The Werewolf

Scrooge stood quietly, and lifted his cane up from the ground and hung it from his arm. “Problem, indeed.”

“A problem?” I asked, returning from my venture to the vehicle.

“This young woman has just informed me that she had previous marital relations with the werewolf,” Scrooge explained.

“He’s not a werewolf!” Julie shot back. “I mean… he wasn’t.” She looked toward the ground in sadness. “I heard he was dead… it was a tragedy… I was heartbroken for days.”

“And here you were consorting with yet another?” Scrooge deduced. “Well, I believe we have a solid reason why he is here… to see you. And that also may explain his target murder… your boyfriend. Of course, in that state, he would not have any rational thought whatsoever, evidenced by the number he has already killed in the past days.”

“Please… you’ve got to get him back to normal…” she begged of him.

“I’m afraid… I can’t do that. There is only one way. And you know how it goes. Now go… you must find a safe place to say. We can’t have you out in the open.”

Later on in the night, I sat back against a wall to drink a bottled soda pop.

“New costume, I presume?” Scrooge asked of me.

“Not new… an old friend. Scrooge, meet the Face,” I spoke of my alter-ego.
We shook hands.

“An interesting facial expression. Don’t worry, your secret is safe from the reporter girl,” he assured.

“Thanks for that,” I replied. “You don’t know what that woman will report on. If she found out… my identity would be exposed to the entire community in two minutes.”

“I suppose it goes like that sometimes…”

I leaned my head against the wall in tiredness. I was thoroughly fatigued from investigating politics throughout the last week, and the deadline had been far too close for comfort. Several hours into the night was much too much politics for my brain.

“So what’s the gameplan?” I asked.

“Nothing for now. We wait. It is likely he will come back to her. And it would be a waste if we went out to look for him, even if there are lives at stake. This is the only place we would most assuredly encounter him again.”

He took out his pistol.

“Which reminds me…” He handed the weapon to me. “You may need this.”

“Thanks… but I’m not really the gun-type,” I replied.

“Just… take it,” he demanded, letting it go.

I hesitantly complied. I had never used a pistol before, though I had had experience with a rifle. I guess I would have to discover through the learning process, or hope not to.

“Alright, do you think you’ll be alright by yourself?” Samantha asked of Julie.

“Hopefully… my parents should be back by tomorrow. But… but… I just don’t want to be alone right now.”

Samantha sighed. She could just feel the guilt tearing at her heart at that very moment, which writhing within her it drooped and drooped, until she had to get rid of it.

“Alright, I’ll stay for a while,” she replied.

“It’s just too bad the power’s out,” I said, examining the pistol.

“Aye, ‘tis a shame, and all the worse for this situation,” Scrooge replied.

He leaned against the wall while I knelt beside it. We were just feet below the room where the two women were, though they had no idea of it.

As my fedora drooped over my faceless mask, so did my eyes droop, as the weariness grew too strong and overcame my conscious state.

Time passed as the renewing of energy occurred within me, but soon the peaceful transition was halted far earlier than it should have, for a high-pitched shriek had pierced my dreaming ears. Apparently, Scrooge must have fallen asleep against the wall as well, for he cursed in his own native language.

“Curse me bagpipes!” he whispered in an urgent, sudden, grave tone. We rushed toward the front door of the house. It was locked, but there was no time to lose, Scrooge grabbed the gun and shot the doorknob, and I forced the door down. We rushed to find the stairs, ascended them, and tried to find the room where the shriek had come from.

We sighed in relief as we saw Samantha and Julie still perfectly all right.

“It’s okay… she just had a nightmare,” Samantha explained. But then she noticed something. “Wait… who’s that?” Samantha wondered, pointing to me.

Scrooge thought quickly. “Uh, this is my accomplice… the private investigator, The Face. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of him! He’s that masked marauder who poses as a hero…”

“You must cite better sources, Miss Journalist, for you’re wrong again. He’s here to help,” Scrooge explained.

“Quiet!” Julie cried.

All became silent, and Julie silently whispered.

“I think I hear Jon…”

And she was right. The eerie howling that she was now familiar with had echoed through the window… much too close to our ears than we had hoped.

“Brace yourselves, everyone,” Scrooge commanded.

“Stay with the lasses. I’m going to find Jon.” He handed the pistol to me, and fled out the door.

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