Page 1 of Bewitched By the Werewolf
Prologue: Tess
I am about two second away from completely giving up on my long-standing life goal and admitting that my parents—and everyone else in my family—were right; werewolves don’t exist. I have been looking and hunting and scrounging the internet, and the United States, for proof that what I saw when I was eight years old was real. So far, I’ve found leads and possibilities, a few non-confirmed sitings and blurry photos, but nothing concrete. I haven’t seen one flash of the monstrous fanged furry creature I saw that night when I went to the port-a-potty unchaperoned.
There are plenty of people in the world who believe werewolves exits and have stories to share, but none can produce tangible proof, not even me. Even with everything I’ve posted on my site www.werewolvesarereal.com I still can’t prove the nay sayers wrong.
Thus, I’ve come to conclusion I should quit. Give up on my decades long journey to prove the unprovable. I don’t know why I thought I would be the one to do what no one else has ever been able to. Pure stubbornness, I’m sure. Could have something to do with that involuntary stay in the mental institution when I was sixteen. Sticking it to my parents and getting to say “I told you so” could also be a motivating reason. But it’s anyone’s guess.
But lately I’ve been considering giving it all up. Having a “normal” life like everyone else. I have no fucking idea what the hell I would do with my time. I’ve been so focused on proving myself not crazy that I haven’t stopped to consider what I would do if I weren’t deep diving into conspiracy theory websites and chat boards or setting up night vision cameras in the woods where there were reported sitings. Hell, the only way I’ve been able to financially support myself and my obsession, since my parents never helped, was to begin an only fans page.
Now don’t go jumping to conclusions, I don’t show nudes. I share photos and videos of my hair. It’s kinda like foot porn but for people with a hair fetish. I have a rather striking shade of red hair and it’s thick and silky and people like it. I never show my face or any other part of me. I wear a mask, and the images are cropped to only show my hair. That’s what they’re there for anyways. It pays enough to keep me flush in caffeine and cup-o-noodles. The vintage airstream I live in is paid for, as is my pickup that pulls it. They’re both a little aged, but that’s half their charm. As long as both function and don’t leak or explode, that works for me.
I lean back in my desk chair and stare at my web page contemplating shutting it down right now. It’s nearly two in the morning and most people would be sleeping right now. Tucked snug in their bed inside a house or apartment, some even with a partner sleeping next to them or children down the hall. Not me. My bed sits half a dozen feet away from me, small and unmade and very empty. It’s probably cold too and the linens could use a washing. Everything in my life is within a few steps. I could reach out and touch about half of my belonging from where I sit. I’ve been mobile since I turned eighteen and could legally make choices for myself without my parents’ interference. I’ve never had rent or a landlord. Closest I ever got was when I stayed in that trailer park for a few months and had to pay for my spaceand hookups. The managers there were a friendly retired couple that thought my job was “interesting.” At least they didn’t call the looney bin on me.
Here I sit once again in the middle of the night, wide awake and wired. Nighttime is prime werewolf time, so I tend to be awake more than not during the dark hours. Normally I would be hunting down my next lead and heading to check it out. Instead, I sit here in my dark trailer parked at a truck stop somewhere in Iowa, staring at my computer and sipping on my third cup of coffee.Perhaps that’s why I can’t sleep. I should lay off the coffee after eight p.m. Then maybe I could sleep at night.
At thirty-years-old I’ve given plenty of my time to the hunt. Even the stubborn have to admit when they’re out of options. I could keep going like I have been, but where would that get me? Would I ever find the proof I’m searching for? Or will all I ever have be crystal clear memories of the giant wolflike beasts that rampaged the campgrounds I was camping at with my parents nearly twenty-two years ago? Do I even care anymore? I’m not sure.
At one point my mission was so clear, my focus a pin prick on my target. That focus has been blurring lately, even getting a little foggy.
A ping from my computer draws me from my deep contemplation of my life choices, I set down my coffee (that I shouldn’t be drinking anyway) and scan my screen for the source of the noise. Someone posted on my private chat room. A direct chat with just me.
Anonymous:Think you might be interested in this. 47.943689, -113.251305
That’s it, nothing else. Just what looks like longitude and latitude. Being the curious being I am and never one to turn my nose up at a lead, I enter the coordinates into my map and it pins a location in Montana. An empty location in the middleof a national forest with nothing around it. Not even a highway within miles of the point. This has to be a joke. I click over to the private chat and write back.
Huntress:What is this supposed to be?
Anonymous:Go there and find out.
Huntress:Will there be hillbillies with machetes ready to chop me up for dinner or possibly enslave me into their doom’s day cult?
Anonymous:No. But there might be beasts in the night ready to tear you to shreds with their fangs and claws.
Huntress:And I should believe you, why?
Anonymous:You don’t have to. But I have it on good authority you’ve been looking for something and this is where you’ll find it.
I tap my nails on my keyboard, not sure if I should believe this rando or not. It’s not the most obtuse lead I’ve ever had but it’s definitely the most ominous one.
Huntress:Who are you?
Anonymous:Just someone who’s also interested in you finding what you’re looking for.
Just like that the chat closes and the anonymous tipper is gone, and I’m left staring at a dot on the map. How coincidental is it that this alluring and mysterious tip comes in just as I’m contemplating hanging up my crossbow for good? Should I take it as a sign? I change the topographical map to satellite view. Since there’s no roads, google earth won’t have any street views and from what I can see there’s just trees, trees, and more trees. Oh, and a few mountains. It is Montana after all, like half the state is mountains.
From my current location it would only take me about nineteen hours to drive there. Two days and my curiosity would be assuaged. I’d either find nothing, which is the most likely outcome, or…or maybe the anonymous tipper gave me exactlywhat I’ve been looking for. What better place for werewolves to hide than in the middle of a forest with no recorded roads or towns? A hidden place where no one would look? Sounds like the kinda place I would be if I were a werewolf.
“Looks like I’m going to Montana. One last hurrah.”
I promise myself that if I get there and find nothing, that’ll be the end of my hunting career, and I’ll look into something less crazy and with medical benefits. I don’t know what that’ll be or what I could possibly do that wouldn’t drive me back to the padded room, but I’ll try.
Chapter 1: Ryder
The blood moon is drawing near and the urge to shift and run crawls like ants under my skin. It’s been a few weeks since I ran, I should probably take advantage of the empty woods now before all the others arrive. I’m not partial to running with others, they get in my way. Once other shifters start arriving in town there won’t be an inch of the woods not stinking of unknown horny males.
Every four years or so when the blood moon comes around, town becomes a circus. Shifters from all over the state, and some from farther, show up to use our protected forest to run in safely. My family owns nearly five hundred acres of land filled with nothing but trees and forest, completely uninhabited by humans. The only residents are sprites and woodland animals with the occasional appearance of a wayward unwanted wraith. Thankfully I haven’t come across one in a long time, but they appear when you least expect it.
Just one more reason I should go for a run and check the woods before more shifters show up. It’s barely mid-morning so I make a plan to check the woods tonight. There should be little to few non-humans in the woods, which makes it safer for me to run and easier for me to remove any unwanted guests.
