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DISCLAIMER: The name "Jericho" and all character names and trademarks associated with the television program are the intellectual property of Junction Entertainment, Fixed Mark Productions, CBS Paramount Television and/or CBS Studios, Inc. The following story is a work of fan fiction intended solely as an intellectual exercise without profit motive. No infringement of copyright is intended or should be implied.

 

Special Thanks to Marzee Doats. You are great!

 

 

 

 

 

This place has always existed with a shadow over it.

Even before it was a town, it was part of a land shaped by war. Over the years, the battles broke out again and again and people suffered. People that had been here originally getting displaced, destroyed, people moving in to stake a claim finding themselves having to defend it from someone else who thought he had just as much right.

Of course the founder of this town was hoping it'd be a haven. Quiet countryside, rich land to grow things, and it seemed like there was enough room for everyone. You've heard your share of stories by now – families moving in, setting up shop, surviving the winters with a lot of luck and a bit of community spirit.

Thing is, it wasn't all barn raisings and corn husking bees. As much as the townspeople might've enjoyed themselves and each other's company by day, in the night they bolted their doors and sat up late, listening to that wind and hoping they didn't hear anything else. In the mornings, they'd breathe easy and smile in relief, though they didn't talk about it much. Trouble seemed to creep up on anyone who dared speak the words out loud. So everyone just went about their business by day, being cheerful and hoping they didn't get caught outside after dark.

But if you could ever get anyone to admit it, to tell you what they'd heard, whisper it in the crowded tavern room or beside a crackling fire almost drowned out by a winter wind, they'd tell you of the lonely, low howling that'd cut through night air like an ax through dry brush. There were creaks and snappings of wood being torn apart, somewhere in the not so far distance, that no one would dare to investigate, preferring to discover their barns, chicken coops, and smoke-houses damaged the next morning instead. Even by day, someone recounting the scratching noises that came from right outside the front door would have to pause to shiver. Those nights, there was nothing to do but huddle closer in your quilts, shut your eyes, and hope the scratching would soon go away.

Some mornings, they didn't want to leave their homes at all, and could you blame them? But they were farm folk and they needed to see to their animals and crops, so they would brave unlatching their doors and stepping out of safety. The things they saw would send them shivering right back into those eerie, howling nights, even in the brightest morning sun. Marks in the doors, ragged lines cutting into the wood, too small to be from an ax blade and too extensive to come from random weather damage. Bits of wood, pieces of straw, scattered in the yard, leading you to the next scene of mayhem. Mixed into the dust and grass there'd be darkening, rust-coloured blood. You'd know already, by the time you got close to the building with the hole in its side, that you had to expect casualties. You'd just have to see how much you'd lost. Perhaps just your prized milk cow or that pig you'd been fattening for winter. Perhaps you'd step into a cloud of feathers and find there wasn't even one chicken left to stare back at you. Then you'd step back from the destruction and look towards the creature's escape route and sometimes in the dirt, but especially in winter's snow, you'd see the prints, larger than any dog or human and too sharp and wild to be human anyway.

Seems like the solution should be simple enough, doesn't it? Like in any war, you anticipate your enemy's moves and lie in wait with your weapon ready. The townspeople tried guarding their property, waiting up in the cold night air and holding their muskets in trembling hands. Thing is, it never seemed to do any good. Whatever was out there seemed too smart to get caught. It'd hit the places where someone was standing guard, sure, but it would always manage to catch them off guard. In and out of the shadows, faster than anyone could fire their weapon. No one ever even got a whole glimpse, but what they saw, those that did catch a glimpse, it was so terrifying they gave up and spent the next night behind their bolted doors. Wild fur, they'd say, seeming even darker than the darkness itself whenever it caught a little bit of light from a lantern or the moon. And in contrast, gleaming all bright in the light – fangs. Twice the size of any farm dog's. Sometimes, a pair of eyes, glowing and dark at the same time. And what you saw wasn't so bad as what you heard, I've been told. You could live fifty more years and never forget the deep, low snarl, so full of menace it made the strongest farmers' knees shake.

It was the same sound a few people would report hearing from even closer range – the unfortunate souls who'd been caught outside walking on the nights the creature prowled. The snarling was one of the last things you'd hear, they said, but for a long time before, you'd hear something so quiet it almost wasn't there. A twig might snap now and then, or you'd wonder if you were imagining a very faint breathing. And before you even heard anything, they said, you'd get the feeling something was watching you, following. By the time you heard the snarl, you knew you had to make a move fast. Get into whatever shelter there was, knock on any door nearby, or if you were in the woods and didn't see any kind of cover, make your peace with your god. And then, it'd decide to let you pass.

Of course, everyone who told this tale said they'd been allowed to go on, the creature had left them alone, suddenly disappeared. Just playing with them, like an overstuffed cat does with a surplus mouse, they would say. It wasn't clear if there was a number of people it didn't let pass. People did disappear from time to time. Someone would come to help with the harvest and be gone before the last night, everyone chalking it up to him moving on. Peddlers passing through wouldn't be seen the next season. Sometimes even a more permanent figure, a strange neighbour on the edge of town or a farmer who lived across the river, wouldn't be heard from in a while, and people would go to look for them but there'd be no trace. It was hard to tell if these were actual disappearances or just the way of things in a growing community. But it made the people jumpier than ever. A smart enemy is the worst kind. You don't have to just be stronger and faster, but also one step ahead. Whatever this creature was, it always seemed many steps ahead.

