FULL MOON FEVER

Genre: Horror

FULL MOON FEVER

By Randy Romero

            On Wednesday, March 20^th, Shannon Mills went missing.

            On Thursday, March 21^st, after an extensive search, the police found her body. What remained of it.

            Shannon wasn’t the first. But “Pistol” Pete Dixon was going to see to it that she was the last. No more innocent blood would be shed. Not under Pete’s watch.

            Pete was a hunter. He fired his first gun before he even had a license, before he even knew how to drive a car. His father would take him out into the woods every weekend during hunting season. And when his father fell ill, his uncle filled his shoes and took Pete along on his hunting exhibitions. Uncle Andrew even bought Pete his first rifle. Now, Pete had more rifles and shotguns than an armory.

            Pete was the first to recognize the pattern and brought it to the attention of the local authorities, who were none too receptive or appreciative of Pete’s amateur police work. But nonetheless, he had given them something to work with.

            People were disappearing from Cherrywood on the night of every full moon. The pattern was undeniable. Before Shannon Mills, it was Lynn Redgrave. And before Lynn, it was Gary Schneider.

            The town, including the local police, immediately assumed it to be the work of a serial killer, though Pete suspected otherwise. He thoroughly studied the tracks at the last scene. It wasn’t a bear or a fox, not even a deer.

The prints resembled a wolf’s paw prints, but the tracks were wider and deeper than any wolf he’d encountered. He couldn’t clearly identify the species. But whatever it was, it was big, and it was hungry. Very, very hungry. And it was only a matter of time before it made another appearance to satisfy its appetite for flesh and blood.

***

            Friday, March 23^rd. Pete stepped out onto his front porch with a steaming mug of black coffee, leaned down, and dusted off the newspaper resting in the grass. The manic headline was plastered all over the front page, right above the blurry, distorted images of Shannon Mills’ grisly remains.

FULL MOON KILLER STRIKES AGAIN IN CHERRYWOOD!

            Pete sighed, took a big sip of coffee that singed his tongue, and lit a smoke.

            “Damn fools,” he said, shaking his head for no one but the birds to view his dismay. “A serial killer? You could only be so lucky. Nope, this is something bigger. Something the likes of which you simpletons have never seen before.”

Pete dropped the newspaper back in the grass, then dragged himself back inside. That’s enough reading for today, he thought. He checked the calendar and skipped ahead a bit. April 19^th: The next full moon. That was when their “killer” would strike again. And when they did, Pete would be ready.

***

            April 19^th. The town of Cherrywood was on high alert. A mandatory curfew was in effect. No one allowed to venture outside after dark. No exceptions. Not even for Pete Dixon. But Pete was never really good at following orders or playing by the rules. The local cops knew him well enough.

            Pete’s dark blue pickup coughed up exhaust as he rolled into the parking lot of the Palace Diner, his tires spitting up gravel.

            He exited the truck and went inside, took a look around. The name belied its interior. It was anything but a palace. But it was also the only diner in town, so it wasn’t like the locals had any other options.

            Warner, a gruff, chain smoking man with coke bottle glasses and a ruddy complexion, was manning the register. The sun had set and ushered in a gloomy, dismal twilight. Warner was getting ready to close out the register and lock up before the cops starting forcing everyone off the streets and into their homes.

Much like the aging Warner, the diner had been lost in time. The countertops were faded marble, the windows perpetually coated in dust that the eighteen wheelers kicked up whenever they blew through the service road. Padded booths with cracked, torn upholstery that Warner had sutured together with black electrical tape. A pie rack adjacent to the register, revolving to display the three-inch wedges of sweetness, topped with meringue or whipped cream.

Warner still sold cigarettes. Not a cigarette dispenser. You don’t see too many of those cigarette machines nowadays. He kept them behind the counter so anyone could come in and request a pack of cancer sticks along with their greasy hamburgers or fried eggs and crispy bacon.

“Pete,” he nodded in recognition.

“Pack of smokes, Warner. And a big ass cup of coffee. It’s gonna be a long fucking night.”

“One big ass cup of coffee coming right up.”

Bryce Tibbets was sitting at the counter. He finished his meal, paid his tab, and sauntered past Pete, bumping shoulders. They exchanged words before Bryce stormed out in a huff. Warner gave Pete the thumbs up, gave him his big ass cup of coffee, unfiltered Camels, and wished him luck. He knew what Pete was prepared to do that night.

