The Further Adventures of Val Williams # 2 - The Awakening, pt. VI

The kid leads me right to him. A crowd has gathered. The believers. Short of gunning every one of them down where they stand, there’s only one way out of this mess.

I flash Abbott’s badge,

“FBI. Everybody just remain calm, and stay where you are.”

The last thing I need is a panic, or everybody to scatter and run. I can’t let even one of them escape.

Behind me the clouds burst radiate heat. I can feel it all the way down here.

One of the believers asks what’s going on, here.

“Federal business,” I say.

Khaddafiy shuffles slowly towards the crowd, who back away and circle around him. Clutched in his hand (possibly aided by rigor mortis), is the moon rock, the very thing animating his lifeless body. He’s caked in blood, mostly his own. The body of one of the street kids lies crumpled and chewed up on the pavement. Too bad he ain’t got no moon rock for himself.

Some of the believers ask about the sky, behind me.

“Terrorist alert, very high.”

This sends the crowds into a panic. I hate using the line, it was a dirty trick in the early eighties that my predecessor played on the masses of believers. UFO? Lights in the sky? Terrorists. Zombie? Werewolf? Monster? No, terrorist. My predecessor used the excuse so often, the people didn’t believe in monsters anymore, they believed in terrorists. Then the terrorists showed up …

“Did anybody see what happened here?”

A few step all over each other answering about how they saw the zombie munching on the street kid.

I pull out Abbott’s gun.

“Uh huh. Okay, I’m gonna have to ask everybody to step away while I disarm the suspect, please.”

They do. I fire. Miss. Hm, gun‘s got a good kick. I’m not used to this sort of thing.

I fire. Miss.

I wipe beads of sweat from my forehead. A dumpy, bespectacled middle aged woman with short curly brown hair and a white rhine-stoned kitten sweater grimaces and covers both her ears.

I hit him in the forearm. Not good enough.

Once more, right in the wrist.

He drops the moon rock and collapses. I kick the rock away and speak into my jacket collar.

“I’ve disarmed the escaped mental patient. Repeat, I’ve disarmed the escaped mental patient. Over.”

The looks of relief and realization on the faces of the crowd are priceless.

I look back, up at the sky. The orange and red beams swirl and swell around the blue mist raised from the ground like a giant spike. Cosmic forces of light and dark met in a metaphysical arm wrestling match, visible for all to see. The heat from the beams dissipates and dies altogether along with the light. The blue mist peters out and wisps away. A shape flies into the dying red embers of the clouds … one of the street kids?

“Looks like the anti-terrorist jets have been scrambled. You folks better go inside now. Lot of terrorists activity going on tonight.”

And they do.

But my night’s not finished, I’ve got to pick up Abbott and get him out of Victory Square. If I know my eternal battles of light and dark there’s going to be reports of mass grave desecration tomorrow in the papers.

***

The Further Adventures of Val Williams # 2 - The Awakening, pt. V

And there he is, just standing there looking lost. They just dumped him in the middle of Victory Square. Probably hoping someone or some cop would find him and take him home. And now I’ve found him. He looks so scared.

I’ve done some terrible things in this job, but …

I mean, if I had to kill every kid who believed in monsters …

It strikes me. It can’t be the kid’s belief that’s making hell puke down on earth. I never discussed it with the Wizard, but I think kids are supposed to believe. They’re supposed to believe in monsters and villains, because their innocence creates a balance of belief in heroes. Heroes who will stop the bad monsters just in the nick of time. Something else must be causing the disturbance.

I never figured myself as much of a hero, but I ain’t no kid killer either. That rationale is enough for me.

***

Abbott showed his badge to two dirty street kids who had run into the cemetery to catch the light show, one male, one female.

“Stop. Federal agent,” Abbott yelled, muffled by his shirt sleeve, “you can’t be in here. Poison. Very dangerous.”

They paid him no mind, and continued running into the thick of the mist.

“Wait,” Abbott said, running after them, trying not to breathe in the blue mist, “this blue gas is some kind of poison! Maybe some form of methane gas! You have to stop!”

The young man knelt down on one knee and bowed his head reverently when he’d come upon the dead, blue army.

“My liege,” he said to one of the skeletons, whose ethereal mist had appeared to form a crown above his skull. It too had a shield with a cross it.

