I rode my bike down to Scooter's house, hoping a normal day would chase away the weirdness of the previous one.
The temperature had dropped a couple of degrees, but the bright sun felt warm on my shoulders as I pedaled down the street, the breeze ruffling my hair as squirrels dashed madly from tree to tree, hiding the last of their nuts for the summer.
Scooter lived on the edge of town, in the mobile home park. The faded wooden sign reading 'Sunnyfield Estates' greeted me as turned off the main road. The word 'estates' in the name seemed almost intentionally sarcastic - most of the trailers were run down, with sun-bleached siding, rusted awnings hanging over the doors, and weeds overgrowing the small patches of grass that surrounded them. I sometimes felt bad that I lived in what was basically a mansion, while my best friend lived somewhere like this. I knew Scooter didn't mind, but I still couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt whenever he came over to visit.
Scooter's house was one of the more well-kept ones on the street - the blue paint wasn't peeling, while flowerboxes, colorful pinwheels, and other various garden decor brightened up the yard. Scooter's mom might not have a lot of money, but she always keeps her place neat. I leaned my bike against the side of the house and climbed the steps. I rapped on the door, four fast knocks and four slow, the way me and Scooter always did.
There was no answer, so I tried the door. It wasn't locked, so I let myself in.
"Hello?" I called, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dim entryway. As they did, a blur of motion to my left caught my eye; I wheeled around to face it, only to be met with the twisted face of a demon. The creature had pinkish, gnarled flesh, as though it had been recently burned; its glassy, pale green eyes bulged from its face, and its mouth, opened in a horrific snarl, displayed rows of sharp and crooked teeth. Before it even had a chance to let out its guttural growl, I had already jumped back a foot and pressed myself against the wall.
The guttural growl was replaced by laughter. Scooter's hands reached up to remove the demon mask from his face, as I tried to calm my racing heart.
"Jeez, Scooter," I said, rolling my eyes. He was laughing so hard he was wheezing, as his face turned red.
"Man, you should have seen your face!" He exclaimed.
"Yeah, yeah. Very funny. I hope you're proud of yourself for almost giving me a heart attack."
"So what do you think?" he asked, holding the mask out for my inspection, "Did it turn out ok?"
"If you're going for gross and disgusting, then yeah, it's pretty good. What do you even call that thing?"
He turned the mask over to study it for a moment, before answering seriously,
"I was thinking of calling him 'Dave'."
"You're such a weirdo, Scoot."
"I mean, yeah," he replied, not the least offended, "so, you want to see what else I've been working on?"
We headed back outside, and Scooter led me around to the back of the house, where their large storage shed stood. The shed was where Mrs. Callahan kept extra furniture, Christmas decorations and the like, but over the years it had been pretty much commandeered by Scooter and his weird collection of monster memorabilia and crafting supplies. Luckily, Mrs. Callahan didn't seem to mind; she was always pretty encouraging when it came to Scooter and his art.
Scooter undid the lock and gave the shed door a little shove to get it open. One bare bulb hung from the ceiling, and when he pulled the chain, the light illuminated the organized chaos of Scooter's workspace. Large bins filled with all kinds of supplies lined the walls, while molds and binders and piles of fabric were stacked on the shelves near the ceiling. In the center of the room stood a large work table, which, along with the counter that jutted out from one wall, was covered with various works in progress.
Scooter zipped to the far end of the shed, excitedly rifling through a storage bin until he found what he was looking for. He lifted the thing up - what looked like just a pile of matted brown hair - before spinning it towards me so that I could see that it was a fairly realistic werewolf mask. The mask had bright yellow eyes that seemed to glow, and a mouth that was fixed in a perpetual snarl; the ears were tipped forward, and the wrinkles on the long snout gave it an uncannily lifelike expression.
"Do you think it's good?" Scooter asked hopefully, as he handed it over to me.
"Wicked cool," I said as I admired it.
"I got the glass eyes from Mike's dad who owns the taxidermy shop," he explained, "and the fake fur's from an old coat that one of mom's friends was throwing away. So, you think it looks cool?"
"Yeah, Scoot. Probably one of your best."
Scooter beamed at me, then gave a little dismissive shrug.
"It could still be improved," he said humbly, "but I'm glad you like it; I made it for you."
"For me?"
"Yeah; so we'll both have a costume for the festival this year. Try it on and make sure it fits."
I obliged, stepping over to the mirror that hung on the far wall before slipping the mask over my head. It was hot and stuffy under all the fake fur, and I could barely see through the two hidden eyeholes, but from what I did see, I looked pretty terrifying.
"Wow," Scooter said, "you look sick! If I do say so myself."