The townspeople gathered and shouted at each other about their fears. Everyone seemed to realize a decision should be made, but no one wanted to take the step that was needed. It was easy to laugh, still, gathered in the tavern and in the light. It was another thing when they were scattered, miles apart, in the night. The town's best hunter was the one to speak a plan out loud. They would need to band together, to form their own combined force, and hope it was enough. Everyone agreed, but no one wanted to volunteer for a specific location or date. No one's been killed yet, they said. Not for sure. Perhaps we should wait until we know more.

The man agreed. What use was it, going to war with such an unknown shadow of an enemy? He'd been on many treks, was an expert trapper, and he was reasonably certain he might be able to observe the creature, if he prepared. He didn't tell everyone of his plan – no need to have too many people in the know at this stage in the fight. He went home and started making plans.

He waited until the full moon, because that was when most reports of the creature seemed to crop up. He set the trap – freshly caught venison, left out in the open beside his smoke house, and covered himself in oils to mask his own scent. He climbed to the roof of his smokehouse and prepared to wait, sitting absolutely still as he always did hunting, watching the sky go from violet to dark black.

After waiting what must have been hours – he'd nearly dozed off after sitting still so long – his patience finally paid off. First he heard a shuffling sound, then a few snorts. He stared over at his trap and his eyes caught a quick movement. Something big and dark-haired was circling the offering. As it stepped fully into the moonlight, the man saw its strong hind legs, spiked hair, and razor sharp teeth. He watched in horror as the animal devoured the meat he'd left, ripping at it with a ferocity he'd never before seen, even in the toughest predators he'd encountered in the woods.

Its appetite appeased for the moment, the giant wolf began stalking away. The man watched, holding his breath, and after several minutes had passed, he made a decision. He would follow the wolf to see where he went after a kill. If he could get some more intel, he might be able to help the town defeat their enemy.

“Hold on a second!” Dark eyes peered skeptically from underneath a wide-brimmed pointy hat. “You're telling me this animal was so scary everyone in town was afraid to even shoot at it, but this man somehow spied on it without it hearing him and killing him right then and there?”

The storyteller paused, a twinkle in his eye though he frowned at the interruption, tilting his head, as the boy in the cowboy hat nudged the interrupter's shoulder. “Caroline! He's the hero of the story. Sometimes you just have to believe.”

“It's alright son,” chuckled the man. “It's good to ask questions about the things you hear.” The girl gave a triumphant nod of her head, to which the boy rolled his eyes. “To answer your question Caroline, he was the best tracker in the state, and he kept a distance from the creature. Plus he's the hero of the story.”

“So did he find the wolf's lair?” asked the boy.

“I'm getting to it,” said the man. “The hunter followed the wolf's fresh trail through the dark woods, careful to keep his distance and to keep a careful hold on his trusty rifle. He half expected the wolf to stop at one of the other farms and feed again, but it kept a steady pace. Then, in the wee hours of the morning, when it was still dark but the moon was starting to fade, he found himself at the edge of a farm, at the edge of the river. You two know the old Aikman place?”

The listeners nodded, the boy with a smile on his face.

“It wasn't so old back then, but it was just as strange. Everything overgrown, porch falling down, paint peeling. The townspeople thought it had been abandoned, left behind by someone who couldn't hack prairie living and had fled east. When the man drew closer, following the trail, he realized it was anything but abandoned. There were tracks all over the place, some human, some animal. A scrap heap, barely hidden in the yard, bones piled on it like whoever lived there wasn't afraid of drawing wild animals to their home. The man was confused, but he had a funny feeling he was getting closer to the truth. You know what he did?”

They shook their heads.

“He hid. Found what must've been the icehouse, once, and used it for cover, peering out at the house through a hole in the boards.”

“What good would hiding do? Shouldn't he have explored the house?” asked the boy.

“Sometimes you've got to keep a bit of distance when you're studying your enemy,” said his father. “Observe for a while before entering the lair.”

“So that's what he did? Did he see the wolf?”

“Johnston, let him tell it!” said the girl.

“You were allowed to ask questions!” he countered.

“But if you keep going we won't hear the end before the party!” she countered, her grip on her broomstick tightening.

Their father sent a calm but significant look their way and they turned their attention back to him. “I was trying to build up to it, but yes, the man saw the wolf. After a night of hunting, the wolf stepped into the yard, stretching its muscles in the moonlight, as huge and terrifying as ever. It leaned back and let out a great howl, a spine-tingling sound the hunter would hear in his dreams for years to come.

And just when the hunter thought his heart had never beaten so fast, his skin hadn't tingled so sharply, his whole body hadn't tensed so tightly in fear, he heard the howling, echoing back, further away but with more voices. It wasn't a lone wolf, he realized, it was calling to its pack and they were answering. He was outmanned and certainly outgunned. He suddenly felt his instinct telling him he should leave, but by now he was wondering if that was even wise, knowing there were others he might have to face.”

“Did he escape before the wolf pack got there?” Even Caroline's eyes were wide now, waiting for her father to break his dramatic pause.