Abbott finally caught up to them, and saw their attitude toward his hallucinations.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, “you can see them, too.”

“Leave this place,” the young man said, raising himself to his feet, “this is no place for mortals.”

With a gesture of his arm, the young man sent Abbott tumbling through the cemetery, knocking into tombstones, until he was through the iron gates, out on the street.

Abbott noticed Val Williams running up to him.

“Don’t go in there,” Abbott said, voice straining, sore from his tumble, “poison gas. Make you hallucinate. See crazy things. Lots of pretty colors.”

“Your gun,” Williams demanded, “there’s only one way to stop this thing now.”

The Further Adventures of Val Williams # 2 - The Awakening, pt. IV

Abbott was in way over his head. The blue mist had turned thick and sticky. He wasn’t sure if it was okay to breathe.

Overhead the sun shone. No, not the sun, orange and red beams of light that poured down slowly and cloudily.

The skeletons were climbing out of the ground.

But that’s impossible, the paranormal investigator from the FBI thought, they have no muscular system. How can they move, they’re just withered old skeletons.

He truly couldn’t believe it was happening.

***

It was a fifteen minute walk to Victory Square, but Dagda and Boann had made it in under ten. All their planning, all their improvising, all their mischief. It was finally going to happen, after all these years, they had opened up the gate of hell and they were finally going to see their friends again. One of their friends was particularly important to Boann: Angus.

Angus had been trapped in hell for more than a few lifetimes with the rest of them. Dagda and Boann had been the only ones to escape. But, Angus might have been Boann’s son, although she couldn’t remember. It had all happened so long ago.

They strolled into the cemetery, out of breath.

***

Abbott put on his glasses, for a better look. They were skeletons all right, the odd shred of dried flesh here or there. The mist was thinning out and taking shape around the skeletons. They were becoming … something, Abbott couldn’t quite tell what.

The mist was providing a kind of ethereal flesh for the dead, and more. Clothing. He saw something begin to extend and take shape from one of the things’ arms. A shield with a cross on it.

I’d better get out of here, Abbott thought, it’s the blue mist. It’s making me hallucinate.

***

Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap.

Why do I smoke, when I know I’ve got to run occasionally in this line of work.

I see the lights in the sky. I see all the years of work and pain and struggle coming to an end, before my eyes. All the progree in the world, all the hope of society, however ugly it may seem at times, blotted out not by shadow, but by light.

How could I have been so stupid. It’s the kid. The kid believes he’s a werewolf, and he’s found a way to convince the people he’s been attacking that he‘s a werewolf, too. Four victims and the kid himself, that makes five. A perfect number in a perfect pattern to cast the light of hell into the world.

Damn, I should have killed that kid.

Now hell pours down from the sky.

But there’s still a chance. I’ve just got to find him.

The Further Adventures of Val Williams # 2 - The Awakening, pt. III

“Little Gary’s scared,” Boann said, trying to shield Little Gary from the night, as though the night itself were a thing with claws. “We gotta get him outta here, he’s freaking out.”

“Oh,” said Dagda, “that’s just the thing we need him to be.”

Dagda had received a scare of his own moments earlier when he bent down to pry the moon rock out of Khaddafiy’s cold dead hand. Something puzzling had happened, the hand fought back, and not long after the whole body fought back.

Dagda knelt down beside Little Gary watching the boy’s face with rapt attention. Little Gary was hyperventilating, frightened. He saw Khaddafiy grab Padraic’s head in both clammy hands and with only slight effort had hard bitten right through the skull. He heard Padraic’s choked off cry of agony. Heard the crunchy and slimy sounds of Khaddafiy eating Padraic’s brain. What Little Gary saw, without a doubt, was a real life zombie. Dagda cried out in triumph, “Yes, I say, Yes!”

The sky tore open. Orange and red beams poured down like a viscous ropy liquid and were met halfway to the ground by a pillar of blue mist. It was all happening halfway across town, so they were safe from whatever horror had been unleashed. Khaddafiy didn’t care about the horror, only the brains, if he’d have turned around and looked up at the sky, even he might have been amazed.

Boann took one look at Dagda and said, “now’s our chance, let’s go.”

And the three of them went off towards Victory Square.