I made my hands into claws and danced a couple 'Thriller' moves, which made Scooter laugh before he wistfully sighed and said,
"Man, I wish I was a monster."
I took the mask off and looked at him sideways.
"What do you mean by that?"
He shrugged.
"It would be better than just being the weirdest kid at school," he said, "I'd still be an outcast of society, but at least I'd have cool powers."
"You're not the weirdest kid in school, Scoot."
Scooter brushed it off and went back sorting through the pile of stuff on his work desk. He didn't like talking too much about anything serious.
"Anyway, if I was a monster, I think I'd be a werewolf. What about you?"
"I don't know," I said with a shrug, "I don't think I'd want to be any kind of monster."
"No fun," Scooter said, then squinted his eyes at me for a long moment, before saying, "Creature from the Black Lagoon. I mean, the resemblance is already uncanny."
"Hardee-har-har," I said, socking him in the arm.
I sometimes wondered what Scooter would think if he knew the truth about me. Knowing how deep his monster-obsession ran, he'd probably be over the moon. On the other hand, maybe the reality wouldn't be as fun as the fantasy. Would he love me, or would he be afraid? That was a question I wasn't prepared to answer. I picked up the werewolf mask and slipped it back over my head.
Yeah, it was hot and stuffy inside the werewolf head, but it didn't bother me too much.
After all, I was pretty used to wearing a mask.
(((0)))
When I got home that afternoon, I tried to avoid Dad.
Like most Sundays, he was off, but I was hoping he'd be in his study, catching up on paperwork. Unfortunately, that wasn't the way today was going to go. I stepped into the kitchen to grab a snack, and almost jumped when I heard his voice behind me.
"Hey Sam," he said, "you've been out a while."
"Uh, yeah," I said, getting bread and lunchmeat out of the fridge, "just hanging out with Scooter."
I quickly made my sandwich, hoping he'd go back to whatever he was doing.
"Sam, about yesterday," he started to say. I flinched.
"It was nothing," I said, waving him off, "I was just tired, that's all."
He sighed.
"You and I both know that isn't true," he said, "we need to talk about this, Sam."
"No, we don't."
"Sam."
"I just meant it's not important. Talking won't change anything."
He walked over to me, leaning up against the counter as I spread mustard over my bread and tried to ignore him.
"I know it must be hard for you," he said, his voice gentle, "I don't know exactly how it feels, but I can imagine it isn't easy. Growing up is hard enough without feeling like you're different."
"Being a freak, you mean?" I said, my tone harsher than I'd meant it.
"I never want to hear you call yourself that," he said, sharply enough that I flinched a little, "you know you're not only insulting yourself; you're insulting all the people we care for as well. You see monsters all the time, Sam. Would you call them freaks?"
"I mean, technically we are, aren't we?"
He paused a moment, rubbing his temples. I stared down at my sandwich, my appetite suddenly gone.
"I'm sorry," Dad said finally, "I'm sorry that I don't have the answers, and I'm sorry that I don't know how to help you better. I never thought I'd have to navigate all this without your mom's help. But I want to, Sam. I want to help you get through this, but I can't do anything if you don't talk to me."
I drummed my fingers on the counter, as all the emotions that I'd felt in the truck flooded back. I shut my eyes, trying to organize my jumbled thoughts. My dad had always taught me to think before I spoke; turns out that was a good skill to have. After taking a second to breathe, I felt like I finally knew what I needed to say.
"I guess I'm just scared," I told him, "I mean, we both know how unpredictable hybrids can be. What if I start changing? I don't…I don't want to turn into something bad."
Now that I'd said it, I couldn't hold back the tears. Dad wrapped his arms around me as soon as my shoulders started to shake.
"Oh, Sam," he said as he held me, "you're going to be ok. I'll make sure you're ok. And if anything does change, we'll figure it out together. Yes, you might still change; but you'll never turn into anything bad, that much I know."
I hoped my dad was right, but I was still afraid that he wasn't. Most monster hybrids develop any traits that they might have inherited between thirteen and sixteen, so I still had another year before I'd be in the clear. Most kids look forward to their sixteenth birthday because they want to get their driver's license; I looked forward to mine because it meant I wouldn't have to worry anymore about turning into some undead weirdo. Sixteen couldn't come fast enough.
I wiped my eyes as Dad pulled away.
"Do you think you'll be alright now?" He asked, smoothing my hair down.
"Yeah," I replied with a sniff, "I'll be ok. I gotta eat and get ready to go to Mrs. Murdoch's."
"Ok," he said, giving my shoulder one last squeeze, "if you need to talk anymore, I'll be here."
"Thanks, Dad," I said.
