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Adventures In Living With The Mythical |
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A military veteran is adopted by a werewolf and brought into his pack. Insanity ensues. About "Life With A Werewolf" Life with a werewolf is a dramatic blog. As such the characters in this blog are not real but maybe loosely based on real people. The situations represented are not real but maybe loosely based on real things that have happened in my life. There are a multitude of ways to view life, this is simply one of the ways I have chosen to view mine. Updated Every Friday unless I can't or don't want to. If this is your first time reading this...start here: https://www.writing.com/main/books/entry_id/1040400-Welcome-To-The-Pack My book, "Dreamers of The Sea" is available now on Amazon: https://a.co/d/0uz7xa3 |
| Never has a strange, dirty invitation ever filled me with so much dread before in my entire life. It arrived in or mailbox at an odd time, had a scent of death upon it, and dirt smeared at the edges. Like the individual who had written it had crawled out of the ground before they had written it. It was beautiful, and reminded me of an invitation to a wedding. Though, there was no names on it other than my own, and didn’t have a location written upon it. The only thing this invitation had was a notification that I had been cordially invited too….well something. It didn’t really go further into information than that. I was invited to this grand event that they felt the need to put it on special paper, to smudge the edges with dirt, and to run it across a dead animal’s carcass before dropping it in the mailbox. The first word that came to mind filled my heart with dread a little bit: zombies. Now, zombies aren’t the armies of the walking, perpetually starving dead that want to eat your face off like they always portray in those old films. In fact, I kind of wish they were. That would be easy to deal with, by a bunch of the old school scissor type hedge clippers, sharpen the blades, mount them all around head height around the house. Wait for zombies to decapitate themselves while I drink a cup of coffee and watch. Maybe make popcorn. These zombies are more like what Crash called them: soul wrappers. After they die and the soul leaves the body, the flesh can sometimes mourn its separation I suppose. They miss the individual that used to reside in them. They wonder about who they used to be. And they hold a get together on Halloween, where they have a semi-party, semi-group therapy session. Think of it like a high school reunion of dead, rotting corpses. Last year, I ended up roped into things. Normally I’m all for getting involved in such matters, after all I’m kind of known by now for sticking my head into places where it doesn’t belong, but that is an experience that I do not want to relive. No sir. No ma’am. No way. No thank you! I almost vomited in my car when that zombie decided to hitch a ride. Not to mention all the trouble I went through with getting the smell out afterwards. Then there was the get together itself. The largest drunk therapy session I’ve ever had. And the only successful one I might add. Thing is, alcohol needs to be involved for another event like that one. There’s no way you can expect that I will do something similar again without being drunk. But I’m sober! I’ve been sober for almost a year now, and I don’t want to fall off the wagon thanks to a bunch of rotting corpses that can’t accept the fact that they’re dead. It really would be easier if they’d just desire to eat my face off. If they’d just crave human flesh. Cause then all I could do is decapitate them and call it a night. But in reality, doing such a thing may free me of my obligation, but I was never one to throw puppies into a sack and toss them in a river. Decapitating these walking dead would feel just like that. Like I was just killing the innocent simply because I could. Crash has liked my newly minted sobriety. Talks of me getting a steady job has started up again. I’ve even typed out a few applications, though I haven’t gotten any callbacks yet. Maybe it’s my resume? Perhaps I shouldn’t have “recovering drunk” down as my current occupation. Hmm… Zack, Kris and Shawn has even commented on me being a nicer person now that I’ve stopped partying with Jack, the Lord, and their Captain. Drinking on that night to deal with what I must do would possibly toss all of that away. The chance at an actual job. At a kinder relationship with my roommates. At a different kind of future. But maybe I’m just overthinking things. No one says I have to drink to do that. No