Small Town Monsters. Craig Nybo

Kurt decided to bite. “Werewolves, you say?”

      “Yes, sir,” Hugh said. “There was a time when a werewolf stalked the woods about our quaint little town.” Hugh looked off into the lush of the forest, settling into campfire story-telling mode.

      Kurt smiled, took another beer out of the cooler and

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      popped its top with the church key. He settled down on the bench and got comfortable. This was going to be a good one.

       “DePalma Beach wasn’t always the Rockwellian utopia it is today,” Hugh began. “There was a time in the early 50’s when terror hung over this place like a billowing shroud. People used to lock their doors in those days. They wouldn’t go out at night, especially on a full moon.” Hugh turned to Kurt and fixed him with a weighty glance, his brows drawing down low.

      Kurt chuckled and sipped his beer.

      Hugh stayed in character. “You say wolves attacked old Buren’s herd? Well, you may be right. But then, you may only be partially right.”

      Hugh took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He raised his bottle for another swig. “Getting late. Maybe, we’d best call it a night.”

      “Oh, come on, Hugh. You know you got me right where you want me. Now give a little. What else am I going to do, go watch reruns of 24 or something tonight?”

      Hugh fixed Kurt with a warning expression, as if to say, son, this just might be too much for the likes of you.

      “Just tell the story,” Kurt said.

      “If you ask me, I think you’re just after the free beer,” Hugh said, inclining his head toward Kurt’s bottle.

      Kurt spread his hands expressively. “What do you want? Oh, master storyteller, I sit at your feet, rapt on your every word. Please endow me with a tale.”

      Hugh laughed, that powerful series of guffaws that seemed to invite Kurt to become even more a friend with every chuckle. “Fine then, young man; I deem you worthy of my tale.”

      Kurt rolled his eyes and sipped his beer.

      Hugh straightened himself up on the bench and looked off into the horizon, a bruise in the sky, painted by the flagging sun over a canopy of evergreens and tracing insects. He took a few seconds to compose his thoughts, then he began his story.

      “The patriots of the Second World War, myself among them, had come home and settled, marrying their girls and

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      having their first babies. The tourists came for the summer season to dip in the lake. The loggers worked the countryside, putting in good honest days of work for good honest days of wages. That’s the way it was, at least, when Doris Hendrickson was found in the middle of Winston Park wrapped around a tree and torn to bacon.”

      “Oooooooooo,” Kurt said.

      “Hey, kid,” Hugh said, raising one eyebrow sarcastically. “This is serious stuff.”

      “Fine, fine,” Kurt said. “I’ll keep my mind wide open.” He took a deep pull on his bottle and settled against the back of the bench, smiling, and waited for more of Hugh’s silver words to issue forth.

      Hugh went on. “The whole county went into shock. Nothing like the ignominious death of Doris Hendrickson had ever happened before in DePalma Beach; people here were used to a relaxed way of living. They felt then just like we feel now. Sure, there are a few who see our little community as backward, a few who want to leave the roost.”

      Kurt thought about Lucy Cadano with her waitress uniform and dreams of a bigger life outside DePalma Beach.

      “But those of us in the know, we keep this little slice of paradise locked up in a small box that we carry in our hip pockets. We don’t want those fancy city slickers from Los Angeles poking around these parts.” Hugh fixed Kurt with a sideways glance.

      Kurt rolled his eyes again.

      Hugh looked off into the woods between the two houses across the street and went on with his tale. “Young Doris wasn’t killed using the traditional tools of your average psychopath. She was chewed up by animals. Her bowels were eaten out along with most of her flesh. The police could hardly recognize her when they found her.

      “People were stunned, but it wore off in time. Then another girl was found tossed to the side of the road like a sack of discarded trash. Nobody knew her. She was a drifter or a tourist. But you know what they say, once bitten, twice

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      shy. People started loading their shotguns and keeping them handy. The feds came into the picture, but after conducting their investigation, they determined that the two girls were the victims of animal attacks and left the matter to the rangers.

      “There were six more killings over the next four weeks. Then the hysteria set in. I suppose folks were looking for something or someone to pin the whole thing on. People can get nasty when they’re backed up into a corner. They started saying words like lycanthrope and werewolf.

      “I guess man has always had an affinity for his beastly core. Some primal part of us yearns to explore the dark half of the soul, the half that the good book tells us to lock away and never even peek at through the bars. When the dark half of the soul is kept completely at bay, we start seeing things. The mind starts playing tricks on us. The light bends just right and we spot shadows just beyond the mind’s eye’s peripheral view. In that place, legends are born—like vampires, werewolves, and old Buren’s el chupacabra.”

      Hugh fell silent. He took another beer from the cooler and handed it to Kurt. “Would you mind popping the top for me? I just can’t trust these palsied old hands anymore.”

      “Are you jibjabbing me again?” Kurt asked.

      “About the killings or the monsters?” Hugh asked.

      Kurt popped the top off the beer and handed it back to Hugh. “Did they ever track down your monster?” Kurt asked.

      “Those times defied logic. And when there is no logic, man tends to seek out those who are different and rise against them. History shows it again and again. There are the Salem witch trials, the pagan executions during the time of Constantine; it’s a cycle. The scapegoat—back in ‘52 I think it was when it all came down—was a boy of 23 who lived with his father. The two lived a hermit lifestyle on the outskirts of town, not far from the scout camp. The boy’s name was Danny Slade.

      “Danny was a victim of scoliosis; he walked with a monkey gate. He had an inordinate amount of hair all over his body—gave him a wolf-like appearance. He was raised by his father, who employed the sternest of methods; you might even say

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      poor Danny was abused.

      “Being a bit of a freak, Danny was shamed by his peers. Kids would visit Artemus’s place to get a glimpse of the wolf boy. Then they’d brag to their friends in the locker rooms and dance halls about Danny’s ferocious-looking claws and teeth.

      “Mass paranoia can be a formidable force. After four weeks of murder and fear, a group of toughs went to Artemus’s place to look it over. They tore apart the man’s shanty home and eventually found a shallow grave filled with body parts; pieces of the six victims.”

      Kurt sat rapt on Hugh’s story, his beer warming in one slack hand. “Where were the authorities?” he asked.

      “Not needed. After beating young Danny nearly to death, the mob dragged him into town and deposited him on the steps of the police house. Long story short, he was tried, found guilty, and executed in the electric chair,” Hugh said flatly then took a sip of his beer.

      “Who’s to say Artemus