Page 13 of Bewitched By the Werewolf
I was so wrong thinking Larken was chatty. No one I’ve ever met is more talkative than Dottie and her friend Donna, or as they like to call themselves, the double Dee’s. It’s cute and fits right along with all the other names in town. Both women look to be in their thirties, Donna maybe early forties. We get along swimmingly, being in the same age bracket. I hate having to talk to anyone under twenty-five, I can barely understand their strange lingo and terms.
When I walked intoDottie’s Diner,I knew immediately who Dottie was. She literally looks like her diner. Wearing a pink and white checkered mini dress, hair and eyeliner like twiggy, and matching square heeled Mary-janes, it wasn’t a hard guess. Also, she immediately introduced herself. Apparently, she knows everyone in town, and she didn’t know me, so of course that meant she had to instantly find out everything about me.
Donna joined us almost immediately after a girl on roller skates seated me at the counter and took my order.
The cover story I came up with on the fly when talking with Larken, seems to appease her need to know why I’m in town. Strangers coming in for the blood moon isn’t as unusual as a random girl appearing out of nowhere and asking pointed questions about their town apparently. So, I roll with it.
“And that’s why Mr. Nelson no longer wears pants,” Dottie concludes. I have no idea who Mr. Nelson but now I know all about his unfortunate relationship with a gopher who has an unhealthy obsession with chewing on the hem of his pants.
Dottie and Donna laugh at the antics of their fellow towns people; I chuckle along because it is kind of funny. I’m sitting at the counter with Donna at my side and Dottie standing in front of us refilling our lemonades. Even the pitcher she pours it from is vintage with orange flowers painted on the glass. I pick at the remnants of my lunch, a simple chef salad with the freshest ingredients I’ve ever had. Maybe this living out in the forest has something to it. Even the lemonade tastes real and freshly squeezed. It wouldn’t surprise me if she picked the lemons herself.
“So how is it you found out about our little town again?” Dottie asks, slipping from charming small-town stories into nosey neighbor mode.
I can’t tell if she’s just curious or has ulterior motives. Her bright eyes are sharp and focused directly on me, paying very close attention. Her smile doesn’t falter, and her posture is relaxed and unassuming, which of course means she is very interested. Time to play dumb.
“Oh, a friend of mine mentioned a cute town where I could witness the eclipse un-interfered by city light. Thought I would check it out. So here I am.”
The less information I give the better. Less likely to be caught in a lie. I have become a top-notch liar through the years though. It’s practically second nature at this point. Especially when you’re institutionalized and have to prove you’re not crazy in order to be set free. After I finally escaped the funny farm, I told everyone I no longer believed werewolves were real. As soon as I put distance between me and my family, I immediately began my search again. This time in earnest and online. If my familywouldn’t believe me or accept me then I would find people who would, and there are plenty of people out there who believe me. I curated a digital community of support and information that helped me accumulate almost everything I could need to prove the unbelievable.Almosteverything, mostly secondhand accountings and stories. There were a few firsthand sightings but nothing tangible, nothing physical. Lots of lost or corrupted data and missing backups. Almost as if something or someone was ensuring no one could prove their existence. Which is exactly why I believe they’re more real now than ever before.
If someone works that hard to hide the existence of something, it must be real. Otherwise, they wouldn’t care they would let the fabrications and falsehoods remain. Which is why is think there’s so much information out there on big foot.
“So, your friend has been here before?” Donna hedges.
They’re trying to find out who told me. Well, jokes on them because I have to flippin idea, but I’m not going to tell them that. If they found out I got a tip about this town on my website from an unknown source—and they’re what I think they are—they’d…Well, I’m not sure what they would do. If they are werewolves, they could very well eat me or turn me. I never really thought about what would happen when confronted face to face with an actual werewolf. I suppose as long as they’re in their human form I could escape. Maybe they’d just kick me out or do whatever it is they do to keep their town secret from the outside world. Guess I’ll just have to hope they don’t eat me. Everyone I’ve met so far seems reasonably normal and nice.
“I guess so.” I shrug acting casual and cool. “He didn’t say. Just suggested it in passing. He doesn’t even know I came here.”
“Well maybe we know him. It is a small town after all. What’s his name?”
“Sam,” I answer immediately. If you stutter on a person’s name who’s supposedly your friend people become suspicious,and I use some of the most common names in America when lying. Everyone knows a Sam, Joe, John, or Erik.
My response seems believable because both ladies make faces as if they’re trying to place a Sam they might know.
“Wasn’t Georgia’s nephew named Sam?” Dottie asks Donna.
Donna snaps her fingers in triumph pointing animatedly at Dottie. “You know you’re right. He did come around a few years ago. Never mentioned he was friends with a pretty redhead though. I’m sure that boy would have bragged about knowing someone like you, Tess.”
Both women look at me and I make a face of confusion hopefully signifying my own unawareness. “How should I know what he tells people about me?”
They both hum in concession. It makes sense from an unknowing person’s point of view. I don’t control what others say about me, so it’s plausible.
“But you’re not…” Dottie trails off while tilting her head in my direction as if I’m supposed to know how to finish that sentence.
“Not…?” I hedge hoping one of them will fill it in and give away something.Anything. I tilt my ear towards them waiting for either of them to continue.
“Not a lawyer,” Donna fills in. “He works for some large firm in Texas, and you don’t seem like a stuck-up lawyer to us.”
Okay, Sam is a lawyer, noted. I am definitely not a lawyer, although lying is one of their top skills that’s a bit much to spin.
“No, I am not a lawyer.” I don’t elaborate, never offer up too much extra information either when lying. Over explanation and elaborate stories can also get you into trouble. Either because you can’t remember all the lies and stories you told or because they’ll conflict with reality and someone will notice.
I take another bite of salad and hope they change the subject. Lucky for me, a new patron enters the diner and both Dottie andDonna sneer at the person. I catch their un-approving glares and look over my shoulder to see the man they’re watching. He’s an attractive guy with long black hair wearing crisp grey slacks and black button up, but with way too much jewelry on for my taste. As he passes by a window, a glimmer of light flickers over his face and I swear I spot pointy ears and a dull greyness to his skin. In the blink of an eye it’s gone, and I’m left staring at the man wondering if I just hallucinated.
“Who’s that?” I ask the ladies, too curious to circle the subject in order to get a subtle answer.
“A nuisance,” says Dottie.
“Does he live in town?” I kind of got the impression everyone who lives here likes everyone else, so for them to dislike this man so much, he must be an outsider.