“No, he figured the only thing he could do was wait it out in the ice house. So he did, he willed himself to stay alert, waiting for the wolves to sleep and for his path home to be safe again. It was, needless to say, the longest night of his life. He kept his eyes open, staring out the crack in the icehouse wall, barely daring to breathe. The strange sight he saw, just as dawn was starting to break over the horizon, seemed almost like a dream.

The pack, one by one, appeared from among the trees. Wolf after wolf, each fiercer looking than the last. They had different coat patterns, different shapes to their bodies, but they were all big and strong, stalking through the yard, sniffing and snorting at each other in the complicated ways wolves communicate. It was almost a thing of beauty, somewhere in the horror, the hunter would say later. Wild creatures, outside of mankind's rules and structures. But then, even stranger, after they greeted each other and as the light started to brighten the sky, they all left the yard.”

“Where'd they go?” asked Johnston.

“Just walked away, far as he could tell, somewhere past the outbuildings. Couldn't see the whole yard, from inside that icehouse. It was, truth be told, a bit more unnerving, now that he couldn't see or hear them anymore, than it had been when they were all howling, but as the night finally became morning and the sun stretched higher overhead, the man became confident they'd gone to slumber and he could return home, ready to warn the townspeople that they had a bigger problem on their hands than they'd thought.

He was stretching, happy he was finally able to move his legs again, just about to leave the old Aikman farm behind when he turned to glance over at the house one last time. A movement in the window caught his eye. How could that be right, he thought to himself. It had been abandoned last night, hadn't it? He approached cautiously, thinking about all the odd mixed signs around the house – bones piled in the yard, yes, but no wood pile by the door, no food stored for winter in the old smokehouse or cellar. Not a scrap of clothing hanging to dry or bucket of ashes by the door, but footprints everywhere, he realized, as he got closer to the porch. Some of the prints were similar to the ones he'd followed in the night, huge and animal, ending in claws, but some looked more like boot prints, and they seemed as recent as the animal tracks.

He reached the grimy window and peered inside, still feeling a bit silly, though some other part of him was on high alert. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to what he was looking at, but then he realized. It was a dark, dusty parlour room, nearly empty of furniture and belongings, but all around the room there were sleeping men, sprawled on the few chairs and curled up on the ground. The man squinted and tried to look closer at them. None of them looked familiar, and with their wild hair and tattered clothes, it seemed unlikely they'd been to a church social in a while. The man leaned in and startled as the porch creaked under him, but a quick look back showed him all the men still had their eyes shut, their mouths open as, presumably, they snored and wheezed.

The part of him that'd felt silly earlier considered if he should knock on the door and ask them if they knew anything about the wolf pack he'd seen prowling the area by night, but his instinct was stronger this time, and he started to back up. He'd almost cleared the porch when he heard a creaking sound, breaking through the quiet morning air. He turned his head suddenly and his eyes widened.

“And a tentacle reached out of the cellar and pulled him into its depths, hoping to squeeze the life out of him!”

“Jake!”

Johnston seemed torn between amusement and exasperation, but Eric was glaring at his brother. “Just 'cause you heard it before.” He seemed ready to exclaim something else, but he glanced back at his father expectantly. Johnston cleared his throat.

“Your brother's joking. That's not what the townspeople would tell you happened.”

“What do you mean, what did they say?” asked Eric.

“Well, not much of anything.”

He chuckled as both sons stared at him, Eric with his brow furrowed and Jake, in spite of himself, tilting his head to the side. After a moment, Eric said, “He was never seen again?”

“Oh, he was seen again. The very next day, in fact, he was back in town, going about his business like usual. People didn't take much notice at first. But then when they asked him about his mission, he would just go white in the face and refuse to talk about it. And over time, people noticed there was something different about him, but it wasn't something you could quite put your finger on. He was still the best hunter, leading groups to track and trap, and he still sprang into action when there was a crisis that needed solving. But he was a bit quieter, maybe a bit jumpier, in a way that you hardly noticed until you remembered back to how he used to be. He'd never been exactly a life of the party before, but now it was as if he was a little bit more removed from them, a little bit wilder. He didn't like spending too much time indoors, or in crowds.

Then a month later, everyone noticed the biggest change. Before, he'd been talking about war, about the need to take on the enemy after learning its habits. This time, when farmers were complaining their livestock had been taken and they'd seen the tracks, this time he told them to stand down. It wasn't worth it, he said. Peace was the most important, while it could be managed. People thought it was strange, and they weren't too happy about it, but no one else was willing to lead the hunt, after their best and bravest took a step back. So they carried on, locking their doors at night and hiding by their fires, waiting for daytime when the beasts would be gone. People that were watching closely noticed a subtle change, just like with the hunter, in the ways the attacks happened too. Maybe a few less animals went missing at a time, and then, no place would get hit more than once. If a place near the centre of the village got hit one night, it'd be across the river where the beast would strike the next night.

Over time, the attacks ebbed and flowed. Sometimes they'd get worse, usually during times that were lean for everyone. But then the next month or two, they'd scale back. People were still afraid of the attacks, for sure, and now and then they'd still get it in their heads to form a party and go after the creature. But they'd bring it to their best hunter first, and he'd ask them to hold off just a little longer, wait and see if things got better first, and usually, they did. So they learned to live with the threat, just on the edge of things, but never so much a problem to stop the town from going on.

“What about the hunter?” asked Eric.