***

Ever since cell phones took the cake, you can’t find a payphone in working condition. Most of them have been ripped apart and gutted, receivers missing or whacked off, keys missing or punched in. Only junkies use payphones anyway, I guess. Junkies and guys doing a terrible job of trying to save the planet.

Looks like the job is done though. Must be residual belief from the other four victims of the kid with the moon rock and the man in the trench coat. I can’t even call Abbott to tell him there’s nothing to worry about.

***

Next … what Abbott is so worried about!

The Further Adventures of Val Williams # 2 - The Awakening, pt. II

Wind’s picking up. Hell wind. Cools you to the marrow sometimes, other times it’s an inviting warm breeze, wraps around you like a sorceress, breathes hot on your neck and won’t let go. Summertime’s when the Devil feels right at home. He’s been invited too, by this woman, this … believer!

The streetlights are dim, but there she is, practically running, arms wrapped tightly, staring at the cracked and bumpy pavement.

She’s pretty young, but old enough to know better. The Heights is the poor people district: junkies, winos, indigents, artists. This one looks like an artsy type, usually they‘re pretty practical minded but open to new ideas like werewolves attacking people on city streets. I’m probably going to have to shoot her.

I get her attention, she gives me a dirty look. Tries to act as if guys are always trying to get her attention. Egotistical believer.

“Whoa, there,” I say, “are you alright?”

She mutters something about me being a pervert and how I should get away from her.

“It’s just, you look like you saw a ghost.”

Ignores me. Come on, I’m trying to save the world here.

“Okay, all I’m saying is that I saw something back there, too.”

She glances over, “you got blood on your face, Romeo.” She pulls out her cell and starts dialing.

“Listen,” I say, blocking her way, “I just need to know what you saw. Did you see a werewolf?”

She looks like she’s ready to try out those self defense lessons she took, “are you an idiot?”

I ask what she saw in my most menacing tone. She says she saw a guy getting mugged. I watch her knee the whole time, trying to edge my crotch out of the line of fire.

“So, you don’t believe you saw a werewolf?”

“Get away from me.”

I leave her alone. Seems I wasted my time here. The wisp of belief I thought was coming off of her persists and continues to blow through the unkempt streets, burning with a nightmare wind sent from hell.

TBC ...

The Further Adventures of Val Williams # 2 - The Awakening, pt. I

Romero cemetery.

Abbott jogged through the front gate with his gun held tightly in both hands, barrel pointed to the ground. He stopped and ducked behind a tombstone as he saw the murky blue mist swirl about forty yards ahead. He could see it, but it was dark, real dark.

***

My inner thighs are starting to chafe from all this jogging. If I don’t find this crazy chick, we’re all screwed. I don’t know what she thinks she saw, but I can take a wild guess. She thought the kid was a werewolf. Could have fooled me too, way he tore into me. I would have liked to hang on to that moon rock, but this is more important. This woman I’m chasing: is she a believer or did she fall under some spell or suggestion? How could someone mistake a prepubescent boy for a werewolf? Either way, I’d better find her and knock some sense into her. I wish I hung on to that moon rock.

***

“Is he dead,” Padraic asked.

“The kid killed him,” Dagda was crouched down beside the body of Khaddafiy, sprawled on the pavement.

“Tore his throat out,” he said, then swallowed hard.

Boann hugged little Gary and said, “he doesn’t remember.” She wiped away a couple tears and said, “thank God.”

“No,” Dagda said sharply, “this has nothing to do with Him.”

“Who was this guy, anyway,” Padraic asked, digging for Khaddafiy’s wallet, looking for money.

“Whoever he was,” Dagda said, “I guess he got what he was looking for.”

Boann shielded Little Gary from the horror of Khaddafiy lying in the street with the moon rock in his hand.

***

Something stirred in the blue mist. It was all Abbott could do not to turn and run the other way. He tried to read the tombstone over and over again. It was very old and faded, and it was very dark out.

Something, something memory of Thomas Webb, who something suddenly, something, aged 33 years, something, he was something, something, called back to the flock too early. Something - 1769.

Abbott said a silent prayer, and peeked around the side. He saw something on the ground, beneath the mist. It was dark and he was quite far away, but he could see it, definitely. A movement perhaps, or a disturbance of the ground. A twig or branch suddenly perked up from the ground toward the sky, as if pulled by a magnet. There was a cluster of them …

No. It was a hand.

