Vukodlak

Vukodlak

Excerpt from The Sugar Creek Daily, Tuesday, September 20, 1994.

Full Moon Slasher Slashes Again.

One more death has been added to what is now a string of twelve grisly murders in as many months. Kenneth E. Musey, 77, of Sugar Creek, was pronounced dead on arrival early this morning, police chief John Reese said. Musey was the widower of Margaret J. Musey, and is survived by a son and two daughters.

His neighbors say he often took walks late at night for fresh air.

"We told him several times not to go walking around at night anymore," said Carolyn Bates, Musey's neighbor. "But he was a stubborn man. He wouldn't listen."

Two area teens, whose names were withheld, found the body as they walked through Sugar Creek Municipal Park, not far from Musey's home. Upon the discovery, the two teens called 911 from a pay phone nearby, Reese said.

When police arrived, the time of death was estimated to have been just after twelve this morning. "The body was . . .just mangled," said police officer James Cotton.

When asked at the scene if this was again the work of the Slasher, Reese replied, "there's very little doubt about it. This is the work of the same perp. I've seen this enough times now that I only need the coroner's report to reaffirm what I already know. Yes, it was the same person," and went on to discourage the idea of a copy cat killer.

As with previous deaths attributed to the Full Moon Slasher, Musey was killed and mutilated using some type of small, four pronged weapon, which police believe may be a small garden rake or similar object. Initial reports also suggest, as with the other bodies found over the last year, evidence of cannibalism.

"As horrifying as the thought of that is," deputy coroner Stan Fullton said when this evidence was mentioned, "through teeth mark identification and comparison, we will know without a doubt whether or not any suspect is the culprit."

Reese has said in past interviews that only three similarities seem apparent with each victim. The first was the discovery of several strands of a wolf's hair clinging to the body of each victim, and a few found at each crime scene. He said that this was true of Musey's body as well. Another was that they were all elderly men, the youngest of whom was 58, the oldest 79. The third similarity, the one that has many citizens spooked, is the fact that each murder has taken place each month on the night of the full moon.

A local new age group, the Druids of the Golden Dawn, believe that the killings have been done by a murderous creature which cannot itself be killed, a group representative who called in with their claim several months ago said. There belief is based in their religious interpretations of the murders and their circumstances under which they were performed, she said. But it is also based on sightings by several witnesses, on three separate occasions since the killings began, of a tall, bipedal, shaggy form moving swiftly through the shadows. All of these sightings reportedly occurred on nights which a murder had taken place. The group, she said, believes that the mutilating marks were caused by the claws of the creature, and not a gardening tool. She asked not to be identified.

Reese wanted to allay any superstitions about the murders. "I know there are rumors going around. There is no mystical beast out there. It is just a person," he said. "The so called claw marks were made by a metal tool. We know this, since the tip of one of it's metal prongs was found, lodged in one of the victim's bodies two months ago."

When asked about the teeth marks, Fullton said, "yeah, they are human, all right."

Police have yet no leads in the case, and have declined comment on their inability, despite the known killing pattern of the Slasher, to apprehend the killer. Police have had no suspects since the series of murders began a year ago, and declared no new knowledge at the scene this morning.

Anyone with any information in regards to this incident should call the police at . . .

* * *

He could still feel pain in the finger out of which a finger nail had been pulled a month ago. It was growing back, but it continued to be red and sore.

Only two more days, he thought in terror, staring at his calendar. He circled the number nineteen printed in one of the boxes on the calendar with a red felt tip pen. He couldn't believe it was almost time again. Fear, dread, and anxiety filled his heart just thinking about it.

Pinning the calendar back onto the wall, he frowned at the chick, dressed in the skimpy nothingness of a swimsuit tight against her body, pictured above the word October. Why me? he wondered. Turning away from the smiling model, he padded softly to the fridge. Opening the door to the chill air within he bent down and poked his head inside. Once there, he selected a head of lettuce, a tomato, a half-used package of mushrooms (better use these up, he thought, they have been in there a while), and a green pepper. Withdrawing these and himself from the fridge, he slammed the door and set himself about making his dinner.

