Patrick wanted to raise his hand and ask what was wrong with Mr. Vincent and get some idea of when he might return, but in her usual way Mrs. Gomes finished her announcement and launched into the lesson at light speed, leaving the asking of now-unrelated questions seeming inappropriate.
He looked over at Rachel, who gave him a slightly troubled look. He returned by twisting his mouth a little to the side in an expression of light concern and consideration, though his worry ran much deeper than he let on.
After class Patrick and Rachel shared a few brief concerns about their absent teacher, then parted ways to attend their separate math classes. Hers was across the quad, but Patrick’s was only a few doors down the hall. He followed the flow of kids to Mr. Baker’s classroom, but stopped before he stepped through the door, realizing suddenly that he needed to use the bathroom. He dodged the oncoming students and made his way back up the hall toward the lockers, rounding the corner and opening the door marked “Men”. (He had recalled when he first arrived at Hillward High the old days when the bathroom doors said “Boys” and “Girls”, but this was high school now, and in high school you were men and women.) The hall was emptying behind him and he would have to finish his business quickly if he wanted to get to his seat on time. He let the door swing shut behind him and headed for the urinal. He was happy to see that there was no one else in the bathroom, as he had a bit of difficulty relieving himself when he was (as his father liked to put it) “under pressure”.
When he was a few steps from the urinal he was slightly dismayed to hear the shrill echoes of chatter and laughter hang in the air for a moment too long as someone else pushed through the door. He avoided awkward eye-contact by fighting the urge to look and see who had entered, and merely continued to the urinal.
Then he heard a misplaced sound that sent his instincts off like a flare.
Click.
It sounded like the latch on a door.
Patrick spun around and Dean put a huge hand on his chest, shoving him against the wall. He didn’t hold him up by the collar of his shirt like the bullies on TV, didn’t ready a threatening fist—just held him firmly against the wall. He towered over Patrick, by more than just a head, it seemed up close. There was no emotion on his broad face, but it was there—in his stance, in the way he leaned in close to Patrick’s face, in the hand that pinned him to the cold wall. Patrick only stood there, his heart hammering under the thick fingers, unable to move or struggle or say or do anything.
Dean stared deep into his eyes for several long moments, with an intensity he had never before experienced. It was primal, it was physically and emotionally distressing, and Patrick was helpless to turn from it.
But the real fear came when his disorientation cleared and underneath the heavy odor of urine, mildew, and lemon-scented cleaner, Patrick caught the scent of the Hulk holding him against the wall.
The woods. The trail. The wolf. And something else. Something coppery and sickly sweet.
Dean didn’t say a single word for what must have been half a minute—only loomed over him, completely still. The look on his face—or lack thereof—spoke volumes.
Finally he pulled his hand away and turned, walked to the door, clicked the latch open and left the bathroom as though nothing had just taken place beyond two zips and a flush.
Patrick, not daring to move and hardly daring to breath, was late for algebra.
*****
Six hours later, Patrick was wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand as he nudged the grey metal door open, the breeze from the air conditioner greeting him happily. He stepped into the office and saw two friendly-looking ladies sitting behind a long desk. Beyond them was a hallway with several doors, probably to the teachers’ personal offices. The two of them were studying something closely on their lower partition of the desk and discussing it in voices that rang shrilly in the small, uncarpeted room. Patrick wondered how speaking so loudly into each others’ faces was necessary or even the slightest bit pleasant, but it was apparently what they both preferred.
He meandered up to the desk somewhat hesitantly, and the two of them stopped talking and looked up at him. The one on the right, a woman in her fifties with a long, graying braid and squinty eyes that reminded him of Dave spoke first.
“What can I do for you, sweetie?” she said in a voice that wasn’t high-pitched—just high. She had a slight southern accent, the pleasantness of which was lost in the sheer volume.
Patrick had spent every moment of the agonizingly long remaining hours of school being bewildered and a little scared. One terrifying answer to this mystery had come to him and brought with it a thousand more questions. He wondered why he had in fact found the answer so terrifying, then decided it was most likely due to how close to home the danger now was. The thought that the savage rogue wolf was some person in town that Patrick had never met before had been frustrating, but it had also brought him a sort of comfort, probably due to the likely distance it put between them. But now he was facing a true villain, in his territory, his very school, almost every class, and it was difficult to feel very safe. He was no longer dealing with a man engaged in a losing battle against his primal, uncontrollable urges; this was someone who was wreaking havoc on the small town and appeared to be enjoying it. He had his answer, but somehow he didn’t feel much better about the situation.
More than ever, he needed to talk to Mr. Vincent. The man was still a part of this mess, Patrick was sure of it—he saw it in his face, smelled it on his skin—and he most likely still thought himself responsible.