“He continued to help the town, year after year, and they looked to him as somewhat of a leader, especially in tough times.”

“But did anyone ever find out what happened at the Aikman place that time?”

Johnston and Jake exchanged a significant look. Eric looked back and forth between them, wishing again that he'd been on the hunting trip where Jake had heard this story before him. “Do you think you're ready for that part of the story?” Johnston asked, leaning forward.

“Aren't you boys ready yet?” came their mother's voice, emanating from somewhere behind a huge stack of tupperware containers. “Honey, can you help me get these set up by the door?”

Johnston stood, the story forgotten as he went to relieve Gail of some of her burden. “Are we handing these out to the whole town?”

“I may have told a few people to expect something special,” she said, pausing and narrowing her eyes. “You're the one who wanted your first Halloween in office to be memorable.”

Johnston raised his hands like a hostage in a silent bank heist film. “I did, you're right, and they look delicious, sweetheart.”

“They are delicious,” countered Gail, but she sent him a quick smile before turning to her sons. “You two better get yourselves together. I want a picture before you go out.”

Jake grimaced, alternating between protests and mumbled acceptance at his mother's sharp glances, allowing himself to be herded over to the front door.

Johnston chuckled, turning from the pair to his younger son, who was still looking at him expectantly. “We'll pick up the story another time,” he said, placing a hat on Eric's head and tilting it slightly. “There. All set for exploring.”

Eric gave him a quick nod and went to stand beside Jake.

Gail had exchanged her tupperware for a camera. “There you are honey. Do you think that jacket'll be warm enough? Maybe you should wear a sweater under it.”

“No, he's usually in the jungle or somewhere warm.”

“Well, stand next to your brother. Jake, put your arm around him, and smile both of you.”

“Mom, we're trick-or-treating, not signing a world peace treaty.”

“You two trick-or-treating together again, that treaty might be closer than you think,” she said, snapping a few shots. “Alright, I've got the rest of the candy apples on the stove top, 'The Monster Mash' already set up in the tape recorder, and I think we're ready. You mind turning it on, sweetheart?”

“Sure, darlin'” came their father's response, and soon the familiar onslaught of haunted house sound effects filled the house. At the opening jaunty notes of Boris's tale, their mother started to move in time to the music. Jake and Eric exchanged a grimace. “Mom, do you have to do this every year?” groaned Jake.

“Some things don't change, even when your father becomes mayor,” she said with a laugh. “Now you two have fun!” She kissed each of them in turn, and as they opened the door they were met with the sight of a ballerina, a bandit, and a robot, stepping up on the porch. “Look out for your brother!” called Gail, waving one last time before turning to exclaim over the costumes and offer the first candy apples of the night.

Jake nodded, grumbling something under his breath, but he was smiling as they started walking down the street. Eric had been watching him uncertainly, but he breathed a sigh and smiled too. He tried his best to match Jake's longer strides as they stepped along the sidewalk, their shadows stretching long behind them.

“So should we start around here?” asked Eric.

Jake shook his head. “Nah. I told Stanley we'd meet him over at Wakefield Street.”

“Oh,” said Eric, nodding quickly and keeping his eyes on the cracks in the sidewalk.

“We're going to get way better candy in the Pines,” said Jake, nudging Eric's elbow with his own. When Eric didn't respond, he slung his empty trick-or-treat bag over his shoulder, casually turning back to the road ahead. “So, wanna hear the rest of the story?”

Eric glanced sideways. “Dad is going to tell it to me, he said.”

Jake smiled, shrugging his shoulders. “Alright, suit yourself. I just know how much you like story-time -”

“–I do not–” Eric began.

“–and it'd be a shame, is all, for you to be disappointed, when you could know the ending just like that,” Jake snapped his fingers, though with his skeletal bone-printed gloves the gesture was somewhat limited in its dramatic effect. “Who knows when Dad'll have time to tell it again? He's got events, and meetings, and you know he told it to me last year, that's how long he goes between the times he tells it. He'll probably forget.”

Eric was watching him, his eyebrows raised, but he turned and kicked at a stone on the sidewalk. “How do you know you won't forget it?” he asked, a challenge in his voice.

“I guess you'll have to shut up and listen to me if you want to find out,” countered Jake. He glanced over a few times to watch Eric bite his lip, stare intently at the grassy boulevard along the road, and sneak glances back at Jake. Finally, Eric leaned his head back with an exasperated sigh and nodded. “Fine, I want to hear the story.”

Jake grinned, putting an arm around Eric's shoulder and giving him a squeeze. “Knew you'd come to your senses. So, when the hunter guy gets to the end of his long life of being weird, he tells his son the story of what happened the night he followed the wolf. As he was trying to leave after seeing all the wild men asleep in the farmhouse, he ran face to face with one of them. I guess he'd been off in the outhouse or something. He got this chill in his whole body, like a full-on panic, which wasn't something he did much, so he tried to just run, but the wild man on the porch somehow signalled the others, and they caught him and brought him into their lair.

“They were creepy as hell. Their whole house reeked and a lot of them had blood somewhere on them, their clothes or in their hair, if you looked close enough. The hunter was looking, from man to man, trying to figure out an escape or some kind of strategy. But then they asked him, point blank, what he thought was going on. So he just stared right back at them and he said it. Werewolves.”