one says I have to do it at all. What was it that Kris said? Lock the door and don’t ask questions? I could do that. But I’m not that kind of person. It’s part of the reason I joined the military in the first place, after all. I was never one to just duck my head in the sand and pretend that things would magically get better. Either you accept the world is crashing down around you or you jump head first into the mess and try and fix it. But this year, my therapy couch is closed. Maybe that’s what I should write on this stinky invitation. No thank you, I’m done. Once was enough. I don’t need a repeat performance. No way! You’re not getting me. You hear me zombies? Not this year. No! Not This Year! |
| I'll give a state of the blog. First, the reason. This week was going to be a brief posting on AI and a small rant from Jason that was mainly about how bad the images where, (cause I had bing do a few images and they're bad), but instead I'm having a fight with back pain this morning which is shattering most of my concentration. Guess that's what I get for waiting until last minute to write it. Usually I start the post on Tuesday or Wednesday, then make corrections until friday and post. The blog itself: Well, I've had a total of about 50 posts, 8656 all time views as of this posting, including 4257 this month alone. From all of those views, I've made a grand total of: $.46. Lol, I definitely don't do this for the money. Advertising: Well, I do advertise it in one area and have been spending around $20-30 a month on it. Good thing I'm not in this for the cash. Characters, well I've introduced several which I'm not certain who the favorite is so far as far as characters go. Anyone got any ideas? Who's yours? I've had a total of 15 comments so far. And 2 subscribers. Can't help but feel I'd have had a lot more if I'd have just gone with blogger to start with. Ah well, you live, you learn. I do have questions for you guys though if you're willing to answer them. Who is your favorite hero? Who is your favorite villain? Who is your favorite side character? Is there any quests you'd really like to see? Any other mythical creatures you'd really like me to tap into? Just curious. I'd be grateful if you answered, but of course answering is not mandatory. Thank you all so much for reading. |
| Orange and black season is almost upon us! Tis the time of year that everyone begins to pull down their Halloween decorations from the attic, dust them off and put them up, stock up on huge bags of slightly over priced candy, and get spooky! You’d think that given the events that has happened in our little town recently most people would want to ignore Halloween and go right into Christmas. You’d be wrong, of course. After having just experienced something so traumatic, especially for those who have been mentally held prisoner by the meth-headed blood sucker, it seems to be more important, not less, that people get into the holiday spirit. Paper ghosts, jack-o-lanterns, zombies, and of course werewolves. There has been quite a bit more werewolf stuff around town. Claw marks, werewolf heads, card board cut outs, all sorts of things. But no vampires. Not even sparkly ones. One house put up a vampire statue of sorts, one of those plastic lawn ornament things that sing and dance. But in the middle of the night someone be-headed it. Cops are “looking into it”, but I’m sure they’re going to not find anything. Not that I blame them for not looking too hard. I wasn’t thrilled about it being up myself and probably would have destroyed it if someone else hadn’t got there first. For the most part things have been returning to a some-what normal stasis. The poison is taking a little longer to get out of Crash’s system than he’d like. But he’s at least been able to be human again for a couple days, something he’s missed. He’s also been able to eat a couple more things than before, but he’s not back to normal yet. It’s strange. Certain things now upsets his stomach or causes him to break out into an itchy, scratchy mess. Other things have no effect. Crash is certain that after six months it’ll be gone. I just hope he’s right. It’s getting old sweeping up bloody fur clumps in the morning because he’s had a bad night at work. Gary’s been, well, Gary. He has chatted with Zack a little bit. But he’s not come back around and talked to me again, yet. I think he’s afraid I’m holding some sort of grudge about how everything went down. I can understand that thought. After all, he did threaten my life several times, lead a mad posse on a chase after me through the woods in the dark that thankfully he didn’t get injured or killed in, a miracle