Rick was a vegetarian; the thought of eating meat made him sick. However, he was big - too big in his opinion - but just because he ate salads and other vegetarian dishes did not mean he was on a diet, he would tell everyone. When he ate, he ate big. And this night is no exception, he thought, beginning to make one of his famous monster salads. He didn't know what they were famous for, or to whom they were famous, but that's what he called them anyway.

After tossing his salad and covering it in vinegar and oil, he slipped a glass out of his cupboard and poured himself a large glass of orange juice. He returned the unused portions of food back to the fridge (in their proper places, of course), grabbed his dinner, and went to sit down in front of the fireplace to enjoy his meal.

Seating himself on the fur rug in front of the fireplace, Rick began to eat. Looking at the rug, he wondered why he still kept it, after all these years. As a matter of fact, why had he brought it with him when he had moved away from his parents house? He hated everything about it, everything it stood for. He remembered the day the animal had been killed, the first and the last time he had gone hunting with his father. He had not wanted to go in the first place, had even plead with his father not to make him go, but when his father began to remove his belt from around his waist as if to hit him, he had quickly changed his mind.

They had seen nothing all morning as they tramped through the woods, which was not surprising to Rick, what with all the smoking and coughing his father was doing. In fact, not even a shot had been fired as they were about to leave the forest and head towards their truck.

But then they saw it; the most beautiful animal Rick had ever seen.

"Looky there, boy. Look at that," his father had whispered to him, motioning him to stop and pointing at the silvery-gray coated animal padding silently through the woods. "There you are, Richard, take your shot. That'll look nice layin' on your floor."

"I don't want to, dad."

"Boy, take your shot," his father had answered in a low whisper that had all the power of a yell.

Rick had seen no reason to kill the animal other than for a trophy or a rug or something stupid like that, and he became torn in a battle between his heart and his need for self preservation. Regardless, he had quickly made up his mind. "No, dad," he whispered, trying not to sound afraid.

The next thing Rick knew, his father had pushed him down with a low growl and raised his own rifle. Rick, still trying to gain his balance, had cried out, hoping to scare the animal away from the peril of his fathers deadly aim. The ashen creature had heard this and began to run, sensing instinctually the danger she was in.

But it was already too late.

As Rick had gained his balance, the events before him were unfolding as if in slow motion. He had had to watch as his father brought the gun up, nestled it into his shoulder, carefully aimed, and expertly, smoothly, and slowly pulled the trigger back until -Bang! - it had gone off, and the beautiful wolf lay in a heap fifty yards off, dead, blood gushing from a wound in her side.

Upon seeing this tragedy, Rick's body had gone limp; he had begun to cry. His father had then dragged him over to the carcass, grabbing him by the arm with one hand and by his ear with the other. Then, handing him a small, oddly curved knife, he had then made him skin the bleeding, bullet-stabbed carcass. Sobbing at the loss of life, Rick had slowly, painstakingly, and agonizingly removed the thick, luxurious hide from the body of the wolf. When he was done, his father had kicked him, grabbed the bloody skin from his hands, and walked off towards his truck with his prize rolled up under his arm, leaving both the carcass and his son behind, seemingly with about as much thought to each.

Despite his crying, Rick had been truly infuriated by the whole series of events. When he had then seen, through his tears, his rifle laying on the ground nearby, he had jumped up, and in an instant had reached and grabbed the gun from the ground. All sorts of plans went through his mind. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.

A life for a life.

Without much more thought Rick had lifted the rifle, pointing it towards his father's back as he walked away. I could kill him right now, he had thought, and he wouldn't even know what hit him. Rick had begun to play it over and over in his mind, thinking of how his father would fall, face first into the dirt, his life's blood pumping through a huge, ragged, gaping hole, pumping onto the thirsty ground, which would slowly consume it into its own dry, dusty, leaf-covered skin.

Then he had thought better of it. That's too easy, he decided, I want him to know what is happening. He thought about yelling out father! to alert him of the incoming bullet. He had smiled at the thought of the look that his father's face would have when he would turn and find his son aiming a gun at him and pulling the trigger.

He had thought about it. And that is all.