“Were they werewolves?” “Of course they were. Everything started making sense to the hunter. Why the attacks were always at full moon and why no one had ever even come close to catching the wolf.

“They'd need a silver bullet anyway,” said Eric with a small smile.

Jake smirked and nodded. “Yeah. So the guy was freaking out, he'd totally misjudged everything, and was in way over his head. There must've been at least fifteen of them and they had him totally surrounded. He knew he couldn't fight them and even though they were in human form, it seemed like a bad idea to try to run, so he did the only thing he could. He tried talking to them. Hey look, the Hendersons' house. Mom said we should stop there.”

“Okay,” said Eric.

Mrs. Henderson gushed as she handed them packets of cookies. “A skeleton and a -”

“Indiana Jones,” supplied Eric, his cheeks going pink.

“Indiana Jones and a skeleton! Very scary.” She made a scared pose, holding up her hands as if to fend them off.

They held in their laughter until she'd closed the door, but they started snickering as they made their way to the sidewalk and full on laughing as they crossed the street.

“Indiana Jones, I'm so scared!” Jake said, dramatically clutching his heart and stooping his steps, nearly stumbling and dropping his bag. Eric held out his hands in a menacing gesture, causing Jake to further double over.

After Jake recovered, the brothers walked along in a relaxed silence for a few moments. Eventually, Eric looked towards Jake again. “So what did the guy say to the werewolves to get them to let him go?” He tried to keep his tone casual.

“He said the townspeople were looking to fight them, and sooner or later they'd figure out a way to get them. Said even if the town didn't win the war, they'd put on a good battle. There'd be a cost for both sides. It'd be better for the wolves, and the town, but the wolves most especially, to avoid war. At least try to live peaceful, you know?”

“Did they buy it?” asked Eric.

“They asked him how he thought they should do it. He said he'd be their go-between. Come and talk with them, share his intel on the area. Help them figure out where to hunt to avoid hurting the town as much as possible, and get the town to back off if they started to get riled up.”

“They said yes?”

“They didn't want a war. They thought they had just as much right to come along and live here as the townspeople did. All strangers in a strange land. But they thought it'd be good to keep a low profile. They'd been regular people once, of course, and they couldn't live in society now, since becoming wild, but they didn't want to be in the direct line of fire either. They had some conditions, but they offered him a deal. Here, turn on Shetland.”

“And then he said yes?” asked Eric, stepping out of the way as a smaller kid in a bumblebee costume zipped by him.

“What choice did he have, in the middle of the wolf's lair? He believed them, but he also didn't really have any other options. So they made it official -”

“What's that mean?”

Jake shrugged. “I don't know, some kind of wolf ritual. And that's when he went home and started protecting the town and stuff.”

“For all those years,” said Eric. Jake nodded. “Until he was on his deathbed. That's when he had to tell his son the whole story. He told him about the wild men who lived outside of town, hunting around in the dark on the full moon, slipping in and out of shadows before anyone could catch them, and how he got stuck being their negotiator, keeping things from getting too bad between them and the town.”

“Probably sounded crazy,” smirked Eric.

Jake smirked too. “Well, yeah. It is a pretty crazy story isn't it?” He glanced ahead. “We'll wait here.”

Eric looked up. “Here? Why?” The property in front of them was run down, though the old house bore signs of several generations' attempts to fix it up, all mismatched window frames and shutters.

“Emily's meeting us here,” said Jake. “Then we'll all head over to Wakefield.”

“It's the Aikman house,” said Eric slowly, trying to be nonchalant.

Jake shrugged. “She thinks it's a good spot to start Halloween.”

“Why do we have to wait for her?” asked Eric, glancing up and down the street.

“She's bringing the extra costumes,” said Jake, reaching to put his hands in his pockets and realizing a second later his skeleton pants didn't have any.

“What do you need those for?” asked Eric, narrowing his eyes.

“This plan I have,” said Jake. “So don't you want to hear the rest of the story?”

Eric stared at his brother, weighing in his mind, but he leaned back against the dilapidated fence.

“So he told his son about the deal, and then, just before he died, he told him the last part of it. He said, 'When I'm gone, you have to go out to the lair next full moon. I made the deal for now but also for the future. They told me each generation of our family has to send one of their children to the wolves. When the time is right. But we'll continue to be leaders and take care of the town.'”

Eric tried to keep his face still as he watched Jake, all dramatic gesture and quiet, eerie voice. “One from each generation. The son thought his father had gone crazy in his dying moments. But over the next few weeks, as the full moon got nearer and nearer, he kept thinking about it. It would be crazy, to go out to the old abandoned farm. But maybe he should do it for his crazy old man.

“So by the time it was full moon, he found himself out in the woods, going towards the abandoned farm. Laughing at himself for believing a crazy old man, but still curious. His dad had been weird his whole life. Sometimes cool, but also far away sometimes, even when he was around, and then he'd disappear for days at a time. So part of him thought he might find out why, if he did one last favour for his dad.

“The farm looked a lot like it had when his dad first went there. Bones in the yard, broken down buildings and overgrown everything. He walked up to the porch, still feeling dumb but getting kind of creeped out too. You know when you just have a feeling in your gut? He looked in the room, full of dusty furniture and scraps of garbage, but no one seemed to be home. He took a breath, thought 'okay Dad, here goes nothing,' and knocked on the door. It sounded really loud in this empty place, but no one showed up. He knocked again, feeling dumb again. That's when he heard it. A snuffling sound. He turned around, looking back out at the yard. A circle of wolves were all staring back at him. They were the biggest he'd ever seen, their eyes all glowing and inhuman, and they all started to come towards him at once.”