by itself. That would be enough to make anyone upset. If I hadn’t been through so much living here, and of course there’s my previous occupation in the military, I would have been just a bit upset. Zack hasn’t really said much, other than that Gary seems to be “apologetic” about everything. But the thing is, I’m not mad at him. Perhaps I should send him a card that says sorry you’re upset? I don’t really know. If I can catch him on one of his walks, then that will make things quite a bit easier to talk to him. It could also be the whole werewolf thing. The cat maybe out of the bag in that regards. Vic was supposed to suppress everyone’s memories of what happened, but it seems that some people might actually still remember. Crash, on his limited excursions into town says he seems to be a little more popular than before. Even Kris and Sean, two individuals whom everyone ignored at the best of times, and sneered at in the usual “eww” manner in the worst of times, seems to be getting more smiles and nods than glares. We’re not the most popular people in town. We really don’t wish to be. But more people seem to be going out of their way to be nice to us. The werewolf things seem to be out and about more around our house than anywhere else in town now that I think about it. Even Gary seems to have a werewolf thing around his home. Maybe the townsfolk are embracing their furry protector of sorts? Maybe they’re just subconsciously dealing with the ramifications of what occurred? Maybe they’re just clueless as to what happened, what is occurring and who we are, and just subconsciously like werewolves now? It could be one of those things. Or, it could be Vic, who enjoys his practical jokes, decided to play one on Crash by having everyone around him love werewolves all of a sudden. That would be my guess. From what little I know about the guy he loves playing those practical jokes, especially on Crash, who enjoys teasing and joking with him right back. So, of course he’d seize this opportunity to prank him. From what I can tell everything seems to be going well. Though one of our new neighbors down the street seems to know a little more than she lets on about things. I’ve spoken to Marissa twice now. She seems nice. Taller lady, with a farmer’s daughter sort of build. A smile on her face, and a laugh in her heart. She’s the kind that can talk your ear off. So is Crash, so of course they’ll get to going on and on and on and on. When we first met her, she began a conversation with me about her small house, her yard and things. Crash came outside to see what the hubbub was, found her, and well, after ten minutes of not getting a word in edgewise I walked off. Neither noticed. But things seem to be winding down back to normal now. I’m glad I can put all of this behind me. Can enjoy a spooky season without any rotting corpses following me around like a lost puppy dog. Unlike last year, with the dead brigade dragging me into their strange party or whatever it was. This year I’m not doing ANYTHING like that. Nope! I’m following Zack’s and Kris’ advice and keeping my butt in the house. May play some video games or something, but I am NOT going to be helping the dead brigade in their quest to learn about who they used to be. No way, nuh uh! That is not happening this year. |
| There is a strange, surreal nature to having a group of people shouting your name and chasing you through the woods. My impromptu gardening, spurred on by the thought that it was somehow responsible for Crash’s predicament, sat abandoned. Gary and several others I didn’t know were shouting my name and chasing me; stumbling through the woods in the darkness. My heart pounded; my pulse quickened as I tried to move through the trees. I could tell I was being herded in a direction, moved closer towards buildings and town itself instead of away from our old house on the edge of the woods. Soon, I had spilled into a roadway that would eventually become main street. The hills on either side of the road had houses on them, the squat kind that felt more manufactured than purpose built. Short buildings loomed ahead in the darkness. Street lamps cast a feint glow upon the pavement holding back the harshest parts of the darkness. Dozens of people began to fill the road behind me, all shouting my name. Gary at the front, called out to me, saying that he was promised my death would be quick, that it would be nice. That I was going to get the nice, happy death. Whatever the hell that meant. The only sensible thing to do was to run. To ignore the darkened store fronts that had faces glaring at me out of them, and to keep running. Don’t look back. There