Lynchburg

Donald Smith decided to build a cabin deep in the woods when he learned that he was the werewolf terrorizing his hometown of Lynchburg, VA for the past year. He started to piece his memories together, the fleeting images of places such as Blackwater Creek and the Budget Inn, places he would have no reason to visit, places coinciding with reported incidents of werewolf attacks and missing persons. He did remember once a month waking up with a debilitating headache and covered in blood. His wife, Abigail, claims to have known about his condition for months but turned a blind eye to it because of her immense love for him and his improved vigor during sex. His kids, Howard and Tammy, eagerly await the day their Lycan genes activate so they can continue to terrorize Lynchburg on their father’s behalf. They were good kids, not perfect but raised as well as one could ever hope a child can be raised. Donald knew he’d miss them more than anything. 

It bothered Donald, on his final day of work at the DMV before his “extended vacation”, how he could ruin so many lives. He took pride in offering a friendly, caring hand to those bored to near suicide for their wait to renew their license. He looked at their soulless faces, his sunny grin brightening the gloom of their eyes, and he’d watch the heavens’ rays break through their dark clouds. They would smile back from the relief of their wait ending, the pure joy of conversing with a human again. He knew then that he was doing everything in his power to make life worth living for them. And then the thoughts crept in, how at the next full moon any one of them could go missing, with him powerless to stop himself. Donald hated himself for that. 

Before driving home, he prayed in his car for twenty minutes. He prayed for the well-being and salvation of every coworker whose name he could remember. Then he prayed for all the good people of Lynchburg, including the bad people who cut him off on the road. On the drive home, he counted six other vehicles cutting him off, yet with his pending fate heavy on his mind he chose not to swear or honk his horn. He obeyed the speed limit, both hands firm on the wheel as God intended, singing along to “Good Good Father” by Chris Tomlin. 

When he arrived at his home, inherited from his father, Doug Smith, he hugged his children for the last time. At least for a while, he assured them. Little Tammy cried her eyes out. Howard shed a single tear, as teenage boys tend to do to still look cool even when they’re sad. 

Donald ate one last meal with his beloved family: backed chicken wings with broccoli, seasoned with a pinch of salt, a dash of pepper, and prayer. And to consummate the evening, he fucked Abigail four times in a row. Hot, sensual sex that can only be achieved through fifteen years of faithful marriage.

Lynchburg would be able to rest easily after that nice. The werewolf that haunted the city would disappear forever.

When Abigail woke the next morning, Donald was gone. She took a deep breath and got out of bed. She leaned against the sill of the open bedroom window, blowing smoke out of it after taking a long drag of her Virginia Slims cigarette. The sky was gray, cloudless, but as full of potential as the rest of her life.

Her real name is Charlotte Isley, and she was an actress. As was the rest of the family.

From the window, Charlotte watched a cab pull up to the curb in front of their house, which has been rented for the past twelve months. She could see eight-year-old Tammy Smith, real name Lupita Gomez, walking down the driveway, rolling a suitcase almost as big as she was behind her. The cab driver got out to store Lupita’s luggage in the truck, and as he did so Lupita lit a Virginia Slims and took a long drag. She looked up, spotted Charlotte. They waved goodbye to each other before Lupita hopped in the back seat of the cab to be taken to the airport. 

Charlotte turned around, and there stood a werewolf, with big eyes and big teeth and big claws. It was frighteningly huge and equally menacing. Each heavy breath sounded like a snarl. Its yellow eyes were fixated on Charlotte, which made it salivate. 

“Donald?” asked Charlotte. The werewolf lifted its massive hands to its giant head and what turned out to be a plastic mask popped off. Under the mask, the fake werewolf turned out to be sixteen-year-old Howard Smith, real name Pierre (Just Pierre. It’s sheek.). He looked funny with his tiny head on that massive werewolf body.

“He forgot his costume,” said Pierre in a thick French accent, a lit Virginia Slims bobbing between his lips as he spoke.

“Oh, well,” said Charlotte. “The bit is over, anyway.”

It was 2am that morning when Donald stood in front of a secluded log cabin three hours outside Lynchburg, surrounded by acres of towering trees. He stood in front of the door slumped over, long faced, lamenting over the life he’s having to give up. The moon above (not quite full) gave off just enough light for him to find his keys and unlock the door, it slowly swaying open with an earsplitting squeal. He took five steps inward, reached up and pulled on the hanging string switch to turn on the cabin’s single lightbulb. The cabin interior was bare save for a cot against the wall and a wooden table with two chairs in the far corner. And a dead body in the middle of the floor.