Eric was staring, his eyes huge, having lost pretences of disbelief for the moment. “What happened?”

Jake shrugged. “He became their next go-between.”

Eric narrowed his eyes. “Seriously? That's it?”

Jake shook his head. “No, he did such a good job, the town made him mayor.”

Eric let out a frustrated sigh. “But what really happened?”

Jake grinned. “He did the job until it was time to send one of his descendants. Only he made sure to have more than one kid. And so did his kids. That way there was always a spare.”

Eric leaned forward, forgetting to pretend he didn't care too much. “But the werewolves -”

“Every time it was their turn, the descendants went out to the farm. And time went on, and the town grew and changed, but they always kept their promise to protect it.”

Eric pouted. “That's not fair. You said you'd tell the story.”

“You didn't like the way I told it?” asked Jake.

“You made a big deal like you knew the whole thing, but you didn't tell the whole thing!” accused his brother.

“Maybe the story's not over yet,” said Jake.

“What's that mean?” asked Eric, folding his arms across his chest.

“I'll tell you later,” said Jake, standing up suddenly and adjusting his costume. Eric glanced over his shoulder to where Jake was looking. A girl was headed their way, seemingly swimming in a much too big overcoat and a beat up old hat and dragging a huge garbage bag. Someone shorter than her was following, and though his identity was obscured by a monster mask, it was easy enough to guess who he was.

“Emily brought Chris too?” asked Eric, glancing sideways at Jake.

“Yeah, thought it'd be fun for you to have someone your own age. You guys can keep each other company right?” asked Jake.

Eric didn't say anything, but nodded in greeting to Emily and her brother as they stepped closer.

“You guys look great!” said Emily. She nudged Chris, who gave a nod, electing not to speak from under his mask. “He loves Indiana Jones,” she said.

“How many did you bring?” asked Jake.

“Seven I think, if you mix and match,” said Emily, motioning down at the garbage bag in her hand. “Are we ready to get going?”

“Yeah, just one thing,” said Jake, motioning towards the old house. Emily gave a quick nod before they turned to the younger boys.

Eric glanced quickly between them, recognizing the look on Jake's face and the familiar swagger as he started talking, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk in front of them.

“See, you kids get to join the big kids this year. We're going trick-or-treating in the Pines, and it's hardcore. So, to kick things off, you have to show that you're ready. You have to do the challenge.”

“What challenge?” asked Eric, glancing at Chris, who stayed silent.

“Everyone who wants to prove themselves goes into the Aikman house on Halloween,” said Jake, motioning behind him. “You have to get up to the second level and flash the light to prove you're there.” He pulled a small flashlight from the inside of his sleeve and held it out.

“If everyone does it, how come you two don't have to come?” asked Eric.

“We already did,” said Jake. “Two Halloweens ago. You only do it once and you're proven for life.”

“You never said…” Chris finally spoke, his voice somewhat muffled.

Emily waved a hand. “You can't tell anyone else. The uninitiated. It's against the rules.”

“If you do it, you're in. No one can say you're scared,” said Jake.

“I'm not scared,” said Chris, drawing himself up as tall as he could.

Eric didn't say anything but continued to stare back at his older brother. Finally, he asked, “So what we supposed to prove ourselves against?”

He sent Jake a look, daring him to mention werewolves, but Jake was casual. “Ah, some people think it's haunted, you know. Old places just give people the heebie jeebies. What can you do?”

“I'll do it!” said Chris, stepping defiantly forward.

“Eric?” asked Jake. They were all staring at him now.

Eric tried to ignore the looks he was getting from Emily and the blank monster eyes. He stared back at Jake, his hands clenching into fists at his side. “You just want us to go in there and that's supposed to prove we're cool?”

“Hey, I already know you're cool. You can pull this off, no problem,” said Jake. He had shifted his demeanour. His words were still light but he stared right back at Eric, a challenge in his voice.

They stood there for a tense moment, the skeleton's smirk accompanied by a glint in his eye, the Indiana Jones trying to keep his hands from shaking, both holding their positions with valiant resolve.

“So then Eric just stood there forever, making us all wait to see if he'd go in.”

The listeners turned towards Jake, who had leaned forward as he interjected. He looked towards Eric, who smirked and leaned back. Jake nodded and poked his stick in the fire.

“Well, I was stuck with a conundrum,” said Eric.

“What's conundrum?” asked one of the kids.

“Confusing question,” he answered. “What was up Jake's sleeve? Seemed to me like there were two ways this could go. One, the most obvious, I go into the house and someone waiting in there jumps out to scare us. Definitely seemed like something Jake would do.”

The faces staring back at him were uncertain in the flickering light. Only Jake was looking away, watching the flames intently for the moment, a studied look of composure on his face.

“Option two though. I started thinking – what if the real trick is, nothing? There's nothing at all waiting for me in there, and he just wants me to think that. He put all this effort into the story, leaving out part of it, making it intriguing but just unrelated enough to the supposedly haunted house he brought us to.”

“Why would he do that?” asked the dark-haired girl.