may be something after you, after all. Every small town is built the same. There is one main intersection that the rest of the town exists upon. It is human nature to design them like this. No matter if it’s a third world country that’s seen more war than a Kardashian has seen shoes, the towns and villages, what little of them there are there, are still built around a single intersection. Ours had two story buildings on all four corners, with two of them being department style stores and apartments above, one of them being a bar of some kind with apartments above, and the other being a local restaurant. With apartments above, of course. I ran straight towards this intersection, knowing full well what was coming. It was a classic pincher movement. Lure your enemy into an area, close the gap around them and now they’re surrounded. This time it was dozens, if not a couple hundred people versus little old me. Without my pistol. Without Crash. Without even so much as a prayer. The only way out of it was straight through. If I could run faster than they expected, then perhaps I could blow right by them and escape; get far enough that I could…. well, I didn’t know. At least get away and time to make another plan. Ten feet. Five. My legs burned. My lungs ached. There were scratches on top of scratches from running through the woods half blind. I put everything I had into my legs and sprinted. A tangle of bodies sprinted after me, like a hoard of zombies in an AMC TV show. Someone grabbed my arm, I twisted yanking on it, someone else grabbed my waist. Down I went. I thrashed, I writhed as the horde of not AMC zombies grabbed my limbs and pulled them taught. I looked up, glaring at everyone, but not threatening anyone. After all, I knew who was behind it, didn’t I? If given a choice, I figure none of them would even be there then. But that was just it, they really didn’t have much of a choice. Something else was controlling them against their will. The mass of faces parted. I looked up as much as I could to see them clearing a path in the street. A white pickup truck backed up through the crowd. In the truck bed was an expensive lazy boy recliner of some kind, and seated upon it like it was his throne was the one and only, king of the meth-headed vampires, Mitch. His black greasy hair was combed back. He was wearing some sort of Kid Rock T-shirt with a big grin on his face. “There he is, there he is,” he smiled as the truck stopped a couple feet in front of me, clapping a few times in mock cheer. “My, my, my. Why, me and my fam here ran you like a wild boar, didn’t we? But here you are now, just as pretty as a picture.” “Lee Roy! As I live and breathe,” I smirked. He stepped off the truck and knelt down on top of me, snarling. “Lee Roy was my brother,” he growled. “I’m sorry Lee Roy,” I said. “I keep getting you two mixed up. How is your brother these days?” He grabbed me by the throat and pinned me down, growling in my face. I could smell the stench of his unwashed body, the sickening beef like coppery scent of blood on his breath. And of course, the sweet scent of frequent meth abuse. “Oh,” I gasped. “Still dead I see. Sorry about that.” “Not as sorry as you’re going to be,” he snarled in my ear. “See, your death is going to be a long one. A simple suicide isn’t enough to pay for what you done. I’m going to cut on you. Bleed you all night. My fam here will be dining on you while you scream. And every time I feed from them; I’ll get a small part of you. You ugly sumbitch are going to spend hours bleeding and screaming, and I’ll get to watch. You’ll get to watch me feeding on all your friends. Best of all, your werewolf pet cannot save you this time. He will die knowing that he. Could. Not. Save. You.” In times like this, you cannot give in to what they want. Mitch wanted me to crumble, to break down and cry. So, I had to do anything I could to not give him that. Some accomplish this by being stoic. I had never been the stoic type. “Damn Lee Roy,” I said, “I didn’t know you cared so much. You could always just send flowers, you know. Or do what every redneck does and talk shit on TikTok.” He rolled his eyes and stood. “Prepare him,” He shouted “Gary, you get first….” He never finished. As he turned, he looked towards the sky and froze. Crash in full werewolf form had leaped over the truck in a single, snarling bound, and crashed down upon the meth-head. They collapsed into a heap next to me, with the vampire pinned beneath four hundred plus pounds of snarling, angry werewolf. A single clawed hand held his throat.. Crash’s fangs glinted deadly in the thin light. Crash denies it, but he did drool on the