Lowering the rifle, he had begun to cry even more, and lowered his head towards the ground in despair as his father continued to walk away. Rick had not had the nerve. Mostly, however, he had not killed his father for the same reason he had not killed the wolf. It would have been wrong.

Standing there, gun at his side, he had not wanted to go back home with his father, but he also had not wanted to stay with the already stinking, fly covered, skinless corpse of the animal. Rick, having decided which was the lesser of the two evils, had then reluctantly followed his father back to the truck; although later that night, after recieving the beating of his life, he had wondered if he had made the right decision. His dad had told him it was for being a pussy. "You'll always be a pussy," he told Rick, "a big, fat pussy. You should have been born a woman!" His father had thereafter never mentioned taking him hunting, or anything else with him for that matter, ever again.

Rick had never again cried in front of his father, no matter how much or how hard he had hit him. But now that the bastard was dead, it was okay again to cry. Looking at the fur rug upon which he now sat, he could still see the blood pumping slowly out of the charred bullet wound as the wolf had suffered its death throes, drying rustily, matting up the beautiful, ash-gray coat.

"Fuck you, dad," he said, taking another vigorous bite of salad.

* * *

Rick wondered, as he was driving home from work the next day, if he would ever be okay. He had never heard of a cure for what he had. He had gone to the library several months earlier, trying to find any answer to his problem, trying to find a way to stop the terror he was feeling. He wondered if . . .

Suddenly, a car pulled out in front of him. He slammed on the brakes. The other car swerved. He thought that he might die.

Rick took a deep breath as the other car zoomed past, just inches from his front end. Holding that breath for several seconds, he finally let it out after cars behind him began beeping their horns obnoxiously for him to go. After looking for more cars that might hit him, he gave the car some gas and continued on his way. Maybe I should have died, he thought. Maybe I should not have used the brakes, maybe I should have died in an accident back there. Maybe I should have died like my dad.

Before his dad died, he had still been living at his dad's house (the house had never been his mother's). Rick had wanted to leave. He would pack his bags, with all of his crap stuffed into suitcases, boxes, and other containers; and then, after thinking about being on his own, with no one to do things for him, or to tell him what to do and when to do it, he would unpack them, putting all of his stuff back the way it had been before. As much as he hated his father, he was scared to be without him.

In the end, it had been his father's death which had forced him to leave. His father had left the house to his brother in New York who, upon hearing of his inheritance, had told Rick to leave immediately so he could sell the house quickly and collect the money from the sale. When Rick had left, he had taken only his own things, his mother's crucifix (which he had been able to hide from his father for the past twelve years), and that damned wolf skin.

Rick thought of his father's death as a perfect ending to his life, for he had died the same way he had lived it - like an asshole. On his way home one night he had ran his truck through the plate glass window of Anderson's Hardware store. The truck, running through displays of riding lawnmowers, hammers, and fertilizer, finally slammed into the steel and cinder block wall at the back of the store. His father had been thrown through the windshield, his unused seat belt dangling mockingly in the cab behind him. His body had then crashed head first into a cement lawn fountain, displaying his alcohol drenched brain to the hammers and screwdrivers scattered around him.

At the scene, the police had not really needed to have an autopsy made to find out why he had lost control of his vehicle. Beer cans, both empty and full, were strewn chaotically about the truck's cab and bed. Also, he had apparently been taking a drink when he exited through the windshield, for a final can was found bent, twisted, and partially imbedded in the lower half of his face.

As Rick pulled into his small driveway, he wondered why his mother had died so long ago, while his father had continued to live. If there was a God, which he did not believe there was, but if there was, what kind of God would let assholes like his father live their asshole lives, while people like his mother suffered under their asshole ways, and then died early in life (long before the assholes did), with nobody but their pussy sons to grieve for them? It did not seem fair.

He often wished, though, that he could believe in God. He wished he could be like his mother, wished that he could have what she called her "blind faith." She always praised her God, and His Son, and His Mother and His Ghost, even when his father had hit and beaten her. She was always happy, always singing her Jesus songs. When his father heard her, he would tell her to shut the fuck up, saying she was making a Jesus-freak pussy out of his son.

