Werewolf on Maple Street

There are some things, secrets, that should never see the light of day. There are some secrets that I say can only be known to a select few, a small trusted circle of friends and associates who understand the weight of the knowledge they possess and the damage it could do once revealed to those outside the circle.  But that has already been breached I’m afraid and I write this confession, I find myself filled with trepidation and consternation. First let me introduce myself. My name is Phillip LaRouse and I’m now known as the werewolf on Maple Street.

Before that title fell heavy on my head, I was a nobody, a working stiff with a name tag working security at a stockyard on the east side near the river.  My ambition is far greater than the position I held at Tate and Myers Security as at that time I was enrolled in classes at the community college with aspirations of becoming a business major.  After being discharged from the army after my enlistment that included many pitfalls and diversions, I found a nice boarding house on Maple Street where respectable folks live in a suburban paradise where they are recruited for Parent-Teacher Organizations and arrange play-dates to keep their energetic offspring entertained.  Now, I don’t hate children despite my misgivings about their ideas of entertainment as they walk around playing games on their cell phones without paying any attention to where they are going thus creating awkward social interactions where they seem to lack the face to face social skills. Hey, I’m not an expert in social interactions either, but I know the conventions required when passing someone on the street even when you do not know them.  Waving at a pair of kids on the street when I first moved to Maple Street, I saw them put their heads together and utter, “Beware, stranger danger.” 

I had no intentions of interfering with their progress or prevention of their intended destination, but the idea that I was perceived as a threat to them was, to say the least, a bit insulting.  While I have experienced a wide variety of social interaction, these two green horns had no idea of who or what I was. And let me tell you that it is the fault of our society to label this person that or whatever to suit the need of classifying a person in a certain category to marginalize them so they can be dealt with in an appropriate way. 

Mr. Hubert, the caretaker of the establishment known as Dugan’s Place, named after the original owner of the boardinghouse. Now past sixty years old, Mr. Hubert a favorite nephew of Old Man Dugan who took pleasure in chasing kids off his lawn by chasing them with his thick oak walking stick, he told me that most of the people in the neighborhood viewed the tenants in the boarding house as pedophiles or children haters, neither of which group I was a member of.  Still it was interesting talking with him as he drank his coffee with a shot of Baileys to warm his insides just right about some of the tenants who had once been residents of the boardinghouse. According to Mr. Hubert, there had been a variety of felons and criminals who sometimes made the front page, but he liked me because I had ambition and wanted to make something of myself.  

My parents were not so optimistic about my future as they put up with a long painful episodic period of adolescence that included some time in juvenile hall for a variety of small infractions that led them to the best assessment of this rocky period of my life, “Well, at least Phillip is not on drugs.”  My school life did not help to add any luster to my character as most of my teachers told me that trade school would be about the best option for my future, a trade where academic skills were not the focus. In my shortened military career, most of my superiors were not impressed with my military bearing, suggesting that I steer myself clear of winding up in incarceration if I could help it.  So when I enrolled, I wanted to show everyone that Phillip LaRouse could become somebody.

I know!  I know, I’m getting to the werewolf part.  A little patience would be appreciated.  

So, one night I wound up at a party where a poker game broke out and after a few inhibition loosening beverages, I was winning a stack of money.  Now, the money I was wagering was my rent money, but it seemed Lady Luck was on my side for a change, but how naive I was as she would quickly shift loyalty, leaving me as broke as I had been in my life.  With my rent due in a couple of days and IOU notes pinned to my shirt, I went home wondering what I was going to do. Mr. Hubert was quick to remind me that my rent was due and I knew from experience, he did not tolerate tenants late on the rent as you would come home to find your stuff occupying the curb.  

Next morning I saw this attractive woman sitting behind a table in the student cafeteria with a big old sign taped to the side reading, “Earn extra $$$ ask me!”  So I did.

“Yes, I’m Kate of the biology department and we are paying students to try out this prospective medicine.” She smiled at me and I was thinking about asking her for her phone number with her auburn hair and her sparkling green eyes that seem to accentuate her smile.

“What is the medicine for?” I asked, drinking her in with my eyes.

“Oh, I can’t tell you that.” She shook her head and that beautiful hair swished all around her heart shaped face. “But I will give you $100 cash.” 

“Really?” I picked up one of the clipboards and began to fill it in with a pen.  When I got finished, she told me to have a seat in a lounge chair which I gladly climbed in as she rolled up my sleeve.  Before I had time to prepare myself, she plunged the syringe into my arm. There was a warm feeling that followed.