vampire. I know what I saw. I hadn’t thought it possible for the vampire to go even whiter than what he was. Mitch stammered, “I-i-it’s impossible! You’re supposed to be bleeding to death! Th-the wolfsbane! I-it should be b-burning you alive! You should be a ball of whimpering pain!” “A werewolf’s life IS pain,” Crash snarled then raised a clawed hand up. Mitch was about to be beheaded, and I, thanks to my wonderful neighbors still holding me down, was going to get a front row seat. “Wait!” Shouted the vampire. “If you kill me, it will kill all these folk!” A groan of pain began to fill the crowd around us. People started grabbing their heads as if something was trying to claw its way out from inside. I had no idea what Mitch was doing or how he was doing it. “I swear it’ll be my last act on God’s green earth.” “You sick bastard,” Crash snarled down on him. Then he looked up. His expression changed briefly staring at the growing pain that was on everyone’s face. “Run,” he said. “You have exactly one hour to get out of my county. Then I’m coming after you. And I WILL find you.” Crash stood and let the vampire up, who didn’t waste any time. He raced over to the truck and pulled out some skinny teenager from the driver’s seat and jumped inside. Tires squealed. His recliner thumped forward. And with that, he was gone. As he left, the collective groans, which almost became cries of agony finally stopped. As the tail lights disappeared into the night, Crash knelt down, shivering. A pained whimper rose up in his throat. And then he collapsed in the road. I stood. I was numb. Unsure. Tired. All feelings I had been used to in my previous job. Feelings I was used to. That old familiar instinct kicked in. “You,” I pointed at an on-looker, “You got a car?” He nodded his head. “Good, get me,” “I have an ambulance.” I turned. It was the sheriff. Will wonders never cease. “Good, I need,” “Don’t worry,” he said, cutting me off. “I know what to do.” There isn’t much more to tell from that night. Sherriff kept most folks in the area. A few wandered off. Vic came down with Crash’s boss, and one at a time worked on the people there, doing whatever sort of mental trickery that vampires do. He managed to hold back the meth addiction in most of them as well as suppress their memories. Of course, a few of the more addictive types had a new chemical dependency they had to worry about. Or worry about again, whatever the case maybe there. But that was nothing new for the town or the local cops to deal with. The sheriff had the ambulance take us home, even had the EMTs bring Crash right back to my bed. The sun had risen and I was ready for some sleep by the time Vic came around to check on him. He looked in on Crash, the two joked as per their usual banter, though I didn’t go into the room at that time. I waited in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in my hands, watching the sunrise. Soon Vic came in, a heavy sigh in his throat, but waved down the offered coffee. I didn’t even know if vampires touched that stuff, but it never hurts to be polite. “You finally know what happened,” I asked. “You were right,” Vic said in that plain vanilla midwestern accent of his. His brownish blond hair was almost on fire in the early morning light. “It was the wolfsbane. But that son of a bitch was smart. He didn’t just plant it around the house and hoped it would get him sick. He put itching powder over it, and just about everything else in the vicinity of the woods.” “I don’t get it,” I said. “Itching powder? Why that?” “Cause,” Vic said, “Crash would scratch. With a claw. That will eventually draw blood, and get the wolfsbane pollen and other chemicals he spread around, in his system. Which will cause him to scratch more.” “Oh,” I said. “So the more he scratched,” “The more he was infecting himself,” Vic finished for me. “You were pretty smart too,” Vic said. “That bit with the dawn and stuff is probably what saved his life.” I smiled and shrugged. “Worked on oil-soaked penguins.” Vic arched an eyebrow and clapped me on the shoulder. Some people have no sense of humor. “I gave him a shot. He should be up and around in a day or two. And you,” he said, pointing at me. “No more fights with vampires. I mean it! If Crash hadn’t been there,” “I’d be dead and fed to the masses, I heard.” “No, it would have been worse than that. Far worse. He wanted to keep you alive for days. Weeks if possible. I’ve seen some of the plans he had from the memories of his food. Slowly bleeding to death would have been the least of your torments.” “That sick son of a bitch,” I grumbled. “Yes,” Vic replied. “No more fights with vampires.” “I swear,” I