With all of her misery, he had never been able to understand her devotion, but he would never tell her so. He loved her too much to disappoint her, and had gone to church whenever she had asked, never complaining, never telling her he did not believe. Several months ago, though, he had had a change of heart. He had thought that maybe her God could be the answer to his problem. He had tried to remember the things his mother would tell him when he was little. One thing he had remembered was that to be healed a person needed to be baptized and to confess their sins. Well, when he was fairly young, she had snuck him to church one day, when his father was out drinking, and he had been blessed and baptized by the priest. So, since that was out of the way, he had decided that all he needed to do was go to confession, like he had when he was a boy. The only difference in this case was that as a boy he had made stuff up to tell the priest, but now he would tell the truth.

He had not been to the church since his mother had died, and when he went to confessional he had been somewhat frightened of going by himself, the way he was always scared when he was by himself, which was all the time now. He had wanted his mother there, he had wanted her to tell him what to do, and how to do it. Nervously he had entered the confessional booth. He had told the priest - which his mother had said was really like telling God Himself - everything, all the bad things that had happened, that he had done, telling him why he was afraid of everyone, afraid even of himself.

"Are you sure, my son, that this is the truth as you see it?" God had asked him after he was done telling him everything.

"Yes, Father," Rick had answered, not understanding why he was being asked such a question by God. Then he thought, Oh, no! God knows! God knows that I lied to Him when I was a little boy! He can't trust me! Oh, God, please believe me!. "I'm not lying to you, Father, please believe me" he said, fear quavering in his voice, momentarily convinced of God's existence, afraid that he might have angered Him.

"It's all right, my son, I believe you. I'm going to hand you a piece of paper," God had then said, and Rick could hear the scribbling of a ball point pen wafting through the lattice-work which separated He and himself, "and on it is a phone number. I want you to call the lady named on the paper, and make an appointment to see her. She'll help you out with your problem." Rick had heard the scribbling stop seconds before, and then had watched in anticipation as the small piece of paper, having been rolled into a small tube, was slipped through the lattice-work by the hand of God.

Anticipating recovery from his disease, he had then quickly snatched the paper from the lattice-work, said a Hail Mary, crossed himself, and then had quickly left the confessional. He had wondered all the way home who the lady was. Maybe she is a healer, like Jesus was, he had thought, maybe she can spit on my eyes and my hands and pray and make things better. Then, after arriving at home, he had run straight to the phone, praying all the while.

"Dunhill, Martin, and Twist Psychiatric Services. May I help you," the voice at the other end of the line had said. Rick, after hearing this, had then hung up the phone slowly, dejectedly.

"A psychiatrist," he had said in a low tone. Then he had yelled, "I don't need a fucking psychiatrist, God!" slamming his fist into the kitchen counter top. "I just don't want to be afraid anymore! I want to be normal!" The tears had flooded his eyes as he dropped to the floor, transforming him into a large, blubbering heap of flesh.

"Help me, God! I don't want to be a werewolf!" he cried.

* * *

Rick could not remember how he had become a werewolf. He had all kinds of theories, of course. According to the books he had checked out, a person could become a werewolf by being bitten or scratched by a werewolf. He found also that if a person drank out of the same stream that a werewolf was drinking from, they could become one as well. Another way was if someone placed a curse on the person.

He thought, maybe lycanthropy is a blood disease, kind of like rabies. If so, maybe it is transmitted by contact with the blood of a werewolf since, like rabies, a person could become infected by a scratch or bite. He then thought, what if the wolf my father killed was one? But that does not make sense, he reasoned. To kill a werewolf, a person needs a silver weapon, so his bullet would have needed to be silver. And werewolves came out only at night, on the full moon, and it was day when it was killed. Scratch that idea, he thought, continuing to think.

Then he wondered, what if my father had been one? What if I got it from him? He could remember drinking water out of the same glass as his father. Drinking from the same glass must be the same as drinking out of the same stream, he thought. Yes, it was his fault that I'm going through all this, he realized. Like father, like son.