Patrick hadn’t found a single person who knew a thing about Mr. Vincent’s absence. Always watchful for Dean’s massive figure around every corner, feeling the harsh and threatening gaze on his back in each remaining class they shared (or at least imagining it), he quietly asked each of his teachers whenever the coast was clear, along with the occasional student if he could remember a name with certainty. The only answer he ever got was “I just heard he wasn’t coming in today.” Some people asked why he seemed to care so much, and he assured them that he just wanted to make sure the man was okay. When three thirty came around he had walked Rachel to her street and seen her off as usual, exchanging a joke and a laugh, but when she was out of sight he turned and raced back to the school. He didn’t know the hours of the main office and needed to make sure he got there before the receptionist (or small school equivalent) left for the day. Thankfully Dean had driven home earlier than anyone, as usual; Patrick shivered at the thought of being caught doing something suspicious so soon after their confrontation.
It was a particularly warm day, and all the running left him sweaty and uncomfortable. It was only as he had approached the building that he realized that doing this in Rachel’s presence probably wouldn’t have seemed as odd to her as he had originally thought. She was fond of Mr. Vincent, and would have gladly accompanied Patrick to inquire about his whereabouts. Confusion and desperation made the brain work in weird ways, Patrick had reflected.
Now he tried to hide the fact that he was out of breath as he spoke.
“Hi,” he said, pausing in a way that he hoped seemed natural, in reality trying to get a secret gulp of air through his slightly parted lips. “Mr. Vincent wasn’t here today, and I was wondering—” he cleared his throat, another secret gulp, “if you knew why not.”
The thin woman on the left, who was probably forty-something (most likely the parent of one of the students, he thought), spoke loudly and apologetically.
“Oh, Mr. Vincent called this morning and said he wouldn’t be in for a while,” her voice resonated in the small office and in Patrick’s eardrums like breath through the body of a trumpet, “said he’d come down with a pretty bad bug, might not be at school for some time.”
“A pretty bad bug.” Something like that.
“Did he say anything else?” he asked hopefully, somehow knowing the answer.
“No, sweet
ie, he didn’t,” the southern lady said, again as if speaking at a school assembly without a microphone. Patrick fought the temptation to cover his ears.
“Is there any way you could give me his phone number?”
The thin woman spoke again. Her voice might have been less high and piercing than the other lady’s, but not by much. “No, sweetie, I’m afraid we can’t give that sort of information away.”
“What if I need to see him about a really important project? It’s kind of urgent.” It was a lame lie, but he had to try something.
“Your substitute will be able to help you with whatever you need,” the younger woman said. “If you need to talk to her she’ll probably be in her office until about five.”
Patrick thought for a moment, but it didn’t look as though he was going to get any further here.
“Sorry, hon’, ” Southern Accent Woman said, “When graduation time rolls around some of the senior pranks can get pretty nasty, and we don’t want to be responsible for giving out teachers’ numbers and addresses.”
Defeated, he thanked them and escaped the small office before his ears started bleeding.
*****
Patrick stood at the brink of the woods as a human, just far enough into the trees that his sister wouldn’t be able to see him were she to look out her window. He found that changing into his other self was particularly hard on this night. And he knew what the reason was.
Fear.
Tonight he didn’t feel the usual power surging through his veins, the lightness of his muscles, the sense of adventure and of owning the night that had been growing in his heart. Tonight he only felt afraid. Before, it had come from the unknown—the mysteries lying in the shadows. Now he was in immediate danger, and it had a sharper quality that made his heart beat faster and his head swim. There really was something out there this time, and all he had to do was go back to bed and he would be safe for another night.
He couldn’t go back to bed though, because that safety would only be temporary. Any innocent soul in town could be the next victim, and that included his family, his classmates, and even Rachel. But even more than the determination to protect his loved ones, it was the fear that made him take the final step into the woods that night. It had controlled his life before, and every time he stepped into the darkness that fear had been defeated.
He couldn’t say he knew exactly why Dean was doing it, but something had to be done. And if that meant sticking his neck out, fine. He was the only person who could do something about it now, and it was better than living his life as a sheep and a coward and ultimately descending into despair and madness, as perhaps Mr. Vincent was doing now.
Gathering every shaky bit of courage inside him, he stepped deeper into the woods and forced himself to change.
*****
As usual he had no idea what he was looking for, and could only walk around, sifting through every smell he came upon. Only this time he wasn’t completely focused on the task at hand, giving a great deal of attention to his ears. He listened for anything out of place, ignoring the scuttling of little nocturnal feet and the leathery flapping and shrieks from the bats above, jumping and turning at anything else. He hated feeling so paranoid and told himself to be brave, but he couldn’t help but stare into the darkness for many long seconds after every mysterious rustle or thump of a falling acorn, waiting for Dean to emerge from the shadows. After the hours drifted by however, he regained some of his confidence, focusing more and more on the smells hiding amongst the trees.
His search brought him once again to the creek at the far edge of the woods. The moon peeked through the trees and shone on the scant muddy water below. The stream was as still as the night air; not a trace of wind rattled the leaves and bushes around him.