said, “I will not start any fights with vampires.” That was a couple days ago. Crash is back up and around again. Certain foods have upset his stomach, but I hope that’s just a side effect of the shot and not a permanent thing for the poor guy. But we’ll see what happens. Most of the towns people has forgotten what had happened or pretended to. They look at Crash as that weird guy who lives near the woods with those other weird guys again. No one has threatened me in a while, which is nice. I can get used to this whole having a normal, boring day thing. But Gary hasn’t looked me in the eye for a while and hasn’t come over to talk cars since. Which, honestly, is just too bad. Cause I’m not mad at him. After all, it’s like he chose to do those things. But we can’t change what we remember. We can’t change what had happened. All we have is the present day, and even that, for some of us, is sketchy moment to moment. We have but few pleasures in this world: whether it’s cars or music or movies or games or what have you. When someone manages to steal the pleasure out of one of those things for you, they’ve stolen a part of you. In which case, if Gary truly did lose that sense of enjoyment he gets from old station wagons, that would be just too bad. Cause that would mean, at least in some small way, that meth-headed vampire jerk did win. |
| Dead weight is twice as heavy as regular weight. Anyone who has tried to lift an unconscious or dead body knows what I’m talking about. It pulls, it heaves, it hangs in so many awkward ways and always feels like you’re lifting something that’s twice as heavy. Now, make that weight the body of a werewolf far heavier than you. “Oh man, he needs to go on a diet,” Shawn grumbled as we dragged Crash into the bathroom. Both of us had given up on lifting him. He was just too heavy for regular humans. Now, if we’d been involved in dead lifting competitions and tough man contests like they used to play on ESPN before they decided the P stood for politics, then we might have had a chance. But right then? “Crash, you hear me? You’re going on a diet,” I shouted down at him as we slid his body into the bathroom. We had decided the best course of action was me grab one arm, Shawn to grab the other and we just lift and pull backwards. Yes, with my bad leg and back. He’s lucky I didn’t fall on him. It was a struggle getting him into the tub. In the end we lifted his head and rolled him in, dumping his body at an awkward angle. We struggled and strained, heaving his heavy body up and over the edge of the tub until we Crash finally rolled into the tub at an awkward angle. Thankfully, it was less difficult to arrange him into the tub so he wasn’t laying on his head. But I think that was because he was finally helping us. “Okay,” Shawn asked me. “Now what?” “Grab the bag of soap.” Shawn took too steps backwards like he was going to follow my instructions. But the confusion on his face reminded me of a toddler trying to get a mystery item for his parents. “I had it when I came through the door,” I half said, half chided. “Oh yeah,” he shouted as the light dawned. Then he was gone. He came stumbling in a few moments later, bag held aloft like some trophy in a strange internet game show. I snatched the bag from his hands and pulled the bottle of Dawn from it. Looking down at Crash who had gone back into whimpering mode, I said “you better pray you’re just an oil-soaked penguin.” Dawn makes a lot of suds. A LOT of suds. When applied to a werewolf who is bleeding profusely from multiple scratches all over himself, the suds come up more pink then white. As we began scrubbing with rags, with green scrub pads, with whatever we could get really, the pink suds started changing colors. Thick, yellow, mucous like puss began to flow, and sudsing up, turning the bubbles into a sickening yellowish pinkish sort of color that at times faded into orange. The smell. Oh God the smell. It was the scent of full body sweat sick. Of someone trapped in a bed for two weeks with fever funk mixed with an underlying stench of rot and decay. As the yellow pus began to bubble up, Crash began to shiver, as if a fever was taking over him. “What’s causing this,” Shawn asked. “I don’t,” I began. Then I remembered. It was one of those powerful punch type memories, as if God or the universe or whoever was trying to tell you something. We had been standing outside, in the wooded area. Crash was scratching, showing me the wolfsbane flowers. “Come on,” he said, as he scratched more. It was as if he was getting worse. “Shit,” I grumbled. “I have an idea. Let’s get him cleaned up first.” Rinsing Crash was harder than scrubbing