Pin
the Nose on the Werewolf:
A
FREE Christmas
Werewolf Story
By Rusty Fischer, author of My Big, Fat, Hairy Werewolf Intervention
Copyright © 2011 by Rusty Fischer
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Cover credit: © Masek – Fotolia
Author’s Note:
The following is a FREE werewolf Christmas story. Any errors, typos, grammar or spelling issues are completely the fault of the werewolves. (They’re not very patient with the editorial process!)
Anyway, I hope you can overlook any minor errors you may find; enjoy!
Pin the Nose on the Werewolf:
A FREE Christmas Short Story by Rusty Fischer
Do you know how hated it is to have a birthday… on Christmas?
No offense to the Big Guy Upstairs, but… it pretty much blows.
I mean, how do you compete with THE biggest birthday in the known universe, am I right?
Still, my family’s pretty cool about it and always tries to make sure that in addition to the usual Christmas presents, I also get at least one present that’s wrapped in birthday wrapping.
So that’s why I’m playing “Pin the Nose on the Reindeer” when I hear the first growl.
Yes, I know it’s un cool.
Yes, I know it’s for little kids.
Yes, I know nobody ever wins.
We’re being ironic, get it?
Plus, it’s my 17th birthday this Christmas and if I want to get blindfolded and spun around and play some stupid kids’ game with my entire family and half my friends cheering me on, then it’s my party and I’ll be lame if I want to.
Nobody’s cheering now, though.
The growl is low and ominous and, what’s worse, none of us have dogs.
Not even Aunt Bertha, who has every type of animal known to man – except dogs.
It’s the kind of growl you don’t just hear; you feel it, deep down in the marrow of your bones.
It starts as a low rumble, and I’m thinking maybe my sister’s boyfriend is playing with me, but his voice isn’t that deep and, frankly, he’s just not that imaginative.
The growl gets louder, never piercing; just a kind of general “Is that what I think it is?” sound.
People stop watching my silly Christmas-slash-birthday game to get a better listen.
I stop, the party laughter stops, the back chatter behind me, around me, even the CD – Christmas Party Hits of the 80s, don’t ask – stops.
I stand there, blindfolded with an extra-long Christmas stocking, red rubber reindeer nose in my hand, waist at mid-pivot, cake frosting still fresh on my tongue, and wait with the rest of my family and friends for what’s to come next.
One second, two seconds, three, and time is slowing down now and then—
The first growl was kind of behind me, but the next one is in front of me – and close.
Suddenly there are growls everywhere – all around, moving quickly – and I still have that stupid rubber nose in my hand!
I hear screaming, and running and smashing and glass ornaments breaking and party streamers tearing and it’s all heightened because I can’t see a damn thing!
I reach to take my blindfold off and something knocks me down; something hot, and hairy, and big, and long.
It brushes against my shoulder like a cruise liner sliding by and seems to take forever.
Then something snags on my favorite black and white mini-hoodie – something sharp and stiff – and yanks me down to the ground.
I land with a thud, on my side, in a heap, the red reindeer nose bouncing out of my hand and feel open air on a fresh wound.
I reach for my elbow and feel a gash and slick, wet hotness and smell the coppery smell of blood and still the screams echo off the back porch and the above ground pool and the sliding glass doors.
There are more growls now, growls so loud and hot and wet they must be right over me, then beside me, then behind me, then in front of me, then… racing away.
There is a distinct smell, too; like wet dog fur.
And the growls, so many growls; hungry, tearing, ripping, angry, violent growls.
There are fewer screams.
I hear one, the high-pitched wail of my mother shouting, “Mercy, get up honey; get up and RUN!”
Or, at least, I think she says “RUN” because her last word is cut off mid-stream; not by a growl but what sounds like a – slash.
Then the screaming – and the words – stop altogether.
I sit up and listen for more screaming, hearing only the sound of gallons of water draining over the top of the above-ground pool.
It hits me in the back, a small wave, and gushes over my legs and I hear giant tongues lapping, like a dozen dogs at the world’s biggest water bowl.
I groan and sit up, my head throbbing from where it hit the ground; hard.
The lapping stops, instantly.
I hear muddy footsteps, four of them, eight of them, twelve… sixteen?
Too many to count, let alone identify how many.
They go in groups, moving together; and all toward me.
The world goes silent except for this very specific sound: heavy breathing.
Hot, heavy breathing right up against my face, like I’m sitting in front of the world’s grossest, meatiest air vent.
It smells putrid and raw, like eight days of old steak stuck in front of a fan; but hot, like the steak’s still raw and putrid but sitting on a heater.