***

              Pete’s house was a hunter’s wet dream. Two gun racks lined with rifles and shotguns on opposite sides of his garage walls. A solid oak gun rack mounted to the back wall of his living room, too (for good measure, Pete would say). And mounted above the mantle of his fireplace, rested the head of a 12 point buck. A coyotes head to the left, a wolf’s head to the right.

            He went to the garage and pulled a twelve-gauge rifle and a Remington double barrel shotgun from one of the racks. He loaded both and put them into his gun bag. Then he walked to his work bench and retrieved his Glock 19. They didn’t call him “Pistol” Pete for nothing. As skilled as he was with a rifle, as much of a pro as he was with the shotgun, nothing matched his pistols. The gun was his default weapon of choice.

            The moonlight shone through the garage window. It was time to make his move. He popped the clip from his Glock 19 and inserted a new clip that housed special ammunition. Silver bullets. He’d went out of his way to acquire them on short notice.

            Pete flinched at the sound of glass shattering from his living room. It sounded like a bowling ball being hurled through his window. He rushed to the living room, pistol in hand, and gasped at the shocking sight.

            The bipedal beast stood on two legs. Its chest was a vest of blood-matted fur. Its wet snout snapped open to reveal its jagged teeth. A low, guttural sound emanated from within. It was growling and licking its lips at the sight of its next meal.

            The beast charged across the living room with abnormal speed.

            Pete only had one chance.

            He stood his ground, raised his pistol, and fired a single shot.

           The beast folded and collapsed, blood oozing out onto the bearskin rug in the center of the room. Its snout sunk in, slowly disappearing. Its claws retracted. The hair vanished from its body as he reverted back to human form.

            What remained was the naked, lifeless body of one Bryce Tibbets. Sirens emanated in the distance. He saw the flashing lights through the shattered living room window as the cruisers pulled into his driveway. They kicked the door in and Pete tossed his pistol aside and raised his hands on their command.

***

            Pete was antsy, agitated. He sat alone in the white interrogation room for several hours, fidgeting in his seat. The hum of the fluorescent lights was maddening. He knew the local police were watching him through the two-way mirror. But that wasn’t what bothered him. What concerned him was how he was going to explain this to the police.

            Sheriff Ferguson entered, flanked by two of his officers. He dismissed them with a wave but ordered them to stay close.

            He took a seat on the opposite side of the plain wood table.

            “Pete,” he said, his voice quiet, somber. A hint of disappointment. He’d known Pete for years. And he never thought Pete would be capable of murdering a human being.

            “Sheriff, I know how this looks. But I can explain.”

            “I’m sure you can. But I’m not interested in your excuses. We know everything. You know Warner? He has a police scanner, listens in on our calls when he gets bored. He heard the news on the scanner and called in. I know you and Bryce Tibbets weren’t exactly best buddies. And I know there was an altercation at the Palace Diner this evening. It doesn’t look good, Pete. Not good at all.”

            “I didn’t kill Bryce Tibbets.”

            “Then who did?”

            “I killed the man who was once Bryce Tibbets. But when he came crashing through my living room window, he wasn’t Bryce. He was a monster. A…”

            He stopped himself. Dare he use the word werewolf? Who would believe him? Certainly not Sheriff Ferguson. Certainly not the officers under his command. And certainly not a judge or jury. All he wanted to do was keep the people of Cherrywood safe. And now he was going to be fighting for his very life.

            “You have a lawyer?” the sheriff asked. Pete nodded. “Good. You’re going to need one. I have no choice but to charge you with the murder of Bryce Tibbets.”

            They rolled his prints, took his belongings, fitted him for an orange jumpsuit, and stuffed him into a cold, dank cell. Outside, the moon blazed like a ring of white fire. And somewhere, far off in the distance, he could hear the unmistakable howl of the beast.

BAD MOON RISING

Genre: Horror

BAD MOON RISING

By Randy Romero

           

Peter Morganti stepped out outside and drew a deep breath as he surveyed the vast, unyielding woodlands that enveloped the secluded cabin. The location had all the makings of a B-rated horror flick. The cabin was deep in the woods, and with the exception of a few other occupied cabins that were spaced out within the area, there was nobody else around. No internet service, and no cell phone reception, either. No way to call for help, if necessary.