him. It took several rinses, water splashing all over us, all over the floor, all over just about everything in the bathroom. It really felt like I was scrubbing a dog for a while. We attempted to lift Crash once or twice, but gave up after a while, and tried to dry him off in place. Shawn got paranoid and began wiping up the water on the floor, for which I was grateful to be honest. Cause although may have been comical, it could have been disastrous to fall with several hundred pounds of whimpering werewolf crashing down upon you. The werewolf’s eyes fluttered open. He took a couple of heaving gasps, then looked down at the mess. “Crap,” he muttered. Several of the wounds he had scratched into himself trying to scratch at whatever had attacked him was now closing. He stood. Swayed. But stayed up. Crash used our help to get out of the bathroom. Then it was off to his bedroom, where we paused. “No,” I said, turning him around. “Sleep in my bed.” “Huh,” he asked, looking at me. “Wha?” “Look,” I said, “whatever’s got you scratching up is obviously all over just about everything in your room. That includes your sheets. You sleep in my bed. We’ll strip your bed and begin cleaning things.” He didn’t fight, just grumbled, his ears folded back in distress. He hadn’t been in human form for days now, constantly walking around the house on his time off, scratching at everything. Bleeding all over everything from his constant thick clawed scratching. It had taken countless hours of restless sleep, of sweat induced days, of bleeding for countless hours on end but Crash was finally at the end of his nub it seemed. Worn down to the point where fight had fled him. When he collapsed on the bed, he grumbled, but didn’t say another word. And mercifully, he didn’t scratch. “Zack’s not gonna be happy,” I said looking at Crash in my bed. “Why,” Shawn asked, looking at me strangely. “Cause I have to sleep on the couch now.” He gave me a look of confusion at first before it dawned on him. “Oh yeah! Cause Crash,” he muttered. Now, there was an old movie called “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles” that briefly came to mind. And although having Crash wake up in that situation would be hilarious, I didn’t have it in me to prank him when he was like this. “Come on,” I said. “You do laundry, I’ll do gardening.” “Uh…” Shawn said, then turned to Crashes room, scratching his curly brown hair. “Okay.” He walked into Crash’s room and began pulling sheets. When Kris got home from his job, he’d grumble but he’d help I knew. Zack would help as well if there was anything left to do. And right about then, we needed one of Zack’s cleaning tears. Now, among the hobbies I that I do have, gardening is not one of them. However, even me, in the back of my brain understood that if these plants were the things killing Crash, then I would need gloves to rip them up. The gardening gloves belonged to who knows who, but they were in the back of the garage, so they were snagged. They didn’t fit at all, but at least it was something. Then, I went to the woods and began to pull. It didn’t take long before I was covered in dirt, mud and lord only knew what and had a pile of these rotten things at my knees. I felt an itch working it’s way inward, an itch I ignored as I ripped up the deadly things. Working my way through, I tore every single flower that even slightly resembled one of the blue belled hated things that Crash pointed out to me earlier. The sunlight fades faster in when you’re in the woods. And, although I didn’t notice the light going down, I did notice how dark everything suddenly became. My pocket rang once, and I answered, half huffing, exhausted, but happy about the work that I had done. It was Crash’s boss. I’m not sure if I ever revealed his name, have I? Well, he’s not the type to want to be in one of these things. But he did ask if Crash was done with his investigation. To which, I told him some jerk had planted wolfsbane all around the property in the woods and I was cleaning it out. That Crash had almost scratched himself to death and I had to scrub him down and sent him to bed while we wash everything. He told me that didn’t happen from Wolfsbane. Apparently, it’s only dangerous if somehow the chemical that they make get under the skin. Even breathing in the pollen, although isn’t pleasant, won’t hurt them. They have to eat it, get it inside themselves somehow. When I told him what Crash had revealed to me about the vampires, I looked up. A pair of glasses seemed to glint in the dying light. “I got to go,” I said to him. “And I might be in trouble.” |
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