Meat. Blood. Blood. Blood. Meat. Kill.
Needed to feed my people, feed me. Hunted at night, vision was better.
Don’t eat the bison. Don’t eat the bison. Don’t eat the bison. Turn away.
Heard screeching overhead, it navigated through the maples. The echoes bounced off the treetops. Then a song. Birds were asleep, though this sounded like a nightingale. An off-putting combination of chirping and trilling. Bats were the worst. My ears picked up every damn thing.
Not running as fast as before. Previous night a bear trap clamped my lower leg. Hated those metal Venus Flytraps.
Grew a few new teeth this week. They squeezed their way through the gums, pushed others aside. New teeth meant a new moon was on its way.
The pitter patter of rain hid many sounds, but this was unmistakable. Something broke a branch and crushed some dead leaves.
Extended my neck toward the treetops, cracked my mouth, and drew the night air into my lungs.
Wet deer.
Sprinted with breakneck speed, ignoring all signs of fatigue. So used to running on two legs, forgot I had two more to use. The chase was on, but I had the advantage of longer strides and human calculation.
Was on his tail, his stupid white tail, but my first grab at him missed, clawed through air. Shouldn’t have cut my nails earlier that week. Always painted ‘em black.
Next swipe put a hole through his backside. A bloody chunk of muscle and tendon lay in my fist, the ligament still attached to the buck. His legs locked, and he toppled over beneath a patch of firs. He was hefty, an impressive buck. Meant more meat for me and my people.
Tore through his backside some more, used my hands to force the hole wider and deeper. Must have severed his femoral artery on that back leg. Blood was gushing like a fountain. Annoying. Disassembled his hips and leg bones from the spine, a makeshift wishbone.
My snout picked up a scent that didn’t belong, at least not this late at night. Heard a careful footstep and a faint click.
Another human.
Swung my head up, snarled. Spotted him maybe fifty yards from me. He had a dark complexion, long hair. Must have seen my eyeshine a little too bright, a little too yellow, because he shouldered his rifle strap, turned, and ran like hell. Flexing my diaphragm, I roared as loud as possible to make him wet himself. At least he’d have a story to tell. Pft, men.
Used to provide hunger-relief services up on the rez, the Mille Lacs Reservation, until settling down in Anoka. Was only about seventy miles either way, so visiting was never any trouble. Pained me to see fellow Natives so down on their luck. Their lot in life was rough. Yeah, they trucked on with a smile, but I knew what lay behind the lips and teeth.
Carved up the deer from the previous night on my stainless steel table. My hands returned to human, so my grip strength suffered. Used bone saws to separate the muscle. Stripped the carcass of its hide and always gave that to a male elder. He’d use the hide in various ways. Always gave the antlers to a female elder, too. She’d break it down for handmade jewelry: necklaces, beads, rings. One year she made me a custom coat rack. Was she unaware I didn’t wear coats? It was endearing.
Divided the raw venison into weighed portions, eight ounces, and stored them in the freezer inside zippered plastic bags. People came with nothing and left with frozen deer steaks to feed themselves or their family—no payment needed.
The poverty got to me. Seeing them with so little and struggling day to day. Was doing ‘my part,’ but was it enough? Wished I could be a Native Robin Hood. Steal from the rich and give to the poor. The rich had so many loaves of bread they’d go moldy. Would they miss them?
The door’s tiny bell jingled as it opened.
“Hey, Mr. Yellowtail. How are we today?” I said. He greeted me with a warm smile.
“Mm, same old, same old. You know how it go. Any meat today?” he asked. A look of hope seeped from his eyes.
“Just got in some venison. Gotta eight-ounce slab for ya,” I said.
“My, my. Sweetest woman I ever seen.” His smile was intoxicating, and he jumped with glee.
“Oh, stop it you. Doing what I can.” Woman. There was that word again, floating in and out of my brain. Handed him a pack of the venison. “It hasn’t had time to freeze yet. Get on home and pop it in the fridge or—” I stopped myself. Forgot, he didn’t own a fridge. Was sure to offend him until he came back with a quick reply.
“No, no. Fine. Gonna cook this sucker up over my fire. Got a skillet with my name on it.” He bowed his head and offered thanks before heading out the door.
“You enjoy that, Mr. Yellowtail! And Happy Halloween!”
Anoka always held a costume parade on Halloween night. Was what convinced me to move down here. A relative told me to check out the Anoka Halloween celebration the prior year, and it sealed the deal. They’d been doing it for like seventy years. Tradition, I liked that.