And it’s not wafting, either; it’s blowing right.
In.
My.
Face.
In front of me, beside me, in my ear, behind me, blowing against my dark black tresses, dragging them across my shoulder, ruffling the cheesy red stocking my older sister Sarah bound tightly against my eyes just so there’d be no chance I’d ever win; she’s very competitive, Sarah.
And the panting; the panting is so loud, it’s almost – almost – worse than the growling.
I go to raise my blindfold and something growls.
I drop my hand and it’s no more growling; back to panting.
My face is moist with it, my hair covered in it.
I raise my hand again and the growling starts; one growl, two growls, three or more joining in.
I let my hand drop and don’t dare raise it again.
The panting slows, the hot air softens and then; silence.
I flinch as hot breath returns, closer this time, and the glistening sound of drool dripping onto the wet, muddy ground pauses and the slick, sickening sound of an opening mouth reaches out.
I jerk backward as a hot, wet tongue slides up and down my face; it’s not human.
It’s two, three times the size of a human tongue; sharp and wet like being smacked in the face with a wet salmon, scales included.
I gag, and retch as the tongue recedes and the panting turns to… laughter?
Not quite human laughter, but not quite animal growling, either.
Like humans pretending to fake growl; or animals that aren’t all animal.
Suddenly a howl sounds off in the distance and the growling returns; lower than before, deeper, hotter, more urgent and stark.
I am brushed aside by furry loins and giant shoulders and claws trampling over my ankles as the circle of… whatever… that’s been surrounding me rushes to join the howling sounds behind me.
I sit in the mud, bloody and wet, drool rolling down off my one cheek, until I’m sure nobody – or nothing – is still around.
Then I reach up and yank down my blindfold.
Suddenly, I wish I hadn’t.
The backyard is a battlefield, blood red mud trampled with bodies, body parts, icing from my half-eaten birthday cake and dozens – I mean dozens – of paw prints.
I put my hand in one, if only to avoid the carnage that surrounds me; I barely fill one fourth of it.
I stand on wobbly legs, holding my bleeding elbow next to my chest as I race inside.
The back door is in tatters, blood splattering the living room walls, the Christmas tree and all that remains of Aunt Bertha is a swath of her ever present pink and periwinkle blue housecoat.
Mom’s sneakers are bloodstained and she’s not breathing; Dad is in another room, his pale, cold hands full of torn presents he must have been sneaking out of the attic.
My sister is in the backyard, her face a mask of pain; what remains of her face, anyway.
I toss the one piece of birthday cake I had into the bushes, follow it up with the roof of the gingerbread house I snuck when no one was looking.
I wipe my trembling, sugar-coated lips with the back of my ragged sleeve as I slog through the bloody, muddy backyard.
I return to where I’d fallen and just sit there; trying to see what I’d missed while I was blindfolded.
All around the space are paw prints, dozens of them, large as Bigfoot’s, and all circled around me.
How long had they sat like that?
And what for?
And why was I the only one left standing?
Did they know it was my birthday today?
Was this their idea of a Christmas present?
The howling keens in the distance, the brush full of retreating bodies and bark breaking as giant, massive haunches scrape by.
I stand, take one look at my family, and follow.
By rights, I should have been dead too.
And if the lore is right, the mythology, all those late-night monster movies I watched on TV long after everyone else in the house fell asleep, this bite on my arm means I’m a goner already.
Might as well find out who killed me, right?
I take a step, then another, crouching low to the ground and following the muddy, wet footprints as they disappear into the forest behind our house.
It’s my party, and I’ll have revenge if I want to…
About the Author:
Rusty Fischer
Rusty Fischer is a professional freelance writer who lives in sunny Florida with his beautiful wife, Martha. They enjoy riding bikes, long, leisurely walks on the beach, romantic dinners and zombie movies; with a few werewolf movies thrown in for good measure!
(Well, Rusty does, anyway!)
Rusty is the author of several YA supernatural novels, including Zombies Don’t Cry (Medallion Press, 2011), Ushers, Inc. (Decadent Publishing, 2011), Detention of the Living Dead (Quake Books, 2012) and Vamplayers (Medallion Press, 2012).
His latest, My Big, Fat, Hairy Werewolf Intervention comes out from Noble Young Adult just in time for the holidays.
Visit his blog, www.zombiesdontblog.blogspot.com, for news, reviews, cover leaks, writing and publishing advice, book excerpts and more!
And if you can’t wait for his next release, download his complete YA novel Vampires Drool! Zombies Rule! absolutely FREE at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/25988.