to go and find my people, tell them I was safe, but I knew, I just knew that if I saw one of them, didn’t matter if it was my mom or my girlfriend or one of my teachers or my football coach, I’d… do something. Bad.”
He nods his head, like maybe I’ve asked him a question, or possibly disagreed with him. Then he focuses on me, yellow eyes glowing softly in the dark. “Maybe… maybe that’s why you zombies are supposed to hate us so much. We’re bad, we’re monsters, and you know just how bad we can be.”
I reach across the middle stump, cold skin rasping on the cheap plastic trick or treat bag as I stretch across it. “You can’t be all bad.”
I put my hand on his, cold gray skin on cold brown fingers. He looks at me, then away. Gently, he slides his hand out from under mine.
He sees the disappointment in my eyes and says, quickly, like he wants to move on, “I don’t even know your name.”
“Grace,” I say, quietly, still a little hurt. I mean, it’s not like I was hitting on him or anything, you know? What’s a little monster to monster support in a moment of weakness, right?
I mean, it’s Halloween. In the land of monsters, when you’re undead, that’s like, like New Year’s Eve. Humans kiss each other on New Year’s Eve all the time, doesn’t mean much. Monsters reach out, touch cold skin to cold skin on October 31, so what’s the big deal?
Sheesh, with this guy.
“Caspian,” he says, finally, when it’s clear I’m a little ticked off and don’t ask him his name.
I snort. “For real?”
He shakes his head, chuckling a little, too, like I’ve caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. “Naw, but ‘Marvin’ was just too lame and I figure, if I had to leave my old life behind, why not start with a new name, right?”
I smile and think: How come I never thought of that?
I mean, here I am, five or six zombie years old, and it never even occurred to me to use a fake name. Not that I talk to many zombies, let alone Normals, but still… I could have been going around calling myself Serafina Von Wilhelm or Angel Abercrombie or Suzanne Mercedes or something cool like that!
His voice is soft and gentle, as if he knows he’s interrupting my thoughts. “So, I’ve told you my sad story. Are you going to tell me why we’re supposed to hate each other now?”
“I wish I knew,” I say, turning slightly toward him. The moon is high now, not quite full, but just scenic enough to fit the crisp October setting. The night is winding down now, the laughing children, rustling crepe paper, crinkling plastic, ringing doorbell trick or treat sounds fading gently from the streets just beyond the woods where we linger. “But, from what I hear, you’re supposed to kill me on sight.”
“Whoops.” He holds up his hands, palms out and facing me. “My bad.”
I chuckle dryly, silently forgiving him for dissing me with the whole pulling-his-hand-away thing. “Or is that what I’m supposed to do to you?” I ask, finger to my chin. “I can never remember.”
He nods, then shrugs, then studies me some more. “Well, since I’m not killing you, and you’re not killing me, I guess… I guess we can be friends?”
I smile. “As long as no other zombies come around, and no more vampires show up, to tell us we can’t be. That would kind of screw things up.”
He nods, smiles, then thinks of something. “So, we’re… I mean, we’re pretty much it for undead immortal monster bad guys around these parts?”
“Fraid so,” I sass, kind of swinging my feet against the bottom of my tree stump, like a kid sitting at the grown up’s table for the first time. “Sorry you got stuck with a lame-o zombie instead of some cool Mermaid or Siren or Franken-Woman or something.”
He looks me up and down, eyes flashing yellow, lips curling around a crooked smile. “I guess you’ll do.”
Sounds rude, in black and white, but the way he says it, those yellow-black eyes peering back at me, lips smiling, voice gentle and suggestive, gives me the shivers.
Then, suddenly I smell something, raw and mangy, like wet dog fur. It hits my nose like a punch, filling my nostrils, thick like raw meat, not quite rotten, not quite fresh. I stand, quickly, and he joins me. “What now?” he asks, both of us peering into the darkness.
“I’m… I’m not sure yet.”
We stand, shoulder to shoulder, not because I asked him to do that, he just kind of came over to me that way. I think it’s kind of sweet, or maybe he’s scared and needs me to protect him, which is almost even… sweeter.