As he ate his breakfast that morning, consisting of a red grapefruit, a bowl of strawberries, and a bright red apple, he looked casually up at the calendar on the kitchen wall, his eyes drawn at first, as always when he looked at it, to the smiling swimsuit model. But then, as if by compulsion, he glanced down, his eyes now drawn to the red circle he had drawn around the number nineteen a few days earlier. He had hoped to forget, to lose track of the days. To not have to dwell on the inevitable. He glanced warily down at his watch.

It was the nineteenth.

Horror struck his heart. Sweat began to bead up on his forehead, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew he would have to call in sick again, like he had once every month for what seemed forever. He thought of taking his own life, but he had nothing silver to do it with. He thought about going to the police, but what would they do, or better yet, what could they do for him? They would just try to have him talk to Dunhill, Martin, and Twist like God had wanted him to.

No, all he could do was to try to restrain himself, lock himself in his house some way, prevent himself from doing what he knew he would be compelled to do. So, after a day of anguish and misery at the thought of seeing the full moon, and as his terrible, nightmarish hour drew steadily, dreadfully near, Rick began to tie himself up, using dog chains and collars, tightening them around his neck, wrists, and ankles, hoping these would restrain him. It was no sooner than he had done this that he began to change.

Pain began to wrack his body. Dropping to the floor, Rick's body stiffened and relaxed, stiffened and relaxed, stiffened and relaxed. When he was finally able to look at himself, he was horrified as always to see his hands and feet bend, twist, and contort as they changed painfully from smooth, slightly pudgy human hands to the rough, hairy, padded, and clawed paws of a wolf. He cried out in pain as he felt his head and face stretch and deform, his brain feeling as if it might explode, cracking his skull wide open. He prayed to every god he had heard of to stop the pain.

He could feel hair growing thick all over his body, his face, his back, and his clothes fell away in tatters from his change in size and shape. He could see the horribly familiar gray color of his fur as it grew around his eyes and snout. His tongue began to loll over the sharp canines in his mouth, and he could smell the scent of fear, his own fear, permeating the room.

Then suddenly, just as quickly as it had begun, the pain stopped.

* * *

The werewolf is feeling no pain. He is afraid, though. Afraid of what he must do. His only true feeling, he realizes, is hunger. Hunger for flesh. Hunger for death. He wonders where he is, then realizes that he is home. He thinks again of his hunger. And death.

He gets up off of the floor, and pads around the room, constrained by chains. I am chained, he thinks. No matter. He strains against the collars which hold him here, and with his great strength, he easily breaks free of their bondage.

Padding silently now, without the sound of the chains dangling from him, he swiftly exits the house into the chill night air. He begins to run, feeling the freedom of the night, the freedom of the wilderness. His senses are fresh. He can smell every scent in the air, see every small movement. He runs, his form blending with the new morning's mist that begins to fall, lit only by the light of the full moon.

The moon! the werewolf thinks, both despising it as a poison and loving it as a god. His hatred grows, his bloodlust grows with it. He begins his hunt.

He sees a form moving toward him through the fog and drizzle as he runs. Slowing his pace, the werewolf hides. He waits, hoping to ambush his prey, and watches as it walks down the sidewalk toward him. He sees another person with the first. A couple. A husband and wife, perhaps. He smells the smell of passion, of lust. He lets them go by. He does not know why, but he is very selective of his prey. After they have passed, the beast sneaks silently onward, treading more cautiously now. He does not want to scare any prey away.

He comes upon a parking lot, next to a large building. There are several windows with light streaming out of them, peircing the night. Then he smells it, the smell of cheap cologne, and the underlying smell of human sweat. Scanning the lot, he sees the source of that smell amongst the scattering of cars. A man is walking across it. The werewolf begins to slink through the shadows of the lot, stalking his prey. He comes closer, and closer.