The corpse belonged to a college-aged ginger girl named Peach Townson, one of the several people reported missing from the werewolf attacks. She was reported missing under the name Georgia Montana.

“Oh, merciful Jesus,” said Donald, nearly gagging. Peach’s body laid there for days with two deep gashes across her throat. Donald knew she was dead because of him during a night of uncontrollable werewolfing. She served as one more reminder of how his exile from society will protect Lynchburg. 

But he couldn’t enjoy his shameful loneliness while sharing a space with a rotting corpse. He needed to get her out of the way. The most logical way of doing so, he concluded, was to turn into a werewolf and eat her. He forced a growl. He hunched over, pulling at his hair, clawing at his dress shirt until the buttons popped off. Drool dripped down his chin as he tried to recall a bestial madness presently dormant within him. He howled once, twice, three times, then began to feel silly for thinking he could turn on command. Peach’s staring, albeit lifeless eyes only added to his embarrassment.

He tried eating her anyway, thinking perhaps his experiences as a werewolf has altered his tastebuds as a human. He gnawed at her arm, which tasted awful, but not so much corpsey awful as it was brussel sprout awful—a taste he could stomach.

There was a sudden knocking sound behind him. 

“Uh, excuse me, Mr. Smith?” It was a man named Patrick Dunne, another person reported missing from a werewolf attack (reported missing as Brian Gertz). He leaned against the frame of the open cabin door, a lit Virginia Slims between the middle and forefingers of his hand that hung by his thigh. Behind him were seven other supposedly missing people. Donald turned his head to meet Patrick’s gaze while still kneeling over Peach’s body. “Hey, so, since you’re here, that means the bit is over, right? So, do you think you can get us an uber out here? Or maybe drive us back into town yourself? A lot of us have been hiding out here for months, and we would like to get back to our lives.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Donald. “What bit? Where did you people come from?”

“The bit,” said Patrick, annoyed. “The one where we all pretend to be missing because you’re a werewolf eating us.”

“Huh? You mean I didn’t actually eat anyone?”

“No. Because you’re not really a werewolf.”

Donald rubbed his forehead. “Okay, sir, you’re not making any sense. I know for a fact I’m a werewolf.”

“Jesus Christ, can we not do this, please? 

“Do what?”

“Look, do you not remember that night when you jumped me in the Walmart parking lot in your werewolf costume? Scratching up my Nissan? Dragging me here, to this cabin? Everything went down like we originally planned it.”

“I woke up covered in someone’s blood every morning after I turned!”

“How can I explain that? I’ve been here for six goddamn months!”

“You good, Pat?” yelled one of the seven other supposedly missing people, an older Latin man named Manny Garcia, reported missing as Hector Tanahashi.

Patrick turned and walked closer to him. “He thinks we’re not doing a bit and that he’s really a werewolf. Can you help me talk to him, Manny?”

But as Patrick took several steps away from the cabin, Donald, with a rock he just swooped up from the ground, whacked Patrick in the back of the head. Without an ounce of hesitation, he mounted Patrick’s back and continued to smash the rock into the back of Patrick’s head. 

“Ay caramba!” cried Manny, his Virginia Sims dropping between his feet. In a panic, he and the others screamed and scattered like flies deeper into the woods. 

Donald kept going until the rock and his hand were covered in blood. When he stopped bludgeoning Patrick, he howled at the sky.

Donald dragged Patrick’s body next to Peach’s. He surveyed the two corpses side by side, shaking his head. That awful werewolf personal struck again, he thought. Eating two corpses instead of one was more than he could stomach, and he couldn’t bury them because he didn’t have a shovel (digging two graves would be a lot of work, anyway). And the last thing he was prepared to do was spend his exile next to two dead bodies. He stared at them, shaking his head until a solution popped in it.

It was 9am when Donald arrived at Cornerstone Community Church. Making his way through the church hall, he found four people sitting around a card table on the stage, past the podium behind which sermons are delivered. Seated there were: Malcolm Greer (who for the past twelve months played as Pastor Willie Taylor), Pam Williams (who played as Willie’s wife, Minerva), Kyle Evans (who played as Don Doebler), and Irma Radcliff (who played as Don’s wife, Laura). They were all half naked, playing strip poker. Playing cards scattered across the table, along with glasses of whiskey and clear ashtrays for their Virginia Slims cigarettes. Clothes were thrown carelessly around them, with the current plan being someone’s undergarment added to the mess in the next minute or so.