            Sunset had ushered in a gloomy, dismal twilight. Soon, night would creep in and the darkness would swallow everything whole.

         Amanda joined him outside on the porch and observed Peter the way he observed his surroundings. He was a tall, lean man with short dark hair and green eyes; steady eyes that captured everything around him.

            “Dead quiet,” she observed. “You could hear a pin drop.”

           As a writer, Peter was not fond of clichés, but it was an apt description. You really could hear a pin drop, he thought. Hell, you could probably hear a rat pissing on cotton half a mile away. Peter chuckled silently at the thought. He’d have to write that one down.

            It was his writing that had made him invest in the cabin. A change of scenery and the calm, quiet reserve of nature was usually what the doctor ordered when Peter settled down to work on his first draft. Though he never could quite get adjusted to the serene settings. He was a city boy, born and raised. And even after he left the city and settled down in the suburbs, the noise never ceased.

            He was accustomed to all the noise and traffic and congestion. Every morning he awoke to a symphony of lawnmowers. Every night he’d go to sleep to the sounds of sirens and the rumbling of passing trains. He couldn’t tell if this was paradise or the opposite. It was so eerily quiet, he could hear the steady beating of his own heart.

            This place reminded him of a story his father used to tell. An urban legend that he would share when they went camping or fishing.

            The Woodsman. Not exactly the kind of name that inspires fear or leaves one shaking in their shoes. But it was the way his father told it that really got under his skin.

            The Woodsman was a lumberjack who returned to his cabin early one particular afternoon and caught his wife in bed with another man. To make matters worse, the man happened to be his best friend. The sight of them together drove The Woodsman over the edge. He took his axe and he hacked away at his unfaithful wife and his former friend. Something in his mind snapped that day. And he never recovered.

             He retreated into the woods and disappeared, along with his axe. His father described the axe as an additional appendage. It never left The Woodsman side. And of course, he didn’t truly disappear. The axe-wielding maniac roamed the woods late at night, looking for campers or lost hikers to chop up into coleslaw.

            The Woodsman was merciless. And he showed no prejudice. Men, women, even children were fair game. That morbid little detail used to send shivers down Peter’s eight-year-old spine.

            Maybe it was those tales of madness and macabre that molded Peter into a writer. Or maybe it was his knack for telling them. He was a natural storyteller. But he was also his own worst critic. Then again, aren’t all writers?

            “Shouldn’t you be working?” Amanda chided, playfully. “Before it gets late,” she added.

            “No good ideas,” he confessed. “I’ve got plenty of ideas, but nothing interesting. I feel like Nicholson in the Shining.”

            “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

            He wagged his index finger. “Redrum, Redrum.”

            They shared a laugh that carried over the tall, dense trees and echoed through the woods. It was getting darker by the minute.

            “It’s going to be a full moon tonight,” Amanda said.

            “Perhaps I’ll put my writing off until the morning.”

            “Perhaps?” she said, as if there was some choice in the matter.

           Darkness slithered in, slowly engulfing their surroundings. Peter stood under the awning of the porch, avoiding the glare of the moonlight.

The dark obscured their vision, but didn’t affect their sense of sound. Though, Peter wished it had. He heard the boots shuffling through the woods, twigs snapping and dry leaves crunching underfoot. The razor-sharp head of the axe glistened under the bright beam of the moon.

The Woodsman, he gasped. Amanda saw him lumbering towards the cabin and raised one hand to her mouth to stifle a scream.

“Knock, knock,” a voice echoed through the trees. A voice of sheer malevolence. “Anybody home?”

A low, guttural sound emanated from the woods–a cross between a growl and a snarl. A sound that made even the axe-wielding psychopath quake with fear. Someone–or rather, something–came running full-speed through the tree line. He could only make out parts of it, sections.

Whoever–or whatever–it was, it was more beast than man. It had hair; thick, glossy, blood-matted hair. And claws. And teeth. Dear God, the teeth. Those jagged teeth seized the would-be Woodman by his calf and dragged him off screaming like a child.

And when it was done tearing him to pieces, it returned to the cabin. Its short, wet snout twinkled in the moonlight. Its low growl still echoed through the woods. It bared its jagged, razor-sharp teeth at Peter, as if signaling him out, challenging him.