Then, a noise, like heavy breathing, and heavy walking, dry, cold October grass crunching under foot. We tense, shoulder to shoulder, side by side, standing there, waiting, but… for what?
A trick-or-treater wearing a suit made of raw meat?
A prankster wrapped in wet dogs?
Actual wet dogs?
Who?!?
What?!?
When?!?
Suddenly a figure strides into view, confident, cocky, athletic, masculine, a teenager wearing a Wolfman costume. But… it’s more than that.
“Hey guys,” he says, stumbling a little as he enters the clearing. Caspian stiffens, his cheap red cape fluttering a little in my ear. “Is that… is that a trick or treat bag I see?”
“Yeah,” I snap, because I see him now. What he is. What he really is, the big, wet dog smelling jerk. “But it’s not for you.”
Caspian cuts me a look, yellow eyes wide at the tone in my voice. “Okay, okay,” says Wolfie, “you don’t want to share, I get it…”
He inches closer, a letterman’s jacket over a white T-shirt, hairy rubber Wolfman mask, hairy rubber wolf fingers over each hand.
“Stay where you are,” I tell him, voice getting low and angry and cold, like it gets when danger walks out of the woods and into my life, all sudden and hairy like.
He stops, cocking his head a little. I can’t see his eyes, behind the mask. Can’t see his face, or his teeth either, can’t see his real hands or his arms or his legs, but I can see the inch or two of skin and flesh between where his shirt stops and his mask starts. Which means I can see the hair lurking beneath his tan skin, see it right there beneath his flesh, waiting to slither out like Caspian’s fangs.
Like us, the Wolfman is dressed as what he is; what he really is.
“What?” Caspian asks, shoulder touching mine. His cold feels good against my cold, and suddenly I’m glad he’s at my side, for more than just the company on this Halloween night. “What’s wrong?”
“That werewolf is a werewolf,” I explain, never taking my eyes of Wolfie. “Beneath the mask, he’s a real wolf.”
The Wolfman watches us, head still cocked to one side, quiet beneath his mask, still beneath his costume.
“How can you tell?” asks Caspian, whispering, as if Wolfie can’t hear even better than I can.
“Same way I spotted you,” I say, clenching my fists at my sides, instinctively preparing for the werewolf’s attack. “I can see beneath his skin… I can see what he really, really is.”
Just then, we watch as Wolfie crouches, low, chuckling dryly beneath his mask. The chuckle is cold, and dry, and angry. He says nothing, the Wolfman, but I can already hear the hair slithering from his skin even as his claws – his real claws – poke through the rubber gloves, ripping them off, tearing them to shreds.
They drop to the ground, flopping, one by one, tattered and rubbery, split right down the middle like fish that have been filleted. Where they were just a moment before, real claws, real hair, real paws extend and crack and groan and take their place.
“Jesus,” says Caspian, next to me. “J-J-Jesus.”
I nod, watching as the werewolf transforms in front of us, blood dripping from his skin as bones crack and muscles morph and his costume falls away, leaving behind a ginormous beast with a leathery, hairy hide and muscles on muscles on muscles.
His mask is last, splitting from his face as thick, greasy hair and pointy ears and rich, leathery skin and his own yellow eyes rush forward to replac
e it. His fangs are long and worn, from use, and his snout bleeds and drools as it stretches and cracks.
The sound, the stench, is awful, but not as awful as the thought of what’s coming next, when the transformation is complete and we’re the only prey in town.
Caspian, nearly breathless beside me, somehow manages to sputter. “What… what do we think of werewolves?”
“Oh, we hate them,” I say, turning to watch the fangs slither from his gums, the yellow burning in his eyes as the anger, the violence, and his true nature overtake his gentle soul. “We hate them something special!”
* * * * *
About the Author
Rusty Fischer is the author of over a dozen YA paranormal novels, including Zombies Don’t Cry, Zombies Don’t Forgive, Vamplayers and Ushers, Inc. Visit him at www.rushingtheseason.com to learn more and read tons of FREE YA holiday paranormal stories just like this one!
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