Abbott opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. He turned to run, but when he looked up, the blue mist was everywhere.

To be continued...

The Further Adventures of Val Williams # 1 - Bad Moon Rising pt. V

The child is psychotic, there’s no question about it. I can’t overpower him, he’s in a frenzy. His little arms are moving too fast, I can’t grab them or make him stop attacking me. A woman screams with a mighty fury, off somewhere in the background. This is humiliating, I’m being beaten up by a ten year old. Something dangles down and hits me in the chest, something containing a great kind of power. In a ditch effort, I stop shielding my face with my arms for a second and snatch the thing from around the boy’s neck.

A moon rock. The boy falls back onto the pavement. I get up and hold the object up, while the boy jumps and scratches, trying to get the thing back. He’s still in a frenzy, but his power’s gone, he got his power from the moon rock. The woman who screamed runs off, west on Kildare, she saw everything. What did she think she saw exactly?

“Alright,” a voice behind me says, “give me the rock.”

I turn around, the voice is attached to a well-dressed gun-wielding maniac. I recognize this guy from the papers.

“What, this?” I say, grabbing the kid and shoving him in front of me.

Out of the corner of my eye, the street kids start east on Kildare, directed by … a man in a trench coat, waving them home like a third base coach.

The gun cocks.

“Alright, alright, alright,” I say, thinking on my feet, “here, Mr. Khaddafy, I’m walking over, and I’m giving you the rock.”

I get half way over and he says, “that’s far enough. Throw it to me.”

“Throw it,” I say, changing plans, “uh…”

Before the bastard can react, I place the rock in the kid’s hand and toss him right into Khaddafy’s chest with all my strength. The kid tears into him real good, too. But I can’t hang around and watch, I’ve got a screaming woman to catch.

***

Abbott noticed a faint blue glow emanating from the cemetery, which grew brighter and stronger. The wind kicked up dirt and stark pages of newspapers and technicolor fliers. With a sigh he checked to see if his gun was still holstered since the last time he checked, thirty seconds before. Mouthing a silent curse, he ran towards the cemetery with his gun ready.

***

Be sure to tune in next month for The Further Adventures of Val Williams # 2: The Dead Walk!

The Further Adventures of Val Williams # 1 - Bad Moon Rising pt. IV

Victory Square, part of Old Colonial Town, the heritage district. The centuries-old buildings are still put to good use, mostly as museums and whistle-stops, but the grounds of Romero Cemetery stay busy with the toils of gravediggers. Abbott didn’t know what he was supposed to be waiting for, but he made sure to park as far away from the cemetery as possible. He opened the glove compartment, and shoed aside loose batteries, a few CDs, and a neat stack of napkins. He stared at the dull black of his standard issue Glock 17 semi-automatic pistol. Truth was, he hated to even look at the thing. He’d never had to fire it, and brought it out only sparingly on certain high-risk field assignments. This was one of those assignments.

***

The Heights. You want to know the truth about humanity, you go to the Heights. See true human nature, boiled down to its purest jungle essence. The cops hate this place, so they don’t come around too often. The perfect landing spot for the armies of hell.

But for tonight, it’s a good thing this place is stuffed with brick buildings. I got off the bus at Zero Ave, five blocks north of Kildare, on Chilton. Walked back down from there, saw a lot of suspicious looking people, but it’d be downright rude of me to classify any of them as demons. Vagrants mostly, down-and-outers, petty criminals, the all-stars of desperation. And I’m desperate, too, and it has nothing to do with the fact that I live in a burnt-out old church on the outskirts of town.

I hide underneath some garbage bags beside the front stoop of a decrepit tenement. Oh God, I think somebody took a shit in this corner! Alright you bastards, this had better be worth it.

***

Abbott lit a smoke and couldn’t stop flicking it. He’d pace from one end of the block to the other, then find a dry spot to sit for about thirty seconds, then continue his circuit. Nothing out of the ordinary was going on. Couples stumbled by, laughing, arm-in-arm; cars rolled by real slow with music blasting to make a point, looking for a crowd of people to impress. Every now and then he noticed a street kid wandering into the cemetery, but that couldn’t be worth noting. The streets were covered with those damn kids.

***

Something about those little urchins across the street catches my interest. There‘s nothing interesting about them, really, but still. Call it a hunch. What are they gathered there, in the shadows, for? Nobody’s around, it’s time I blow my filthy cover and find out for myself.