Challenge accepted, Peter thought.

Amanda ran inside and locked herself in at Peter’s behest. He stepped out and let the moonlight consume him. His nose and mouth evolved, producing a hideous wet snout. Claws protruded from his fingertips. His teeth grew longer and sharper, his flesh turned to fur.

            He hadn’t come all the way out there just to write.

            He came out there to hunt.

HOWL (Revised Version)

Genre: Horror

HOWL

By Randy Romero

            As serious as a heart attack.

           That was the first thought that popped into Brian Howell’s mind as the pain shot up and down his left arm. It had started as a slight tingle in his fingertips that spread to the palm of his hand. The prickly sensation quickly turned to sharp, debilitating pain that traveled up his arm, all the way up to his shoulder, and back down to his fingers in ruthless fashion.

            Soon, the discomfort spread throughout his body like an infection, and his extremities throbbed and burned. Every muscle ached. His face was taut and constricted, like the man on the verge of a heart attack.

            Brian’s knees buckled and he doubled over in pain, clutching at his chest. He immediately ruled out the possibility of heart burn. As a forty-year-old male, Brian was more than familiar with the unpleasantness of heart burn and indigestion. He tried to steer his mind away from the idea of a heart attack. He breathed steadily and put his mind at ease, told himself it was just a bad case of cramps. The worst case of cramps anyone had ever experienced.

            Ever since the accident, Brian was prone to cramps and muscle spasms. But it was never this excruciating, this intense. He tried his best to remain calm. If it was a heart attack, it wouldn't do him any good to freak out. And he didn't want to think about the worst possible scenario. As far as he knew, this was just an intense bout of muscle cramps. The sharp pangs could even be from pinched or damaged nerves that the doctors might have missed.

            Brian had been on the road a month earlier. He’d swerved to avoid hitting a deer. It was dark that night and he hadn’t even seen the buck crossing the road until it was too late. He cut the wheel and his Jeep veered off the road, sailing into a ditch.

            It took Brian a moment to realize he was hanging upside down. He was stuck in that position, the blood rushing to his head. None of his bones were broken, which was a genuine miracle. But he’d been banged up something awful in the accident, and his arms and legs were killing him, not to mention his back. He tried to reach up and undo the seat belt, but his arms were too weak to stretch that far.

He weaved in and out of consciousness until a fellow traveler of the night saw his headlights from the ditch and called 911. The paramedics arrived and freed Brian from the wreckage, took him to the hospital where he was kept overnight for observation.

The doctors were amazed he was still alive. They marveled at his condition. Bumps and bruises aside, Brian was perfectly healthy. No broken bones, no permanent neck or spinal damage, not even a concussion. Brian's case was a medical anomaly. The doctors had no explanation for it. They wrote it off as an extreme case of good luck and sent him home the next day with a hefty bill.

It was the strangest thing though. Brian couldn’t remember much after swerving off the road. But he could swear as he was hanging upside down and rendered defenseless, something lurking in the night had run up and attacked him. The attack was brief and he could only recall it in pieces. But the scratches on his arm were a telltale sign of a struggle. However, the doctors wrote it off as cuts caused by broken windshield glass.

Brian wasn’t buying it though. Even in his semiconscious state, he had felt something in his presence that night. Something that was more animal than man.

Brian’s thought was interrupted and he snapped back to reality when he felt his ankles pop. His knees buckled again and he dropped to the floor. A harsh, burning sensation filled his body. It felt as if every muscle was writhing and twisting beneath the skin.

He raised his head to try and call out for help, and caught a glimpse of the full moon through his bedroom window. By then, his eyes were glowing as bright as the moon itself.

Pain exploded through his body as he could feel his muscles and tendons tearing and reforming, bones shifting and grinding like tectonic plates. His body increased in mass, his legs swelled until they were as thick as tree trunks. His chest pumped out and the flesh could no longer endure. The skin ripped down the center of his chest, revealing a vest of blood-matted fur.

A hairy, wet, hideous snout forced its way out of his mouth, tearing the corners of his mouth and peeling back the skin of his face.

As he reached the final stages of his transformation, a voice called out from the hallway. A voice that terrified even Brian Howell.

The voice of his daughter.

