Intruder

This far out in the sticks, folks believed crime was a sickness that only infected urban areas. The thieves and vandals, winos and junkies, killers and crazies; all were symptoms of a malady with festered and thrived in the tangled heat of the metropolis. Out here, all they were concerned with were hikers trespassing over their property, the occasional tourist speeding along the country lanes or random attacks by wild animals. And while these attacks were more frequent in this area than most, the locals still gave no mind to locking their doors.

After all, Autress thought as she let herself into the ramshackle cottage, animals can’t use door knobs. Countryfolk are so predictable.

First order of business: food. She had been on the road for many hours and was famished.

Striding through the darkened hallway, she found her way easily to the kitchen. The large space was dominated by a scarred and battered oak table. A cast iron range sat between cupboards of the same hard wood and an ancient icebox rumbled quietly in the corner.

She opened the fridge and peered inside. Jars of various berries stood on the upper shelves. The lack of any manufacturer’s label suggested these had been handpicked. Pulling out the nearest jar, Autress unscrewed the lid and popped a couple of gooseberries in her mouth. The second she bit down, a sour taste exploded in her mouth.

She ran to the sink and spat out the mouthful. Turning on the tap, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to the flow, gulping in the water to wash away the bitter flavour.

Not bothering the close the refrigerator door, she rooted through the cupboards until she found a selection of chocolate bars.

This is more like it, she thought as she helped herself to one. After a second’s pause, she scooped up a handful more and dropped them in her shoulder bag.

As she ate, she wandered around the rest of the ground floor. There was a tiny utility room at the back of the house, but it held nothing of value. The living room contained mismatched furniture and an old television set, the kind which used a cathode ray tube. Autress had seen them on old TV programmes but never in real life. She wondered how old it was; surely they hadn’t been made for decades.

She took in the rest of the room with disdain. A worn leather armchair, a two-seat sofa with a faded floral print and a wooden rocking chair.

Her heart froze at the sight of the rocker.

Her grandmother had owned one just like it. As a child, she would sit on her grandmother’s lap and be soothed by a soft lullaby and the gentle to-and-fro motion. That was before her grandmother’s murder. Even now, she could see the chair dripping with blood, smell the animal in the house, feel the warmth of the beast’s breath.

The sight of the rocking chair transported her to a dark time in her life, the end of her innocence. She hated the thing with an intensity which shocked her. Lifting a foot, she kicked out at the offending chair.

In her mind, she was assaulting her grandmother’s killer. She kicked again, wishing she could have done this when she was a child, and kicked again, focusing her hate and fear, channelling her terror, kicked, pouring out the loathing of what that event in her past had taken from her and what it had turned her into.

Her anger knew no bounds. It was fuelled by years of nightmares, by a hundred haunted days, by her feelings of persecution and paranoia. She kicked and she beat and she thrashed, all the while silently screaming at a demon now long-gone.

When the rage passed, she found herself panting and huffing in the middle of a pile of firewood. Her arms and her feet ached, and blood oozed from a dozen cuts to her hands.

Feeling dizzy from the adrenalin surge, she staggered to the stairway and carefully made her way up to the bathroom. Bloody handprints marked her passage.

She washed and inspected her hands. The wounds were superficial. The bleeding would stop soon enough. The effect of her violent episode would not detract her from the larger task at hand.

But her outburst had taken its toll on her emotionally. Combined with the long walk to get here, she was shattered. Across from the bathroom, the master bedroom offered a comfortable-looking double bed. As soon as she stepped into the room, she could smell the stale odour of rutting and she knew she couldn’t rest in that room.

In the smaller bedroom was a single cot. Though it looked old and worn, like the furniture downstairs, the room felt slightly fresher that the previous one. She lay down, on top of the covers, placed her bag by her side and let her weary limbs relax.

Eyelids heavy, she decided she would close them for just a few minutes.

*

‘Ma!’ squealed an adolescent voice. Autress could not tell if it was male or female.

Springing from the bed, she saw a boy of about sixteen in the doorway. Fear twisted his face into a grotesque mask, but Autress know that beneath it was a sight far more monstrous.

She pulled the Beretta from her bag, thumbed off the safety as she raised her arm to aim, and fired off a shot at the kid. Hit in the thigh, the boy yelled in pain and crumbled to the floor. As he dragged himself away from her, Autress resisted shooting him again.

The hollow-point ammunition she used had been customised specifically for this job and she did not want to waste any unnecessary rounds. It was a tricky and arduous business to fill the hollow of the bullets with silver.

Darting to the doorway, Autress glanced at the landing. It was clear but for the sobbing boy. Thunderous footsteps on the stairs told of someone approaching. Autress saw a heavy-set woman sprinting up, moving fast for someone of her size.

‘Cubby,’ the woman screeched when she saw her fallen son.

Autress fired and caught the woman’s shoulder. Overcome by rage, the woman did not stop. She rushed toward Autress. Autress squeezed off two more rounds, the first missing widely, the second catching the woman in the stomach and dropping her.

A growl on the stairway told Autress she had not done yet. A man ascended slowly, murder carved on his face. He was a bear of a man, six foot four and half as wide; Autress knew if he got within reach of her, she would be as good as dead.

As he stepped closer, she saw his features shifting. His nose and mouth began to jut forward, his teeth groaned as they grew in size, his ears slid upwards, his brown irises expanded until no sclera was visible. The change was not limited to his head. Before her eyes, the man’s arms bulged and sprouted fur, claws erupting from his fingertips.

Breathing deeply to steady her nerves, she lined up a shot and pulled the trigger. The big man’s throat opened in a bloom of crimson and he was forced backwards, tumbling back down the stairs.

Knowing that the gunshot wounds may not be fatal but that the silver had sealed their fate, Autress left the injured mother and son and headed for the stairs. The man, who she assumed to be the father of the house, lay in a heap in the hallway. He made a wheezing, bubbling sound as he struggled for breath.

Squatting down beside him, Autress looked into his animal eyes.

‘Lycanthrope filth,’ she spat. As she spoke, she watched in fascination as the man’s torn throat attempted to heal itself.

‘That’s right. I know about you. You and your werewolf pack.’

Blood stopped flowing as the wound closed up.

‘And before you die, I want you to know one thing.’

Flesh knitted together, growing fur hiding the rapidly vanishing injury.

‘That soon I’m going to wipe every one of you monsters from the face of the earth.’

The man chuckled as he pulled himself up from the floor.

Uncertain what was happening, Autress backed away. Slowly retreating to the front door, she raised the gun and trained it on the rising man.

‘Foolish girl,’ he rumbled.

The transformation continued. His arms and legs grew in length and girth. His head was a completely different shape now. Behind him, Autress noticed movement on the stairs. Cubby and his mother were back on their feet, each undergoing the same metamorphosis as they drew closer.

Ice filled her heart as she realised her error. The animal attacks that plagued the area and had caught her attention had not been committed by werewolves. Her silver bullets were useless against the creatures before her now.

Panicked, she was incapable of moving as the three bears rushed at her.