Kids would all dress up in their best Halloween costumes and march down Main Street, waving at all the joyous parents. After that, they’d go trick-or-treating. Wished I had something like that growing up. We didn’t have much money; we were rolling stones, as they say. Going here, going there, traveling in our 1978 orange Pinto on winding U.S. interstate highways.
Always loved Halloween, though. The dark, the weird, the spooky. The concept of having at least one night a year to dress up and pretend to be someone or something else intrigued me. Halloween hooked me, even when I had nothing. Aside from the costumes and stuff, you didn’t need much to celebrate, just your imagination and a good spirit. This year, I’d get my Halloween.
Was what I had a blessing or a curse? At first, it devastated me. Was sure it would devastate anybody. But now? Now, it felt like freedom. The witch who placed this lycanthropy spell on me was petty. Crossed her in such a minimal way and out came The Book. Ridiculous. But by now I was over it. No harm, no foul. This was my life.
My body transitioned with the day. Beauty by sunrise, beast by sunset. Not to say I was a looker. Hated talking about my appearance. But at night, I reigned. Felt more alive as a brute, more free. With no one watching, I was free to be my true self, my true form.
Hated how rigid it was, either one or the other, could never be a combination of the two. Daylight dragged and I counted down the minutes. Couldn’t wait to transform again.
Was an hour until the moon rose when I locked up my little food bank. Headed home with pure excitement, tapped the steering wheel to the beat of one of my favorite Thompson Twins songs:
She's a lonely woman…
Then he comes home one night,
She kills him with a knife.
Now she's the one who's living in paradise.
Turning hurt every time, but it was getting easier. Most things are like that. The sky’s transition to twilight prompted me to go to my backyard, to my shed. Only saw two stars puncture the early night sky before I bolted that door. Every change left a residual odor. Reminded me of burnt hair and a week-old animal corpse. Couldn’t get rid of the smell with any spray from the store, so I stopped trying. Got used to it, anyway.
Messy. Always grotesque and messy. I remember the first time it happened. Couldn’t believe the steaming pile of my body remnants sitting before me. But now it was time. A full moon ensured an easier transition. When the moon revealed its entire self, it revitalized my being. Felt younger, stronger, faster.
Crack. Pop. Sounds of stretching bones and ripping skin filled my shed. My hairy snout pushed through my face like that chestburster in Alien. Eyeballs melted down. Wide shoulders burst out from my much smaller frame like a bloated mouse stuffed with gray maggots.
Shit. Forgot to take one of my rings off. The tension snapped it in half and it fell to the floor as my hands became elongated paws. Enjoyed looking down to see my pedicured toenails thicken into sharpened claws. My big toes shriveled up and moved upward on my hind paws to form dewclaws. After the mucus my body produced for transition dried up, I stood and stretched my renewed limbs and back. In this form, my head almost hit the shed’s roof. Had to stoop through the doorway.
Tossed my melted remains in my bonfire pit. Was like a full skin bodysuit. Could’ve sold ‘em to Buffalo Bill types. Saw that movie earlier that year. Was sympathetic for him in some ways. Wouldn’t hesitate to rip his face off, though. Was time for the parade. I’d burn my skin suit later.
The Rum River froze over. Had to crack open the thin top layer of ice to float downstream. Couldn’t imagine doing this in my human body. With thick fur, it was still cold as all hell. Took breaks here and there. It was dark, but not enough for the city to turn on the streetlamps.
River water ran down my coat as I huddled underneath the Rum River Bridge. Shook my fur out, but it wasn’t enough to dry all the way. The parade’s route began right above me on the bridge, so I was right where I needed to be.
Stared across the river at Windego Park, an old-ass amphitheater. They built it in the 1910s and took its name from the old Ojibwe legend. Their legend said Windegos were as tall as trees and were born whenever a human resorted to cannibalism to survive. Some Ojibwe claimed they had special powers to possess, too.
They weren’t my tribe, but I believed that legend. Witches and werewolves were real. Why not Windegos? And isn’t that what happened to the Donner Party out in California? Being so desperate for meat, for food. Could relate to that. Pitied any person with nothing to fall back on, enough to eat someone’s heart out.
Enough time passed to dry my winter coat. Checked both sides of the bridge and chose the north bank to crawl up.
There were hundreds of attendees, both children and parents. The Halloween committee went all out. They strung orange lights between each lamp post, festooned street signs with orange and black garland, blasted Monster Mash on PA speakers, and decorated the entire parade route with fake cobwebs. The scent of cotton candy and caramel apples floated through the air. It was magical. Mummies, goblins, witches, ghosts. Those kids had ‘em all. Couldn’t see behind their masks, but could only guess a grin stretched across their faces. A middle-aged dad with his daughter stepped up to me. The daughter’s costume was Lydia from Beetlejuice.