Brian wondered how long he’d be able to control himself in this condition. He wondered if he’d have any self-control at all, or if his new body would take the helm and steer him on a course of destruction and devastation.

“Daddy?” Penny, his daughter, beckoned. She was standing in the threshold of the door, clutching her doll in one hand and rubbing her sleepy eyes with the other. “What’s going on? I heard a funny noise.”

But Brian was incapable of responding to his daughter. Not with words.

All he could do was howl. And he was howling at the top of his lungs

.

Howling at the bright, piercing, sinister moon above.

HOWL

Genre: Horror

HOWL

By Daniel Skye

            Brian Howell thought he was having a heart attack.

            Shooting pains ran up and down both arms. It had started as a slight tingle in his fingertips and the palms of his hands. Then the sensation traveled up to his wrists, his forearms, his biceps, his shoulders, and back down to his hands.

That tingling sensation quickly turned to sharp, debilitating pain. Soon, the discomfort spread throughout his body and his extremities throbbed and burned. Every muscle ached. It was the worst case of cramps he’d ever experienced. His knees buckled and he dropped down, doubled over in pain.

            Ever since the accident, Brian had been prone to cramps and muscle spasms. But it was never this excruciating, this intense. He tried his best to remain calm. If it was a heart attack, it wouldn't do him any good to freak out. And he didn't want to think about the worst possible scenario. As far as he knew, this was just an intense bout of muscle cramps. The sharp pangs could even be from pinched or damaged nerves that the doctors might have missed.

            Brian had been on the road a month before. He’d swerved to avoid hitting a deer. It was dark that night and he hadn’t even seen the buck crossing the road until it was too late. He cut the wheel and his car veered off the road, sailing into a ditch.

            It took Brian a moment to realize he was hanging upside down. He was stuck in that position, the blood rushing to his head. None of his bones were broken, which was a genuine miracle. But he’d been banged up something awful in the accident, and his arms and legs were killing him, not to mention his back. He tried to reach up and unclick the seatbelt, but his arms were too weak to stretch that far.

            He weaved in and out of consciousness until a fellow traveler of the night saw his headlights from the ditch and phoned 911. The paramedics arrived and freed Brian from the wreckage, took him to the hospital where he was kept overnight for observation.

            The doctors were amazed he was still alive. They marveled at his condition. Bumps and bruises aside, Brian was perfectly healthy. No broken bones, no permanent neck or spinal damage, not even a concussion. Brian's case was a medical anomaly. The doctors had no explanation for it. They wrote it off as luck and sent him home the next day with the bill.

It was the strangest thing though. Brian couldn’t remember much after swerving off the road. But he could’ve sworn as he was hanging upside down and rendered defenseless, something in the night had run up and attacked him. The attack was brief and he could only recall it in pieces. But the scratches on his arm were a telltale sign that there had been a struggle. However, the doctors wrote it off as cuts caused by broken windshield glass.

Brian wasn’t buying it though. Even in his semiconscious state, he had felt something in his presence. Something that was more animal than human.

He snapped back to reality when he felt his ankles pop. His knees buckled and he dropped to the floor. His arms were bent at unnatural angles. A harsh, burning sensation filled his body. For a moment, he was convinced his insides had been set ablaze. It felt as though every muscle was writhing and twisting beneath the skin.

            He glanced out the window of his bedroom, and saw that the moon was full. And by then, his eyes were glowing as bright as the moon itself.

His shirt ripped in half as his body inexplicably increased in mass. His back and shoulders expanded. His legs had swelled to the size of telephone poles. His chest grew and stretched until the skin could no longer sustain. The flesh ripped down the center of his chest, revealing a vest of blood-matted fur.

            A big, wet, hairy snout was forcing its way out of its mouth, peeling back the skin of his face.

            Just as he reached the final stages of his transformation, a voice called out from the hallway. A voice that terrified even him.

            He wasn’t sure what he was capable of doing in this state. He wondered if he’d have any self-control at all.

            “Daddy?” Penny, his daughter, beckoned. She was standing in the doorway, clutching her doll in one hand and rubbing her sleepy eyes with the other. “What’s going on? I heard a funny noise.”

            But Brian was incapable of responding to his daughter. Not with words.

All he could do was howl. And he was howling at the top of his lungs.

Howling at the bright, piercing, sinister moon above.