(((0)))
When I stepped inside Mrs. Murdoch's house that night, I knew something was different.
First, I felt it: a cold, electric feeling in the air, like when you're standing in a thunderstorm and you know the lightning is about to strike.
Then, I heard it: a keening wail that seemed to be inside my head and very far away all at once. If you've ever heard the cry of a banshee, you'll know what I mean.
I shut the door behind me and pressed onward down the hall. As soon as I had crossed the threshold, the temperature had dropped by twenty degrees. A wind was blowing from within the house, and as I made my way down the hall, it began frantically blowing, whipping my hair into a frenzy.
"Mrs. Murdoch?" I called out against the wind, but my voice was drowned out by the wind - which grew stronger with every step I took - and the wailing, which now seemed to be coming from every direction.
I struggled against the wind and cold, my breath fogging in front of me as I shivered. I turned the corner into the living room, and there she was.
It was Mrs. Murdoch, but in a form I'd only seen once before.
She was in the middle of the room, her arms stretched out at her sides as she levitated, her shoes dangling two feet above the ground. Her long hair was streaming out behind her, blowing in the wild wind. Her eyes, usually dull and clouded, were now glowing with an unnatural blue light that filled the room. Her mouth was open as she wailed; a half-scream, half-song that was as haunting as it was eerily beautiful.
The wail reached a fever-pitch; I covered my ears, afraid for a moment my eardrums might burst.
And then silence.
The wind stilled, the keening stopped, and the blue light blinked out. Mrs. Murdoch fell, collapsing in a heap on the living room floor.
"Mrs. Murdoch!" I called as I rushed to her side, "Are you alright?"
She groaned as I helped her sit up.
"What happened?" She asked groggily, feeling her way around.
"You had a wailing," I told her.
"Oh, thank God," she replied, "I thought you were going to tell me I had a stroke. Or some other old lady thing."
"No," I said with a laugh, "just an old banshee thing. Do you feel like standing up?"
"Yeah, yeah," she replied, waving a claw-like hand at me as she tried to stand herself. I caught her before she could fall, and helped her to her feet.
"I'm fine," she insisted as she shakily stood, "I'm going to go make some tea. Put on some music; the Irish Tenors, or something."
I shook my head at her stubbornness but did what I was told, walking over to her stereo and popping in one of her CDs. As the house was filled with the joyful beat of an Irish flute, I followed Mrs. Murdoch into the kitchen.
"So," I said cautiously, as Mrs. Murdoch measured tea leaves into her pot, "do you know who you were keening for?"
"Hell if I know," she answered with a shake of her head, "It's getting rarer and rarer that I remember; though I'll guess it was some old coot. Half the people in this town are dying."
She kind of had a point there.
I walked over to the sink, and started running the faucet over the dirty dishes.
"Hey, Mrs. Murdoch?" I asked.
"Yes, child?"
I drizzled soap over the dishes, avoiding her blind gaze as I spoke,
"What does it mean when you dream of banshees?"
I felt the energy shift as she drew in a sharp breath.
"What do you mean?" she asked, "What sort of dreams are you having?"
I didn't like how serious she sounded.
"I dreamed about a banshee the other night," I explained, "she was like you, but…scarier. It ended before anything could really happen."
Mrs. Murdoch moved towards me, close enough that her long hair brushed my arm.
"It's a bad omen, child," she told me, "you must stay watchful and wise these coming days."
I nodded, though I knew she couldn't see.
I would have answered, but my mouth was too dry to speak.
(((0)))
I couldn't get Mrs. Murdoch's words out of my head that night.
I got ready for bed, a feeling of dread creeping over me as I went through the mundane motions of brushing my teeth and changing clothes.
I splashed water over my face, trying to wash away the day.
First Mrs. Murdoch's strange warning about darkness, and now the bad omen of my dreams. Something was going on - something dangerous.
I dried my face and was hanging up my towel, when I accidently bit down on my tongue.
Whatever, right?
But something was wrong.
I rushed to the sink as my mouth began to fill with blood.
I spat into the sink, the white porcelain splotching with red, as I wondered how I'd managed to hurt myself so badly. I knew I hadn't bitten down that hard.
I rinsed my mouth out and inspected my tongue in the mirror - and that's when I saw it.
My teeth.
They were sharper.
Not by much. You wouldn't really notice just by looking at me. But now as I studied them - really studied them - my two canine teeth were definitely longer, and sharper than they had been the day before.
My heart began hammering in my chest, so loud that it drowned out all other sound.
I was changing.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to run, and cry, and hug my dad so he could tell me everything would be ok.
But I didn't do any of those things.
Instead, I stood there at the bathroom mirror, frozen in fear, wondering what the hell I was turning into.