They start when they see me pop out of the trash like Oscar the grouch. One goes off, running, the rest of them stay put. They see me coming, there’s a weird kinship at play, here. They think I’m homeless like them. Well…

“Hey,” I manage to blurt out, just as I sense the blue cloudy odor of supernatural energy scampering up behind me. I turn just in time to be bowled over by a raging midget. No, it’s not a midget, it’s a boy, and the little ankle biter is trying to claw my eyes out.

TBC...

The Further Adventures of Val Williams # 1 - Bad Moon Rising pt. III

Little pockets of paranoia like mini twisters whip their way around the city in all directions. It’ll be hard to get a bead on what’s real and what isn’t. So far, two groups of street kids have led me on false alarms, getting too aggressive, spreading panic. I think they’re in on it. A little wisp of paranoia dances around me now. When you’ve been where I’ve been you dread full moons.

Over at Beekman’s Diner I get the usual, black coffee and a hard boiled egg with ample table salt for both. The Wizard says it’s no good for my ulcers, but what am I supposed to do?

In walks Carl Abbott with a folder under his arm, hotshot, fed. He’s with the Paranormal Research Division, we met a while back, kept bumping into each other. We’ve formed a mutual - grudging - appreciation society. He keeps his bosses in the dark about what I do, it turns out we have a similar objective: scan and sweep, then keep quiet. Anyway, it means less paperwork for him by not mentioning me or my results.

“Take a look at this,” he says, tossing the folder across the table.

I open it up. The first thing I see is a black and white satellite image map of the city with four red circles.

“The four attacks,” he says, “now watch this.”

He pulls a ruler out of his inside jacket pocket and starts connecting the dots.

It’s a pentagram with the lowermost point missing.

“There’s your next attack,” he says, leaning back, throwing an arm around the back of the chair, smug asshole.

“The heights,” I say, “great. The constant muggings and shootings are going to be a real pain in the ass. It’s going to be hard to pick out a demonic attack. Can you give me an exact location?”

“Right on the corner of Zero Ave and Kildare.”

I nod, flaking off the last bit of eggshell from my hard boiled egg.

“Come on,” he says, getting up out of his chair.

“Slow down,” I say, with a mouthful of egg. “We ain’t going nowhere. I’m going up to Zero Ave, you’re going here.” My finger lands in the center of the pentagram, on the map.

“Victory square,” he says.

“If I can’t stop this thing, you’re gonna have to be there to deal with the aftermath.”

He sits back down and runs his fingertips over his bottom lip.

“It’ll be hell on earth,” I say finishing the egg, “are you up to it?”

***

“He’s freaking out here, man!” Padraic was getting a little freaked out, too.

“Hold him down,” Dagda said, “don’t let go.”

Little Gary was convulsing and foaming at the mouth. He had ever since the sun went down. He was becoming feral. His strength and rage had swelled like the tides under the influence of the moon and the piece of it that hung around his neck.

“Okay,” Dagda said, “get him in the cage.”

“Don’t hurt him,” Boann piped up.

Dagda stared deep into the eyes of his two comrades, “we’ve got work to do.”

To be continued...

The Further Adventures of Val Williams # 1 - Bad Moon Rising pt. II

Boann sat on the sidewalk, combing her hands through Little Gary’s hair. He was a strong new weapon in their arsenal. No one would pass by a mother and her child without throwing change, and, in the right parts of the city, no one would stop to ask too many questions either.

Dagda and Boann found Little Gary on the corner of the street, staring into the window of a McDonald’s. For over ten minutes, he stared dewy eyed and no adult claimed him. He was lost.

When they grabbed him he wouldn’t stop staring at Dagda’s trench coat, something about it made him think a million baby spiders would rush out of there the minute a strong gust of wind would flap it open.

Around Little Gary's neck was a rock attached to a string, Boann had a sickening impulse to snatch it from him, she didn’t know why.

“What’s that around your neck, Little Gary,” Boann asked him, crouching down to his eye level.

“I’m not supposed to talk about it,” Little Gary said, intense. There was a strength in the boy. “My dad gave it to me, and he told me to hide it.”

“Where is he,” she asked.

“The men in white coats took him away,” he said.

Boann and Dagda exchanged weary glances.

