Two Wolves, One Shadow
By
Chris Smith
Copyright Chris Warwick-Smith 2011
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One: Dark and Dangerous Creatures
Chapter Two: Maggot
Chapter Three: Sweet Revenge
Chapter Four: Dark Clouds
Chapter Five: The Choice
Chapter Six: The Journey Begins
Chapter Seven: The Sound of Maggots
Chapter Eight: Scorpion Bees.
Chapter Nine: Running the Gauntlet of Hate.
Chapter Ten: Underneath the Skin
Chapter Eleven: The Maze of Thorns
Chapter Twelve: The House of Demons
Chapter Thirteen: Time to Die
Chapter Fourteen: The Feast
Chapter Fifteen: Never Better.
Prologue
Two Wolves
Author Unknown
One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, “My son, the battle is between two ‘wolves’ inside us all.
One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self–pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.
The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.”
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: “Which wolf wins?”
The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”
Chapter One: Dark and Dangerous Creatures
They had left his bedroom door slightly ajar. They wanted to monitor him, make sure he fell asleep. Wide awake, James sat on the floor with his ear as close as possible to the gap, listening to his parents talking about him yet again, careful to avoid detection.
‘What do you suggest?’ James detected his father’s tone becoming more agitated. Thankfully, his parents thought he was asleep.
James had learnt to recognise where his parents were in the house by the sound of the creaking floorboards, or their footsteps walking on the polished timber. He’d refined this skill to the point where he knew their location at any time without effort, even when working in his bedroom. At the slightest warning, he’d gather up his drawings, shove them under his bed and pretend to be asleep, safe from their over-concerned parenting.
With his mum and dad engaged in deep conversation in the kitchen, James knew he could listen without the fear of being caught, find out what they really thought, and devise a plan to placate them, if only for a short time until their next anxiety attack.
‘He was different when Dad was alive.’
‘You’ve got to be joking, Janice. Your father fuelled this stuff. Look at this one. You’ve got to be sick to create something like this. How the hell did it get this bad?’
‘At least he talked to Dad.’
‘Before all this started, he talked to us. What difference does talking make? He needs help, serious help.’
Four years earlier, when James was eight, he had overheard his parents having a similar conversation voicing their concerns for him, the first of many over the ensuing years. As a result of that initial discussion James’ mum and dad had begun periodically rifling through his belongings at night, when they thought he was asleep. They would take from his room and schoolbag everything he wrote and read, as well as all his artwork. But most of the time James was only pretending to be asleep; he knew what they were doing. Once they’d gone, he’d slip out of bed and listen to their conversation. He’d listen to them describing as odd his apparent obsession with dark beings. He would listen as their words expressed more and more disturbing thoughts. He heard them inevitably reach their wretched conclusion: something was wrong with him.
‘Oh John, this is just not appropriate for a boy of his age.’ James’ mum handed his dad a book. She’d opened it at a page showing a picture of a vampire sucking blood from the neck of its dying victim.
‘How did he get this?’
‘The school library.’
‘If you think that’s bad, you won’t like this.’ His dad held up a drawing of a werewolf, blood dripping from its mouth. ‘Where does he dream up this stuff?’ He paused before adding, ‘Well—I think it’s time we talk with his teacher.’
These were James’ earliest memories of his parents’ interventions into his so-called problems. He would listen in to their conversations without them knowing and had occasionally been shocked by what he’d heard, but not anymore. Hearing his parents trudge over the same ground time and time again, regurgitating the same explanations and solutions, was becoming rather tedious.
More alarming events developed when James, screaming hysterically, woke his parents in the middle of the night. He was then ten years old. They found him with his hands pressed against his bedroom window, sweat pouring from his face, fixated on something outside. Hours passed before his parents managed to calm him. Helpless they watched him trembling in a corner. He told them he’d heard a werewolf, and that it was after him. His dad tried his best to reassure him by explaining that next door’s dog had been spooked and was going off at something. James hardly slept that night at all. The following evening he lay awake listening to his parents arguing.
‘You talked with the headmaster; it’s all part of growing up.’
‘When are you going to wake up and start doing something?’
‘Ok, what do you want to do, Janice? Ship him off to some sort of head shrink. Where do you think that’s going to lead?’
‘Actually, I think that’s precisely what we should do.’
Before he left for school the next morning, James was aware that his mother had already made a doctor’s appointment for him. Three weeks later she gathered up some of his drawings and paintings of dragons, witches and other dark and dangerous creatures, before bundling James into the car for another appointment, this time with a ‘special doctor’.
‘He’ll ask you some questions about your paintings, but don’t worry, just answer honestly whatever the doctor asks,’ she said.
The doctor’s appointment ran late, as most seem to do. The time passed without James noticing, for a very odd man had captured his attention. This man behaved perfectly normally: sitting, breathing heavily and waiting for his turn; he just looked rather strange, with the collar on his black coat turned up high, and his neck scrunched down, causing his face to disappear into the shadow of the upturned collar. Although James tried several times, he found it impossible to see through the shroud of darkness over the man’s face. Except that, once in a while, James caught sight of the man’s eyes. They were his grandfather’s eyes: they sparkled like his, they looked at him in the same way Grandpa’s eyes used to; they saw right into him, right down into his soul. But his grandfather had died a few months earlier.
‘Come on in Mrs. Spicer.’
His mother ushered James into the doctor’s room. Unable to tear his eyes away from the man, hoping to see those eyes once more, hoping to see Grandpa’s eyes, James bumped the side of his head into the doorframe.
