He wouldn’t do it anymore, damn it. He was going to quit the very next day. March into the office, slam down his badge in the big man’s face, and say everything he should have said months ago. He was going to escape that toxic environment and apply for another police job in another city. Start anew with a conviction for justice and fairness that had been lost in the Sheriff’s Department of Lake County.

He climbed into bed and closed his eyes, weary but not tired. Rising, he settled in his soft chair in his little trailer house at the end of a large field that used to grow winter wheat but had been fallow for a decade. It was his. He’d bought it on a deal and was able to make the payments. But now he didn’t want it. He had it figured out. After quitting in the morning, he’d march right over to the real estate office and put the place up for sale. Rock bottom, get rid of it, and move on.

Hell, Billings PD was always hiring. He would move down there where nobody knew him, maybe rent a cyberpunk hovel in the vast skyscrapers of the BAT. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he’d find a girl who fancied him. One of the climate refugees who didn’t mind short men or having short children—someone who was looking for love and a dry place to sleep. Yes, in the morning, he would start over.

The snow began about 1 AM with a gust of wind that rattled the windows. He got off his chair and peered out. The flakes were broad and heavy in the faint light from his porch, obscuring everything beyond his truck parked a few yards away.

The broken guitar rested on the kitchen counter. A couple years ago, he had gained some familiarity with the instrument when he’d taken a month’s worth of lessons at a music studio on Main Street—he had no interest, so he quit. This guitar was something else. When he had snuck away from the chaos at the station, he hadn’t noticed it, but carrying it into his trailer, he perceived an unusual heft; indeed, a burden to the thing. It held an ancient quality. More than just a guitar, it bore the echoes of time. To be honest, it unnerved him.

Tap tap tap came the knock—soft at first, then faster and much harder. BAM, BAM, BAM!

Who in hell would come way out here on a night like this? Comstock?

“Open!” a voice shouted. He got up and peered through the peephole. An old woman wrapped in a big coat stood on his porch, snow covering her long, white hair.

“Yeah, what do you want?” he shouted back. “It’s damn near 2 AM.”

“Open! You were at the concert. I need your help, now.”

He unlocked and opened the door, and she shuffled in. He had to look up; she was at least a foot taller than him.

She surveyed his home and then glanced down. “Shut the damn door and lock it,” she commanded. She shuffled in, her eyes landing on the broken guitar. She shook her head. “What a shame. It’ll have to be repaired.” She limped over to his chair and plopped down. “You got any coffee?”

“Coffee?”

“That’s right. I’m speaking English, aren’t I? I never know sometimes. I need espresso, triple shot.”

He was almost out of coffee, maybe enough for the morning. They were on his shopping list, but other things had taken priority. “I got a percolator, that’s all.”

“Shit, I guess that’ll do.”

“Listen, lady—”

“Coffee first, damn it! I’m having a hard time staying awake. Need to stay awake.”

He thought it a good idea to humor her until he could figure out what she wanted. She was obviously off her rocker. Maybe a spinner. He’d give Sue at the women’s shelter a call. She had experience in this department.

She peered at him through a mass of wrinkles as he turned on his electric kettle, pulled out the coffee fixings, and scooped two heaping spoons into the top.

“A little more. I need it strong.”

He turned the bag upside down and finished its contents.

“Sugar and cream?”

She laughed. “Do I look like I take sugar and cream?”

The machine started rumble and perk.

“So, how did you—” He was going to get to the bottom of this, but she cut him off with a shush, and stared meditatively at the squat little pot until it burped it’s last, and the dense aroma of his favorite dark roast permeated the air.

He filled a mug and handed it to her. Then poured a half in his own. There was an inkling in his mind that it was going to be a long night.

She sniffed at it, grunted, sipped slowly, and let out a long sigh. “I guess it’ll do.”

“Listen, lady. My friend works at the women’s shelter. I can give her a call and have her come and get you. Give you a warm bed for the night, at least.”

She blinked at him over her steaming cup. “The women’s shelter? I don’t think so. I’m staying here tonight.”

“You can’t stay here.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“So you don’t die,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Just what the hell? I’m not going to… die?”

She gave him an appraising look. “Yes, you are.”

“Am I then?”

“Yep, but not tonight. Not if I can help it. I need you around a little while longer.”

“Okay, I’m calling Sue. That’s her name. She’ll fix you up.”

“No, you’re not.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because there ain’t no signal.”

McGreevy looked at his phone. SEARCHING FOR SIGNAL. “What the fuck?”

“Listen, Mr. What’s your damn name anyway?”

“Deputy Colin McGreevy.”

The old woman grunted. The snow had melted off her, leaving a puddle beneath the chair. “A cop, eh? You got a gun?”

“Yes, I have a gun.”

“You got any silver bullets?”

“What? No, I don’t have any damn silver bullets!”

“You need silver bullets to kill werewolves. Don’t you know shit?”

“Werewolves? Silver bullets? You’re off your meds. That’s it. I’m taking you to the women’s shelter. I’ll drive you myself. Sue is a real good gal. She’ll take care of you.”

She gave him a disapproving grunt. “You got security cameras on this old boat?”

“Yeah. And it shows you coming into my house, just for the record.”

“Good. Turn it on.”

