From eighth grade, no less. Again, I know it's not good, but if my students could write like this I'd be on cloud nine! Heavily influenced by Stephen King and that one Werewolf story he did with art by Berni Wrightson. I even include one of those parenthetical sentence interrupters that King uses.
The Hunt for the Werewolf
by Matt J. Butcher
10-20-86 to 11-9-86
Dedicated to Eric Reeb
The gun clicks; it is ready for the ammunition to be put in. It is a sawed-off Winchester 30.06.
The man holding it is named John. He has on duck hunter clothes: plaid deerstalker cap, plaid coat with a white T-shirt underneath and Levi's 501 blue jeans.
It is dark in this shed he is in. The his arm raises in front of the moonlight coming through one of the windows. In his hand he holds one solitary bullet; the moonlight glints off its silver composition. He quickly loads it into the gun as if with a vengeance.
"One shot," he says, actually directing his speech to someone out there. "That's all I need."
The wolf ran through the bushes with a wild urge- to kill. Its brown fur rubbed against the bark. A red liquid that is not his own falls from his teeth and mouth along with his drooling saliva.
Its cry could be heard probably ten miles away.
It did not know when to stop, how far to push it. He is savage in this form. Many he has killed; many he will
(if not stopped)
kill. Most in cold blood; some in self-defense, some for prey.
Then he stops- maybe another urge or perhaps a willingness to keep on going. Sleep is a factor every animal struggles to overcome (or accept). It has taken this beast. He falls on his stomach in a clump of moss. His eyes are tightly shut.
The man awakes with a startle.
"Where the hell am I?" he yells, jumping up. Surrounding him is the forest. He lay on a thick bed of moss. He is completely naked. He covers himself with a large piece of the fungus even though no one is within ten miles of him.
A small breeze whips up. His brown hair waves. He runs to the nearest road, picking up more leaves on the way.
He does not really know he is going towards a road; he can feel it. Something is pulling him somewhere.
John stands up in the shed, revealing his dark complexion as the sunlight lightly touches his face. His jacket collar is up, the rifle is in fire position.
The doorknob to the shed turns. John quickly ducks behind an old barrel. From the smell, it holds gasoline.
The door cracks open. It reveals the man who was asleep naked on the clump of moss.
John suddenly stands up, knocking over the barrel of gas. "What the hell you doin' here? This is private property!" His gun points right at the intruder.
The intruder jolts behind a full wooden chair, not much cover for a rifle shot. "N-nothing!" he stammers. "I fell asleep in the woods and someone stole my clothes!"
John lowers his gun. "Come with me," he says, leading the intruder into his small cabin not fifty yards north of the shed.
John lets him into the kitchen and gives him a hot cup of coffee. Steam ushers upwards out of its cup, caressing the man's face.
"What's your name?" asks John after he gets back from his room with some old clothes.
"Thank you," he says, taking the clothes, immediately putting them on. "My name is Richard."
"Well, Richard, what were ya doin' out in the forest. And don't gimme that same bullshit story that ya don't know!" complains John with a highly inquisitive tongue.
"All I remember is that last night, around midnight, I awoke with a startle. My sheets were soaked. I was in a cold sweat. Then I felt my bones aching, like they were growing. I blacked out not knowing anything past that. This usually happens about once a month but I always end up in bed in the morning.
"My next memory is of lying on a patch of moss. I ran here, hoping to find some clothes." Richard tells this story while buttoning up a red and black flannel shirt that is twice as big as he normally wears, and slipping on a pair of Levi's jeans and boat shoes.
"So, where would ya be headed if ya left now?" asks John.
"Probably Martinsville, if I'm anywhere close to it," Richard replies.
"Martinsville is four counties east a here," blasted John.
Richard just looked at him, dumfounded.
"Well, why not just sit down and talk awhile. I've got my truck parked outside, I'll drive ya home tomorrow," John suggests. Richard nods his head and sits back down.
John and Richard talk until about eleven o'clock at night. Not noticing how late it really is, John invites Richard to spend the night all over again.
Richard gets situated on the couch and starts to sleep.
The cuckoo clock begins to chime twelve o'clock. Richard springs up to a sitting position. His sheets are sopping wet; he is in a cold sweat. It is silent. He is not really himself, more or less, he is in a daze of death, staring her in the face.
His muscles and bones expand. Brown hair forms on his face, chest, arms, and legs in abundant quantities. His face turns into that of a wolf. The rest of his body will follow in suit. He is the werewolf!
He howls quickly up at the full moon that is just passing from behind as cloud.
John races out of his room, thrusting his door open wildly. He sees the werewolf crouched over on the couch, growling viciously.
"Well, Richard, two nights of a full moon! Came back didn't ya?" John yells. "Knew ya would; now you're mine!" He raises the rifle with the loaded silver bullet.
He aims the rifle carefully at the creature's heart. But the werewolf bolts out the door before John can fire. The door flies off its hinges.
"Dammit anyway!" John yells. "That dumb thing ain't goin' nowhere! I still gotta score to settle!" He starts out the door following the trail of the werewolf.
The werewolf runs and John is fast on his heels.
The chase goes on for about forty-five minutes until the werewolf gets cornered on a cliff. The rocky outlet of the mountain protrudes out about one hundred yards to the ground. The only way out was through John.
John is right there behind him.
"Well, now, Richard, what do ya plan to do? Can't jump! So come on! Face me!" he yells.
The werewolf turns around showing his dagger-like teeth cascaded in drool. He has no time to think. He does what he has to do. He pounces on John. Even though fifteen feet away, he times it perfectly.
John's rifle points at the werewolf's face. He has waited for this moment since this same werewolf, thirty years ago, killed his mother when John was only twelve.
"Now's the time!" John shouts right before the rifle blasts and Richard's claws tighten into John's neck.