“Well, then he'd barely need to do a thing, he could let my own imagination do most of the work. He could say it was all a coincidence, and he doesn't know why I'm so paranoid, and if I refuse to go into the house at all, then there you go – scared kid letting his imagination run away with him.”

“Oh,” she replied, turning a mildly accusing look on Jake. The brothers both chuckled.

“I couldn't tell if that really was the Jake thing to do. I was pretty sure he was playing some kind of trick, but I had no idea which way he was going to zig.”

“What did you do?” asked the girl wrapped in a fleece blanket, inching forward in her camping chair.

“I went in,” said Eric. “Better to try and be scared in the dark than to not try at all.”

“So...” The boy, sitting on the log closest to him, raised his eyebrows.

Eric smirked. “We got to the stairs before Stanley in a gorilla mask jumped out at us.”

The kids gasped and looked from Jake to Eric.

“And then he came running out the door and punched me,” said Jake. “Right in the shoulder.”

“What?” asked the boy. The girls by now were nervously giggling.

“Not that, you know, punching is a great way to...” said Eric.

“But understandable I guess, in the heat of the moment,” said Jake, but he rubbed his shoulder as though this moment still stung.

Eric gave him an apologetic nod, and Jake shrugged but let out a laugh of his own. “I was just shocked. Seeing you wolf out like that.”

With Jake's laughter the kids dissolved into a round of free giggles. Eric chuckled too. “You were a pretty flimsy skeleton. He fell over.” “Stanley and Emily didn't let me live it down for years,” said Jake.

“You didn't let me live it down,” countered Eric.

“But we both kept it a secret from Mom and Dad,” said Jake.

“What happens in the Pines,” said Eric with a shrug.

“You probably all looked pretty funny,” said the dark-haired girl, stifling a yawn.

Jake smiled and wrapped an arm around her. “Getting tired, kid?”

She shook her head, though she looked as though she was fighting to keep her eyes open, leaning into his hoodie.

“Probably time for you to head to bed,” he said.

“Five more minutes,” she said, a request of habit in a bleary voice.

Jake sighed. “How about you just get in your sleeping bag, and you don't have to go to sleep for five minutes?”

She looked dubious, but then a thought seemed to occur to her. “Okay but I don't want to sleep in the baby tent. I want to share with Siobhan.”

Her cousin grinned. “Yeah, Fi should sleep in our tent!”

The boy groaned. “No. They're going to talk and laugh all night!”

“You could sleep in the baby tent,” suggested Siobhan.

Eric couldn't help but smile at his look of dismay. “How about the girls go get settled in now and you can go to bed a little later, Johnny?”

“Sounds like a good plan,” said Jake. “Come on, Fi, I'll help you get set up.”

Johnny looked as though he would protest further, but he gave a grudging nod and stared down at the fire. Eric fought the urge to lean over and ruffle his hair. As Jake nudged them along, the girls said their goodnights around the fire, Siobhan putting her arms around her father's neck and kissing him on the cheek. “Did you ever get him back for tricking you?” she whispered.

“That's another story,” he replied, kissing her forehead. As she went by her brother she reached out and messed up his already unruly curls. He let out an annoyed sound and stood up as if to follow her, but as she linked arms with her cousin and disappeared into the darkness, he shook his head and plunked himself into her now vacant chair.

Eric smiled. “They'll fall asleep before you're ready for bed.”

“They better,” said Johnny, leaning back in the chair and looking up at the sky.

Eric looked up at the stars, so clear on this slightly chilly night, and the moon, almost full. He chuckled to himself at the nearby sounds of Jake trying to wrangle the daughters towards their destination.

“So, what really happened?”

Eric looked back towards his son. Johnny was peering at him, a relaxed but hesitant look on his face. “In the story I mean. What happened when the man went to the old house at the full moon? Do you know the rest of the story now?”

Eric felt slightly off guard, for reasons he couldn't quite pinpoint. “Yeah, I do,” he said after a moment.

“So,” asked Johnny again, raising his eyebrows slightly. “What happened when he went to meet the wolves?”

Eric considered the flames for a moment. He spoke quietly, his words feeling thick in his throat. “He saw things he never could have imagined. Things worse than his nightmares and the stories people used to tell. The wolves caught him and held him there. He was theirs, they said. What the stories had never warned him about, the stories his family had told him, was that they didn't just need a mediator, someone on the outside, watching, keeping the peace by keeping their hands clean. They wanted to make him their own.”

His son's eyes were big. “They made him a werewolf too?”

Eric nodded. “He tried to fight them, to hold onto the person he once was. He escaped, eventually, and made his way home, nearly dead but hanging on.”

“But he made it?”

“Yes. He made it home and his people patched him up, and it was just like the other times his ancestors returned, weary and ready to protect the town.”

Eric paused to lay another piece of wood on the fire, watching the satisfying sparks scatter into the sky. Was this the wrong story to tell? It was always a fine line, but they had all learned to trust their instinct. The boy was still watching him with rapt attention. He searched for the words in his brain. If they were there, he didn't want to leave his children with half the story.

“When he was back home, he wanted to forget the things he'd seen, what he'd become. But it was there all the time, underneath everything. The wolf was in him now too. He was afraid of it, afraid it would take him over and touch everything in his life. How could he have become the thing he feared and the thing he wanted to protect the town from?