“If there are any side effects, please come and let us know.” She handed me a card with the company’s contact information including a web address. She then handed me $100 which was still short of the $300 amount that was due.  Checking around the campus, I discovered that there were no other opportunities to make up the cash, so I went home with the money stashed in my wallet and wondered how I would make up the difference.  

The next day there was a new person sitting at the table and I decided to do it again since I had no noticeable side effects from the previous day.  I had read through the handout brochure and felt I could withstand another dose. Making up an alias I smiled as I handed the blonde girl my application.

“Mr. Smith, have a seat.” She smiled and again I found myself in love.   Looking me in the eyes with her crystal blue eyes, she gave me another injection and then handed me another $100 which I put in my wallet. “If you have any side effects, please call us immediately.” She said as he expression grew serious.

“What are you looking for?” I asked about putting the card next to the other one in my wallet.

“Oh, I can’t tell you that.” She shook her head and sent me off with a very caring smile.  

That night I felt strange.  Wandering into the common bathroom on the second floor, I looked at my reflection in the mirror and noticed my bloodshot eyes.  My eyes were never bloodshot unless I was having a few, but I had not, so I wondered why my eyes were so red. I stuck out my tongue and saw it was a bit off color as well.  Still other than that, I felt as if I could endure another injection, but I wished I knew what it was doing to me. Looking out the open window in the bathroom, I noticed the moon was almost full.  Shaking my head, I walked to my room and didn’t really pay any more attention.  

I had some very vivid nightmares about having to trudge through a bad snowstorm and found when I awoke, my pillow lay in tatters all over the floor, feathers everywhere.  I walked to my kitchen and found the package of hamburger had been ripped open and eaten as is which made me wonder if some pesky racoons had managed to break in.

“Mr. Jones.” She smiled at me when I handed her my application.  This would be my last time since I would now have enough to cover my rent.  Her mocha colored skin was enticing to me, her long black hair hung down to her petite pretty shoulders and her coal black eyes seemed to undress me as I sat there rolling up my sleeve. 

“So what are you testing for?” I asked her.

“We are not allowed to tell you.” She shook her head as she prepared the syringe. “If you have any of the side effects listed on this card, please call the number.” 

So, I put the card next to the other two as she pushed the needle into the skin on my upper arm.  This time the liquid injected seemed to burn and I winced upon feeling the Searing pain.  

“Are you alright, Mr. Jones?” She asked, surprised at my reaction.

“I’m fine.” I lied trying not to let on to the hot pain traveling down my arm.  

I ended up walking home which was only about a couple of miles from Maple Street.  As I was on the sidewalk about three blocks from Dugan’s Place, two kids on bicycles decided I was fair game for their ridicule the chump walking on the sidewalk feeling kind of light headed so they called out as they rolled by me, “Hey creeper.”  And then they laughed. I looked at their red with laughter at my expense and felt a searing anger rise up in me as they rode by again and I kicked the tire of the one of their bicycles and watched the rider detach from it and roll haphazardly into some bushes that scraped and clawed at him as he rolled.

“Hey!” The other rider yelled peddling to aid his fallen friend.  The other boy was tearing up as he pulled some branches from his hair and hoodie. “Hey mister, you broke my chain.” 

He gave me the finger and in that single gesture of defiance, I felt the soothing warmth of revenge as he picked up his broken bicycle and started walking home. 

“You are an asshole.” The other rider proclaimed as he joined his walking friend.

Proud parents most likely I mused as I watched them disappear down an adjoining street. 

“What’s up?” Mr. Hubert had already settled in his lounge chair on the porch with his glass of ice tea like he had every day at this time. “Your face is all red.” 

“Is it?” I brushed my cheeks as if this would stop the discoloration.

“Rent is due on Monday.” He sipped his tea.

“Sure, sure.” I felt agitated with this unwelcome reminder. 

“How is it going at college?” He was prying and I wanted to be left alone at this moment, my temper still unfurled after the kids accosted me on my walk home.  

“Fine, fine.” I nodded as I walked inside.  My face felt flush, but I thought it was just because of his remark, but when I got to the bathroom on the second floor, I looked in the mirror and gasped.  My face wasn’t just red, it appeared as if it was on fire from the inside.  

