest, but it is not the smallest either. It’s comfortable enough, even though it lacks any natural light. There is a cushion in the far corner, plush and lined with velvet.
Mary is fiddling with her necklace as she observes him. He is standing up—an improvement over last week and an accomplishment over the week before that. The only meal he’s been able to keep down is Rose’s Famous Meatloaf and the lack of nutrition is beginning to show. Mary has known Hamish almost her entire life and she has never seen him look so frail, so broken.
She wonders if it is his natural age coming through, something she shudders to think will happen to her soon. They are only two years apart after all.
But then she sees his hand gripping the door frame and it’s as if she can see the curse of the bite eating away at his body, his muscles and bones forever splintered between two truths.
Hamish is at a loss for words. He can’t shake the feeling that he’s been nothing but a lazy lout the past four weeks and this—this safe haven, built by his friends and neighbors and even Harold, who has held a grudge against Hamish for twenty years because he once beat him at a card game—is too much.
“Mary, I…”
“Oh, hush,” she says. She can see the words he’s searching for in his eyes. “Of course, we would do this for you. You’re our friend, Hamish. And we love you.”
“I know I haven’t been…the most friendly. Since Emmeline passed.”
Mary squeezes his shoulder. “Don’t you worry about it. We all need space from time to time.”
Hamish smiles, but the muscles in his face feel awkward and out of place. Although he cannot see it, he knows the moon is above them. The fire in his veins smolders, as his wolf-form growls, deep and low in his belly. “I think you should leave me be, Mary.”
“Yes, of course,” she says. “If you need anything, we’ll be close by.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he mumbles as she closes the door. The lock clicks into place with a dull thud.
The crunch is louder this time, like a twig snapping in the forest, a predator catching his scent. He would run if only his legs would move. He is on the floor, staring at the paisley rug they have given him. It’s incongruous with the beastly pain in his body and he laughs, thinking of how selflessly Mary Appleton has given up her favorite rug to help Hamish feel at home.
He could have loved Mary once—when they were young and too foolish to know what they needed. He remembers his hands on her waist at the school dance, her dark curls tickling his nose as she leaned close. What was the song they danced to?