“Pastor Willie,” cried Donald, making his way onto the stage. “Thank God, you’re here.” He noticed the alcohol and the nudity. “Um…what’s going on here?”

“What do you think?” said Pam. “And he ain’t no Pastor Willie. So you can either get naked or get lost.”

“Okay, whatever, look,” Donald began, “I don’t know where else to go or what else to do. But there is a monster inside of me that is taking control, and I need you to perform an exorcism on me as soon as possible.”

They all stared at Donald for a moment in collective silents. “Boy, what in the hell is wrong with you?” said Malcolm. “I ain’t no pastor. It was all part of that werewolf bit.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” said Donald. “This isn’t a bit or an act or anything like that. I’m a danger to society. I just killed a man a few hours ago. I think I killed a young woman at some point in the woods. I need help. Divine help.”

Irma walked away from the table with her cellphone in hand, dialing 9-1-1. 

“You do realize that most of the bit was your idea, right?” asked Kyle. “But I guess I can respect your dedication. You look like shit.” He was referring to Donald’s ruined shirt and right arm covered in blood.

“I’m not acting,” said Donald, pleading.

“Listen,” said Malcolm, “We’ve been pretending to be this goody-two-shoes church staff for a year. A year! A whole-ass year without getting drunk and nasty. As soon as we woke up and got the text that the bit was over, we knew that the only way to start the day was with some T and A, know what I’m saying? So, like the woman said, you can clean yourself off and join us, or you can get the fuck out. The choice is yours.”

“But I thought you were a pastor,” Donald was on the verge of tears. “You’ve been so good to me and my family. I don’t know what’s going on.”

Just then, Irma, who reclothed behind everyone’s back, walked down one of the aisles leading to the stage, followed by Officers Javaz Williams (no relation to Pam Williams) and Josh Massie, who for the past twelve months operated under the names Officers Byron Henry and John Acharya, respectively.

“It’s him, officers,” said Irma. “It’s Donald Smith, he’s gone mad!”

“Please, calm down,” said Officer Williams. Officer Massie stared absentmindedly up at the stage, at the exposed bodies of Malcolm, Pam and Kyle, silently admiring their spotty, sagging flesh and overweight figures, imagining how they might smell. Officer Williams addressed Donald. “Good morning, Mr. Smith. My partner and I were told you are under distress.”

“Distressed is an understatement, sir,” said Donald.

“But we are also aware that you should be in a cabin outside the city to finish the bit,” said Officer Williams.

Donald’s head contorted and his face twisted in anguish. “My life is not a bit! Look, officer, I am a werewolf. That’s not an act or a joke. I’m a danger to everyone around me. I chose to leave my job and my family to live alone in a remote cabin, that much you got right. But there are two dead bodies rotting in that cabin that I don’t want to be anywhere near. So I came here, to seek the aid of Pastor Willie, or whoever he says he is, for an exorcism, because clearly what’s inside of me is a direct product of the devil.”

“Mr. Smith, those two dead bodies are actors. They’re playing dead because they think the bit’s still going on.”

“Hey, man,” said Officer Massie, broken free from his trance, “we got isolation at the county jail. We can keep you fed and clothed until your part of the bit is over.”

“No,” said Donald. “I don’t need to go to jail. I’m not a criminal. None of these murders are my fault. I’m being possessed by a werewolf.”

“You know,” said Malcolm, “my boy, Freddy hooked you up with that wolf costume. Scary as shit, too. Claws and teeth look real and everything. Or do you not remember Fred giving it to you?”

“Those claws are stiff, too,” chimed in Officer Massie. “He needed them to damage the vehicles of the quote-unquote missing people.” He did the quoting finger gestures as he said this.

“Wasn’t your family played by a bunch of actors from LA?” asked Kyle to Donald, who, at the thought of his loved ones being part of some game at his expense, began screaming. He leaped off the stage and ran out the church, audibly hysteric, his hands waving above his head like a lunatic.

Everyone stared at the direction Donald ran off to, then at each other. Malcolm revealed his poker hand. He had a flush. He told Irma to take off her panties—along with the rest of the clothes she put back on. Pam countered with a better hand (four of a kind) and demanded that Malcolm remove his trousers. Officer Massie asked to join them in the game.