Things did not get any better later after dinner.  I sat there in the recreation room with a dozing resident from the third floor, a maintenance worker by the name of Clark-something when I suddenly began to feel violently ill.  Clark-something screamed…

The next morning, I suffered the worst hangover of my life.  My mouth tasted like cotton and the ringing in my head was ceaseless.  There was a loud knock on my door and I got up to answer it. I had my rent money in my hand, because I though Mr. Hubert was collecting rent for the month, but there were two police officers standing there flanking Mr. Hubert.  Shaking my head free of the cobwebs, I said in a dry labored voice, “Can I help you?” 

“Are you Phillip LaRouse?” One of them asked.

“I am.” I nodded which hurt my head.

“We need to ask you a few questions.” He said in a very efficient manner.

“Come in.” I opened the door letting the policeman in my room.  Mr. Hubert followed them, his head on a swivel to make sure I did not have any contraband or anything hanging on the walls that was against the rules. 

“Mr. Winkowski was murdered late last night.” He said sitting in my easy chair.

“Who?” 

“Tenant on third floor.” Mr. Hubert pointed at the ceiling. “Clark, Clark Winkowski.” 

“Ah yes.” I nodded, “Murdered, you say?” 

“Yes.  In the recreation room.  Blood was everywhere. It will take me quite a while to clean it. Blood stains never come out of that material.” Mr. Hubert shook his head in resignation.   One of the officers shot him a side glance.  

“Sorry to hear it.” I shrugged. 

“His throat was torn open.” The second officer reported as Mr. Hubert shuddered and not in silence, I might add. 

“Horrible.” I nodded.

“We have reason to believe that you were the last person to see Mr. Winkowshi alive.” The first officer read from his notepad.

“Me?  Says who?” I was feeling as though my room was getting smaller by the minute.

“Yes, so we’d like to take you in for further questioning.” The second officer reached for his handcuffs.

“Wait a minute there.” I took a step back, “I had nothing to do with it, I assure you.” 

“Well can you tell us where you were at 10:30 last night?” The question seemed to float in the air. 

“Sleeping in this room.” I pointed to the bed, but then I saw the blood stains.  Lots of blood stains, but how could this be? What motive did I have for murdering a man whose name I didn't even know.  A man who was sleeping in front of a television that was not turned on. I remember seeing the moon, my goodness it was full and bright.  I remember feeling strangely and how I wanted to lie down...but he was asleep...there was no room...for me to sit. Holding up my hands, I see the shaggy fur that seems to be sprouting from my arms.  Both police officers stand there staring at me with their eyes bulging out of their sockets as Mr. Hubert screams, sending a line of spital into my face. He spit on me! I hate him. I hate him!

In the cage of the once of the city cells, I lean back on my hard cot, my head between my folded hands, the fur no longer there, but there is a lot of blood on my clothing.

“Mr. LaRouse.” A voice calls to me from beyond the bars and I look up and see a middle aged balding man wearing hip glasses at the end of his non-existent nose.

“Yes.” I manage to groan.

“I’m Doctor Kilgore.” He says calmly.

“So?”

“I found evidence that you visited the table in the cafeteria three times.” He coughs and this irritates me further.

“No, just once.”

“Well I have an application for Mr. LaRouse, Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith all in your handwriting.” He smiles holding the application near the bars for me to examine. 

“Alright, so what?” I shrug again.

“Our trials were only meant to be administered once.” His expression changes to one that is more alarming.

“I needed the money.” 

“This was an experiment drug that we found in our trial was capable of changing the genetic makeup of a person if exposed to this substance frequently.” His bleach white face paled.

“So what?” I thought about reaching out and grabbing his larynx.

“This serum was found to be shape altering at a higher dose and we now consider it too risky for what we had intended it to be.” He sighed deeply as he shook his head slowly, “It was never intended…”

“What?  What have you done to me?” I was to my boiling point.

“It was an anti-werewolf treatment since there have been some medical reports of increasing werewolf bites.” He paused letting his words sink in, “But just like a vaccine, in order to administer the cure, we used some of the werewolf serum to build a natural immunity.”

What he was trying to say, hit me like a lightning bolt as my head began to swim in the ramifications.

“Because you got a triple dose, we believed we have turned you into what we were trying to prevent.” His face told the rest of the story.  I had unwittingly become the werewolf on Maple Street claiming the lives of a former tenant, Clark Winkowski and Mr. Hubert the landlord... and as he walked away...forbidden thoughts congregated in my mind...how I had become nothing more than a wolf in sheep’s clothing...unable to help myself from wondering how he’d taste with a good bottle of Chardonnay and a strong hoisin sauce served tartar over a spinach salad.