“Where’s your Mom,” Dagda asked.

Little Gary shrugged, “at home, I guess.”

“Well, why don’t we give her a call and take you home,” Boann offered.

“No,” Little Gary shouted and turned to run.

Padraic triumphantly rounded the corner with a couple McDonald’s bags in his hands, sipping a drink.

“Padraic,” Dagda shouted, and pointed to the boy, running in his direction.

Padraic caught the boy across the chest with his right arm and reeled him in, dropping his drink in the process.

He made his way over to his friends with the boy, held up the bags and said, “someone left, like, half a burger. Who’s the kid?”

“I don’t know,” Dagda said, “but he’s got a moon rock around his neck.”

***

I don’t want you to think it’s grimmer than it is, but it’s darker than you think. When people start to believe in the existence of werewolves, vampires, ghouls and aliens or anything else that lives under their beds it opens the gates of hell. The guy who had my job in the 17th century had his hands full keeping the world in one piece. We’ve only just got things back to relatively normal. But I got my work cut out for me tonight.

There’s no brick in the park, no magnetic stone, nothing. Damn. Brick acts like a spiritual tape recorder. It’s gonna be harder to pick up any residual energy from those wolf forms, if they even exist, or that character in the trench coat. Most of it’s probably dissipated back into ether by now. Then again, maybe it’s not so bad, tonight I‘m watching over the city and the sun’s about to go down…

Stay tuned for part 3…

The Further Adventures of Val Williams # 1 - Bad Moon Rising pt. I

by Lucas Klaukien

I wake up when some kids ride by, afternoon time. My mouth is the Sahara desert. I smoked too much last night. This is life in the Church of the Holy Trinity. Dusty quiet, till some kids ride by. I’m mired in the kind of quiet that’s either easily tuned out or all-encompassing, depending on what kind of person you are. Worst case scenario, you could panic and drown in a quiet like this. Until some kids ride by to spoil the fun.

The Church was condemned years or even decades ago, left to rot in a long-forgotten corner on the outskirts of town. Generations of vandals have gotten in, pissing and partying, breaking beer bottles, marking territory. Palm smeared, nicotine stained walls, effluvia spattered floors and smoke dried ceiling, four graffiti sprayed walls and a leaky ceiling, the Church is my home.

***

“BAD MOON RISING?” on the front page of the newspaper. “Questions surround lunar mission.” Read on:

“Cape Canaveral, FL - Last week’s long-awaited lunar mission appeared to have been a complete success until the behavior of one crewmember had friends and loved-ones ‘shaking in [their] boots.’ Dr. Mark Taylor’s state upon returning to his family was reported to be one of ‘extreme agitation and anti-social tendencies.’ Dr. Taylor has been taken back to Kennedy Space Center for observation. NASA scientists are baffled as to the cause of the strange behavior. “He’s one of our top guys,” said Mission Captain Jamil Khaddafy… [cont. on page 3]”

Another story on the page read:

“JOGGER ATTACKED - Fourth in a string of recent attacks.
A fourth victim came forward claming in to have been attacked, this time at Quist Memorial Park at around 9 O’clock last night. Police spokeswoman Jane Dwyer was not available for comment at the time of writing… [cont. on page 5]”

I’m the only person on the face of the earth stupid enough to believe the two stories are connected.

The attacks have made the city stiff with tension. I’ve bumped and hiccupped my way through tenser spots than this, but it’s giving me a headache.

Strange words are being brandished by those in the media who know how to use them: werewolf, vampire, ghoul. Always used as adjectives, never as nouns, but still carefully done to arouse fear and worry and anger. I’m not here to sniff out a werewolf or a vampire in the fold, my job is to certify that such creatures don’t exist, by blasting them away and leaving no trace.

In the 17th century werewolf paranoia was tre chic. You’d wake up the day after a full moon with a few less neighbors. Consider me insurance against that happening again.

At Quist Park I get a feeling. The woman who was attacked the night before actually believed she was going to die, eaten alive by werewolves. In the residue of her mind I see four shapes like razor blades dancing around her at speed, snapping and showing teeth, and a mysterious man in a trench coat who appears to be their master. The Maestro. This is no good. They’ve done their job, they’ve done a number, the newspaper publishers. This woman isn’t supposed to believe in werewolves. No one is supposed to believe.

To Be Continued …