“As the next full moon came closer, he was especially afraid for his loved ones. He had a father and mother, brother. A woman he loved. How could he let them see the wolf, be near the wolf? What if it hurt them?”

“What did he do?” asked Johnny. “Did he run away? That's what I would've done, go in the woods somewhere no one can find me.”

Eric smiled, a smaller smile, his eyes still faraway. “He tried that. Tried to keep it from them, to remember the human life he used to have and to hide himself away whenever the wolf was too strong.”

“It was easier when he could predict it, but he learned it didn't follow the moon. The wolf was there in him always, and so was that place, that time he'd spent there, and it would come out at unexpected moments. He made mistakes, got lost sometimes, and as hard as he tried, he couldn't keep it all hidden.”

He leaned closer to the fire, the heat of the flames bathing his face, a sharp contrast from the chilled night. He glanced over. His son was watching, waiting, patient for his words.

“He had to learn to live with it. It was very hard, some might say harrowing. He tried to hold onto to the part of him that was human, that was different, the complete opposite of everything he'd experienced there. His family helped. Parents, brother. His love, their children. They didn't love the darkness that had gotten to him, but they loved him. They shared their strength and reminded him of his human side.

“It was hard to understand sometimes because sometimes he hated to look in the mirror. But he learned to draw from both sides, the wolf and the human, and use it to protect and care for his town and family. He thought maybe knowing violence like that, darkness, it might help him in the end to keep their home a slightly safer, peaceful one.”

Johnny nodded, watching in stillness. They both sat listening to the sounds of the fire and the woods for a few moments. Finally Johnny interrupted the lull to ask, “Did he ever worry about his kids, having to meet the wolves one day?”

Eric nodded slowly. “Yeah, he did. He hoped sometimes that he could protect them, keep them from ever having to go out there. But when he thought about it, he realized most people don't get to old age without meeting wolves somewhere. None of his other loved ones had. So he just had to hope that he could help them, maybe by sharing his experience and the things he'd learned. Show them their human side like they showed him.” His son was still staring back, that familiar contemplative expression of his visible in this faint light, and Eric once again kept himself from reaching over and mussing his curls, so playful and wild on top of such a serious face. “And that's all the story I know. Well, the new werewolf went on doing his best, hoping his efforts were mostly helpful and he wasn't bringing too much trouble to his loved ones.”

“Good story,” said Johnny. He smiled a small smile, and though Eric wasn't sure how much of a secret they now shared and how much remained in between the words, he returned the same smile. “Do you want to tell me one now?” he asked.

“Okay,” said Johnny, running his hands through his hair and glancing up at the sky for a moment. “Once there was this farm that had a well, and when people stood near it and thought really hard about their problems, usually someone or something magical would come out of the well. But it was never quite what they expected.”

Eric leaned back and listened to the story, vaguely remembering a similar premise in one he'd heard Mary telling the kids one time, though Johnny seemed to have chosen different protagonists and the well worked with different rules this time too. He laughed and gasped at the appropriate moments, stretching out his legs in the fire's heat and leaning back in his chair.

Eventually Jake appeared from the shadows and wordlessly took a seat, though as he listened he began interjecting with suggestions for the story, some of which his nephew protested with a grimace that distinctly reminded Eric of his mother, while others were accepted with a giggle.

At the story's conclusion, Jake was goaded into telling one of his own. Eric and Johnny at first seized the opportunity to pay Jake back for an evening's worth of story interruptions (Jake kept protesting “But how can you know what Principal Schneider said when he caught me in his office? You weren't even born yet!”), but as time went on they both grew quieter. When Jake was silent too, Eric glanced over at the camping chair. Johnny's eyes were closed and his arms had fallen from his lap. Eric chuckled and stood to cover him with a blanket.

“Almost talked himself to sleep, huh?” asked Jake. “No wonder. He tells stories the way you do.”

Eric just smirked, taking his seat again.

“You know the werewolf?” said Jake. Eric raised his eyebrows, bracing himself slightly. “He's not too much trouble. For his family. He's a pretty normal amount.”

Eric shook his head, chuckling. “I wanted to believe you so badly, back then.”

“You wanted to believe in a pact made by our ancestors saying one of us had to get sacrificed to werewolves?” Jake's expression had gone back to playful.

Eric breathed a sigh. “No. Just, all of it. Us, having fun.”

“I thought we were.” At Eric's challenging smirk, Jake raised his hands in surrender. “Really, though. No one ever listened to me like you did.”

“I thought you were always captivating everyone with your schemes and plans,” said Eric.

“Yeah, they all liked my jokes,” said Jake. “But no one really took me seriously, the same way.” He smiled apologetically. “Sure, I abused the privilege a lot of the time. But I always liked the thought I could tell you anything. For real.”

Eric nodded. “I did like some of your stories, I guess.”

Jake smiled, interlacing his fingers behind his head as he leaned back. “Wanna hear another?”

Eric tilted his head. “What'cha got?”

“Well, there was this one time Stanley and I decided we were going to use Gramps' old maps and this compass we found to discover Captain Kidd's treasure.”

“In Kansas? Were you guys in kindergarten?”

“Middle school. We were treasure hunters, not history nerds.”

“Right.”

Across the flickering fire and under the growing moon, their voices stretched into the darkness. 

 



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