Patrick looked to the other side of the gully, but couldn’t make out much for the lack of light and noise. He wondered how far he would have to travel before he reached a crossing. There was a good chance that he wouldn’t even be able to find one within the confines of the trees. He doubted that whatever he was looking for would be over there, though he admitted that any place is probably as likely as the next when you have no idea exactly what it is you are looking for.
He raised his head and sniffed lightly. There was no wind at all, and the paths of color that cut through the air were oddly still. The woods were very quiet tonight; even the crickets seemed to sing their song with lazy disinterest. All was motionless but for the bats, hunting for insects above the treetops.
Patrick heard the growling before he heard any footsteps.
He whirled around and Dean lunged at him. Patrick leapt to his right, narrowly avoiding the snapping jaws, and the two of them nearly went over the edge of the creek bed. They regained their feet and Dean walked toward him slowly, teeth bared, a low growl coming from deep in his throat. The massive wolf’s head was held down menacingly at shoulder-level, and his eyes, glittering with moonlight and fury, shot into Patrick’s mind.
“I’m sorry,” a voice said out of nowhere, “was I not CLEAR enough for you?”
“Why are you doing this?” Patrick thought at him desperately, unsure if his words were even getting through. He never found out if they were however, because Dean lunged at him again.
Patrick fought the burning urge to turn around and run that was clawing at his chest, and when the shadowy figure came at him he planted his feet firmly. He dodged the snapping jaws again and tried to lash back with his own, but his movements were clumsy and slow. Dean shirked off his attack and suddenly his teeth were sinking into the thick fur and flesh on Patrick’s neck.
Patrick tried to scream but it came out as a yelp. He tore away madly and Dean followed up by digging into his back. The bite was deep and the pain erupted across his vision as if it were a color all its own. He tried frantically to wriggle free of the unrelenting jaws but stumbled on his twisted legs, finally tearing loose when he fell onto his back. Dean bit at his stomach and throat but he squirmed and snapped at the incoming snout, eventually flipping over and standing upright once more. He considered running again, but somehow knew the wolf would be on him in a matter of seconds, so he stood his ground, doubting he could get his legs to move in the right direction anyway.
Dean advanced again and the cloud of panic that had overcome Patrick blurred the wolf’s movements. Before he even had time to respond, Dean was on him again, clamping his jaw shut on Patrick’s shoulder. Fresh bolts of pain shot through him, and he struggled feebly to get away. Dean threw his whole body weight forward and shoved Patrick to the ground. Only the ground didn’t come up to meet him for a horrifying second, and the next he was tumbling down the embankment, trying to get his footing. He smashed into his bitten shoulder and his hip and yelped when his back left leg struck a stone that was lodged in the dirt. He crashed into bushes, the branches of which sliced through his fur and into his skin as his momentum carried him down, down the hill.
He finally rolled onto his belly and stuck out his legs, sliding the last several feet down to the bottom, the dirt and rocks scraping his legs and chest. When he struck the mud he rolled over once, landing again on his stomach, and his body plunged into the muck with a wet slup. The thick mud covered his face, and he coughed and sputtered to clear his nose and mouth. For a very long moment he couldn’t move.
Through the darkness and the mud covering his eyes he couldn’t see the huge wolf standing on top of the embankment, but somehow he knew that it was gone.
Part Three
~
Ghost
Chapter 14
When the ordeal was over and the woods were still and quiet once again, the pain crept in.
Patrick struggled in the mud, suddenly very aware of every cold, sharp stab of pain all along his neck and back. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest as he slowly lifted himself out of the thick mud. He got shakily to his feet, and after a few moments of trying his very hardest to remai
n standing, shook some of the mud from his fur, sending off flares from his joints. He turned around and trudged over to dry ground. The places where he had struck the hard ground in his fall throbbed madly: his right shoulder and side, his ribs, his leg, and both of his hips. He walked along the edge of the creek until he found a place where the embankment wasn’t so steep. He scrambled up it painfully, thinking more than once that he might lose his footing and tumble back down. If that happened, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to give it another try…
But he made it up and after a brief rest began limping in the direction of his house. At some point along the way he found himself changing back to his human self. Much of the caking mud fell off of him, but he was still soiled from head to toe and in a great deal of pain. A very small part of him had held the tiniest amount of hope that somehow when he changed back his injuries would be gone, but it seemed that he had been right in being very skeptical about that possibility.
He stopped for a moment and flexed his fingers, arms, legs and toes. Nothing was broken, it seemed. He was just bashed up a good deal. That was good, he supposed.
When the trees opened up and he saw that all the lights in the house were on, he knew he was in a lot of trouble.
He should have worried. But he was beyond worrying. What was to come would be so unpleasant that he didn’t care to even consider it. He only walked slowly across the yard, letting these thoughts flow over him like water over a rock, his mind growing progressively more numb with each step. They would be angry; they would yell. But there was nothing left but to take it all.
He reached the back door and saw his mother talking into the phone with a face that was full of fear, his father looking desperately for what were probably his shoes, his sister standing off by the couch, hugging herself and clearly unsure of what to do. All of them were wearing their pajamas.