“Uff-da! Pretty realistic costume you got there, mister.” He cleared his throat after a moment-too-long stare. “Holy buckets, I’m sorry. Would you like a gingersnap cookie?” The man holding out a plate of cookies had thinning hair, a potbelly, and a heather-gray sweatshirt with a Batman logo across the chest. Tried my best to reply, as if I were Little Red inside the wolf’s belly. Kept my jaw cracked open and didn’t move it while talking.
“You betcha!” My reply must have satisfied him as he smiled, pulled his daughter in close, and placed a gingersnap into my open palm. He nodded and they continued on down Main Street.
Between each horde of kids was a Halloween float strapped atop a car, well, mostly flatbed trucks. They crept along the route, which was only about four blocks long.
Kids were dancing, flailing their arms, and shouting MONSTER MASH!
Then the snow came.
Couldn’t ever remember it snowing so early. In fact, it was the coldest Halloween night I could remember. The snow was light at first, soft, puffy flakes floating down at random. Then the wind picked up and sent chills through our collective spine. Felt like the entire street shivered in unison. The main PA speaker ripped away from its post and left behind dangling cords. The Halloween music abruptly stopped.
This alarmed the crowd, but not enough for the parade to stop. A passionate committee member yelled out an apology and told everyone to keep moving. Walked alongside a float embellished with large jack-o’-lanterns, bats, and black cats, all made with a similar material as piñatas. For a moment, I wished this all could’ve been part of my childhood. A fleeting worm of envy swam through my blood.
That’s when the symbol came. A large green swirl materialized and hovered over Main Street. Was hypnotic. At least for the children.
Every single child stopped what they were doing and gazed into the green swirl, mesmerized. Many of the parents didn’t notice until they stopped walking, looked back at their children, and craned their neck toward the sky.
The floats came to a halt, save for one. The last float operator was blasting Michael Jackson’s Thriller on their tape deck and hadn’t seen the green sky swirl. They didn’t apply their brakes until they had already run over four people, crushing them beneath the huge snow tires. The driver jumped out of the vehicle and screamed, rushing over to the four trampled attendees.
The accident forced the adults to scramble toward the front of the float, temporarily ditching their children. One parent hopped into the driver’s seat to shift the truck into neutral. He ran back out to the hood, yelled for help, and they pushed the truck back enough to reveal the bodies. A family of four: two young boys, and two parents.
Had nowhere to go, stuck in the crowd, and unsure what to do. Didn’t know what the hell was going on with the green swirl. Contemplated running back home, up north, along the river.
The children let out a chorus of guttural caws.
One mother screamed. Her daughter was biting her ankle like a deranged dog. Saw her rip away her Achilles tendon.
Then another. And another.
Frenzied children filled the entire street, knocking over weak-kneed parents and consuming their flesh.
My jaw dropped as I watched a little girl dressed as a pirate chomping on her father’s jugular veins like licorice. She looked up at me, smiling. The blood smeared across her face as though she drank from a punch bowl.
Saw a sobbing father punching and kicking at kids for his own survival. Was as though they operated on a hive mind. About ten of them teamed up to take the crying father down. Crept backward to hide behind a brick-walled building. The carnage was worse than any of my nighttime hunts. Felt ill, but my wolf body was incapable of vomiting.
The streets were fraught with cries and flesh-eating. Was like a train wreck, so horrible and saddening, but couldn’t help but stare. My gut bottomed out as I watched them all.
The snow ripped down harder than ever. The snowfall slowly covered the dead bodies, coating them with white powder like a pastry chef.
After the last scream rang through the snowy sky, the kids gathered all the torn human flesh and packed it into their trick-or-treat bags and buckets. Stood there stupefied, watching these cute children, drenched in gore, place severed hands, heads, and feet, into their orange jack-o’-lantern buckets without a misstep.
Noticed the children created a single-file line and marched the opposite way of the parade route. They walked toward the beginning near the bridge. Snuck alongside the floats, just out their view, to see where they were going.
The line of children walked down the slight hill, arms outstretched with their pound of flesh, toward the Rum River. They walked toward a giant tree planted on the other side of the river.
Though, it wasn’t a tree.
Its arms and legs extended, and it walked into the icy black river.
It held my stare with its glowing red eyes and let out a bellow of rage.
It was the deer hunter.
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