As he approaches, he sees more details. The man is wearing a rain coat, and is carrying a cane. He is old, and seems familiar to the werewolf. For a moment he believes that the man is someone he knew, someone that had hurt him. Images of his father spring to his mind. He does not want to do it. It is wrong. But he feels he must, he should kill. He wants to run away, to run home to his mother, but his hunger increases. His desire for carnage flows through his brain. He can smell the blood of the man in his nostrils. He imagines the salty taste of it on his tongue, the feeling of its warmth in his mouth. Saliva begins to pool, to drip from his mouth; he also feels as if he is going to vomit. He wants to rip the flesh of this man off of him with his claws, to ravish his flesh, to tear him asunder with his teeth. He wants him dead. His bloodlust increases to a frenzy in his brain, overcoming his desire for peace, overcoming his fear. The man must die. In his mind, one single objective remains - to devour the man. Slowly at first, and then with more and more rapidity, he approaches the man from behind. Closer he comes, close enough for an attack, and lashes out.

As he attacks, the mans turns. A look of horror steals over his features. Fear creeps into the eyes of the man. The werewolf claws him with his forepaws, leaving noisome, gushing wounds in the man's arm and chest. The man cries out in pain and fear, a fear which the werewolf can smell. He gloats over the man's fear, gloats over his weakness. That is the way life is, old man, the werewolf thinks, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. The man tries to run, but he is on his prey almost instantly. He slashes twice more, wounding him in the leg and on his back. He watches with glee as the man falls face first to the ground.

The werewolf pads confidently towards his victim, who he sees is trying to get up. The man turns over to face him. The werewolf becomes anxious for the kill, looking greedily at his prey's throbbing throat. He lunges at him, his snarling snout aimed at the man's jugular.

As he lurches forward, ready to rend flesh, he feels a pain as the man hits him in the head with his cane. Recoiling in pain, he backs up, out of the cane's reach, and growls angrily at the man. He studies his victim, watching for an opportunity to attack, to kill the old man that has dared to make him feel more pain. His attention is caught by a flash of light, the head of the cane reflecting brightly the light of the moon.

Silver. Oh, God! he thinks. Silver! The cane! A silver handle!

Rick begins to run. He runs, knowing that he is dying, dying at last. Even as life is escaping him, he feels more free than he ever has. His breathing becomes shallow. His fear is gone. His heart is becoming weaker and weaker. Maybe I'll see my mother again, he thinks. His head begins to swim. But he would welcome oblivion as a blessing just as much as he would heaven. He finds a place to hide and lays down, curling up into a ball. I can sleep easy now, he thinks. Then he closes his eyes, and waits for the warming darkness to flow over him.

* * *

Excerpt from The Sugar Creek Daily, Thursday, October 20, 1994.

Full Moon Slasher Gets Bashed.

David E. Stuart, 62, of Sugar Creek, was close to becoming the thirteenth victim of the Full Moon Slasher, but his encounter with the killer has made him a hero. "All I did was hit him once with my umbrella," Stuart said in a recovery-room press conference this morning at St. Joseph's Medical Center in Bloomington.

Stuart was allegedly attacked early this morning by an assailant who police believe to be the serial killer popularly known as the Full Moon Slasher. After being wounded several times by his assailant, Stuart fought back. "I hit him (with the umbrella), but I didn't expect anything. I thought I was dead. I was willing to try anything." The assailant then fled the scene. "He just skedadled," Stuart explained.

"It was terrible," said police officer Lisa Burnhardt, who was the first on the scene. "It seemed like he (Stuart) was bleeding everywhere." When she arrived on the scene, she called first for an ambulance and police backup, then assisted Stuart according to her police emergency medical training. "He would have died without her," said police chief John Reese. Dr. Paul Perkowski, who performed surgery on Stuart, agreed. "He had lost a lot of blood when he came in here. If officer Burnhardt hadn't been there to help staunch the blood loss, he would not have made it."

While describing the assault, Stuart explained how his assailant appeared. "At first I didn't know what it was. Then I realized what was happening. The first thing I noticed was that he was almost totally naked, except for some kind of animal skin . . . that was around his shoulders and over his head. On his hands were some sort of claws, which is what he attacked me with. That wasn't what concerned me, though. It was his eyes. It was something about his eyes that scared the hell out of me. They were cold, almost as if they were dead."

The assailant, who has yet to be identified, was found dead in some bushes approximately fifty feet away from the scene of the assault, police say. Police declined further comment on the assailant, his weapons, or the cause of his death. "We don't know most of that yet, either. You'll know when we do," Reese said in a final statement to the press this morning . . .