‘Ouch.’ He rubbed his head.
‘Are you okay, dear?’ His mum moved in front of him. She went to place her hand on his head, but James yanked it away.
‘I’m okay, Mum. Please don’t make a fuss.’
When his mother moved away the waiting room was empty. The old man seemed to have vanished into thin air. James searched the room without success. Strange…he would have seen the man walk past them to get to the surgery’s exit. The doctor shut the door and placed a hand on James’ shoulder.
‘Now, tell me what’s been going on’.
T
he doctor listened without interruption as James’ mum took over and told her story. She blurted out everything, leaving James feeling angry, isolated, betrayed and completely defenceless.
‘The boy’s got a vivid imagination, nothing more from what I can see here.’ The doctor indicated the pile of drawings and paintings that James’ mother had placed on his desk. But, I must say, these are extraordinary.’ The doctor spoke in a monotone voice. Without even a glance at James or his mother, he flicked through the pieces of art and continued. ‘Nearly all boys go through this adolescence stuff, in one way or another. I see many kids with similar fascinations for these dark things. Like James, most of them have nightmares. There’s probably no need to worry; he’ll grow out of it sooner or later. Has he reached puberty yet?’
‘What the f…?’ the whisper of a voice on his shoulder interrupted James’ thoughts. ‘Don’t let him get away with that. Spit on him; go on, spit on him, spit on the bastard. Do it! Go on, do it!’
James turned his head. Who’s there? He thought. But who could be? The doctor had shut the door after they’d entered. James glanced at his shadow cast on the surgery’s wall by the lamp on the doctors’ desk. For a brief moment, he thought he saw a twinkle in its eye.
‘Thank you doctor, thank you, really, you have been most helpful.’ James’ mum’s face was now looking more relaxed as she stood to leave. Apparently oblivious to James’ inner disturbance, she shook the doctor’s hand before escorting James away. Passing through the waiting room James failed to notice the absence of the man in the coat. He managed with difficulty to control the rage in his heart, to hide the impact of the voice whispering in his ear…‘Weirdo, that’s what you are, a weak pathetic weirdo.’
Despite his parents having been reassured by the specialist, James’ imagination continued to grow. After this first visit to the specialist, James’ disturbed dreams were dismissed by his parents as adolescent nightmares. However, James’ imagination took on new dimensions. He fancied that on nights with a full moon werewolves howled in the woods nearby, and he thought he saw the Shadows of other dark and dangerous creatures lurking in dusky corners. But no one believed him; no one believed that the creatures he saw and heard were real; not friends, or family, or that stupid specialist. Eventually, he stopped trying to convince them. It wasn’t worth the bother when all they did was laugh, chastise or belittle him.
James had adopted his current avoidance strategy with his parents for that reason. After all, what they didn’t know about, they couldn’t interfere in. He also found it impossible to contemplate revealing the whole truth. With Grandpa gone, who in this world would believe his suspicions? The idea seemed, even to him, to be ridiculous…his shadow whispering in his ear? ‘Preposterous!’ Grandpa might have said.
The whispering had started soon after the first visit to the specialist. Much to people’s surprise, James would spin on his heels for no apparent reason. All his attempts to catch the whispering antagonist failed. And worse than this, people looked at him as if he was mental. Not wanting to give further support to his “freak” label, James tried to isolate the source of the whispering by slowly moving away from people. However, the whispering continued even with no one near, leaving him uneasy. He suspected his shadow, unbelievable as it seemed, even to him. However, although he had plenty of opportunities, he couldn’t catch it in the act.
The voice never missed its chance to plant dark thoughts. Relentless whispering carefully cultivated these thoughts until the ideas grew and took firm root in his mind. Night and day the voice occupied all his conscious hours, week after week. Occasionally, James thought that whatever it was had actually pushed him in the back, forcing him to act out the thoughts. Once these dark ideas had taken over his mind, James would find himself overcome by rage, or entangled in confusion, before reaching moments of pure desperation. Mostly, he managed to control himself, to hold back, but not always. Unfortunately, sometimes he acted on the voice’s directives and did something foolish, something he later regretted, something he ended up hating himself for doing. Afterwards, without exception, he’d feel as if a piece of his soul had been stolen and lost forever.
Tonight though, James listened to his parents talking through the gap of the door without a murmur from the voice.
‘Something really bad has happened, I just know it. He needs our help.’ He heard his mother lament.
‘Well there’s nothing more we can do tonight. Let’s talk again tomorrow. We’ll work get through this, you’ll see,’ his dad replied.
‘Okay,’ James’ mum reluctantly answered.
They checked in on him before going to bed. He fooled them into thinking he was asleep. Once they had shut the door to their bedroom, James waited thirty minutes before getting up. He picked up a picture of his grandfather from his bookshelf. Sitting down on his beanbag, he looked deep into the eyes of the old man in the picture. He sat for some time studying the familiar face he loved. After a while, he realised his bum had gone numb. He stood up, rubbed his leg, wobbled across the room to his bedroom window and looked up at the full moon. Searching for danger he scanned the nearby terrain and its dark shadows. Normally, he’d see the eyes of a witch flash menacingly in the dark, or a vampire’s silhouette in the sky, or zombies walking their dogs, but so far, not tonight. A howling sound emanated from the woods. James twisted his head to the right. The bottom of his gut churned, his hopes for a peaceful night dispelled. Preparing himself for another long night without sleep, he looked at the picture of Grandpa. Tears welled in his eyes.
Chapter Two: Maggot