He reluctantly turned on his television to the security channel. The yard, through the night vision of the camera, revealed his truck faintly in the heavy snow.

“So what?” he said.

“Look,” she said. “There. Look!”

He peered at the television. At first, there was only his truck and the blizzard. “I don’t see anyth—” But then he did. A figure, a man—he appeared not to be wearing clothes—emerged from the storm, stood for a second staring at his trailer, and then turned and disappeared back into the gale. “What the hell?”

“Here.” The woman reached under her coat and set a matchbox on his coffee table.

“What’s this?”

“It’s for you.” She grunted and sipped her coffee.

He picked up the matchbox and slid it open—the precious metal glinted.

“It’s a silver bullet,” she said. “Put it in your gun and get ready.”

“I’m not putting that in my gun.”

“Forty-five caliber, right?”

“Yeah. But—”

“That’s a forty-five. It works. Put it in your fucking gun.”

“I don’t just put someone’s bullet in my gun. Do you realize the liability? Where did you get this?”

“I made it. Melted down my own jewelry.”

“No.” He closed the little matchbox and placed it firmly on the coffee table.

She grunted, sipped her coffee, then reached back into her coat and withdrew a dagger with a long blade that tapered to a sharp point. She set it on the coffee table next to the matchbox.

“Suit yourself.”

McGreevy felt the goosebumps rise on his arms. His police instincts made him back up, ready to tackle her if she reached into her jacket again. She looked ancient, but she could still be dangerous, and he had no idea what else was concealed in that voluminous overcoat.

His gun was in his holster, hanging on the coat rack by the door.

“What the hell is this?” He picked up the knife. It was heavy and cold as ice.

“It’s a silver knife, Einstein. Silver kills them fastest. Cuts through the beast’s enchantment.”

“Do you have a gun on you?” he asked.

“Not my style. This coffee is shit.” She sipped and watched the television.

“Who the hell are you?”

“These days, they call me White Owl. There it is again.” She pointed at the TV. “And it’s got a friend. That’s what I was afraid of.”

Now, he could faintly make out two figures standing in the storm on either side of his truck. The picture flickered, turned to static, and went black.

“If we’re lucky, there’s only two. You’re not so big. Maybe they think that’s all it’ll take.”

“All what will take?”

“To kill you and get the guitar. The reek of it wasn’t hard to follow.”

“White Owl? You know Builds A Fire? Dr. Smith mentioned you.”

She stood, towering over him. “That shrink has his own battle tonight. Everyone who was at the concert has their own battle tonight.” She held out her hand for the dagger.

Reluctantly, he gave it to her.

Before he could react, she had slid the blade across her hand. The blood formed a puddle in her palm, dripping onto the floor.

“Holy shit!”

She waddled to the door, said a word he could not make out, and pressed a bloody handprint on the white paint.

“Jesus, lady, you’re crazy.”

“Did you hear the music?”

“The music? You mean the concert? Francis?”

“Did you feel the rain? Did it run into your eyes and into your mouth?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Then it’s forever in your brain. Prepare to fight, Maji.”

“Maji?”

BAAAM! The entire trailer shook.

“We must kill them and burn their bodies.”

She hobbled over to the sofa, pressed her hand against the wall, then went over to the other wall to do the same, leaving a third bloody print.

“I ain’t killing anyone,” he said.

“Yes. You are. Or they will kill you. And for this to work, I need Dr. Smith alive. That means I need you alive.”

McGreevy went for his gun. “I’m going out there.”

“You are? Tell me how that goes.”

McGreevy loaded a clip into his sidearm, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

“Headshot,” she shouted after him, “you might have a chance.”

The snow blasted his face. Out by the truck, in the little halo of the porch light, a tall man stood in the snow, naked.

“Hey, hey you!” McGreevy shouted.

The man looked at him as if he’d been startled. He opened his mouth and came forward, his flesh turning black, now covered in hair, his face distorted—he let forth a growl that filled the night. Then, he started to run directly at McGreevy.

“Shit. Stop! I’ll shoot!”

The man did not stop.

BAM! McGreevy fired into his chest.

He stumbled, and howled in rage but still did not stop.

He aimed for its legs and let off two more rounds. BAM BAM. Direct hits.

The man jumped, shattering the wooden rail of the porch when he hit it. McGreevy tripped on the threshold and fell back hard on his ass, the creature coming down on top, crushing him, rancid breath steaming in the snowstorm, razor-sharp fangs going for his throat, his gun spinning back somewhere inside the trailer house.

From over his head, he saw the dagger in the woman’s hand. She plunged it into the monster’s eye and twisted it in a circle with a sickening slurp and cracking of bone.

An inhuman scream pierced his ears. The beast snarled and thrashed its head, then slumped and was still, its mass covering McGreevy.

“Get it off!” he shouted. “Get it off!”

She shoved the animal off him and down the steps. With strength belying her age and frailty, she pulled him inside and slammed the door behind them.

“There’s at least one more out there. We can’t let it return to the pack. It needs to die.”

“Christ! Holy fuck!”

“Yeah, they’re nasty things.” She wiped the blade on her jacket.

The lights flickered, and they were plunged into darkness.

“What… what the hell was that? Werewolves aren’t real.”

“Shut up. They’ve got good hearing. You got any candles?”