Hunting the Skinwalker

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Steven hunts a monster and finds romance, too.
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epiphany65
epiphany65
3,779 Followers

Steven Paxton was asleep when the siren of the police car woke him. It was probably just Sheriff Baird chasing down a speeder leaving Earl's Tavern, he thought to himself. Rolling over in bed, Steven stared through the darkness of his bedroom at the glowing red numbers of the digital clock on the nightstand. It was almost two-thirty. Steven was hoping to fall back to sleep quickly when he heard more sirens. It sounded like two or three police cars; maybe an ambulance too. Now he was curious. Nothing exciting ever happened in Putnam Falls. Certainly nothing to warrant this much commotion in the middle of the night. As he listened to the sirens fade in the distance Steven tugged the blanket higher around his chin. He shut his heavy eyes. Whatever it was, it certainly didn't concern him, he reminded himself. But soon it would.

The next morning Steven was in his room, lying on his bed, reading when he heard the phone ring. It was December twenty-seventh. There just over a week before college would resume after Christmas break and he was enjoying the time off.

"Steve, the phone's for you!" Mary Paxton called up to her son from downstairs.

Steven rolled over and picked up the phone beside the digital clock. "Hello..."

"Holy shit, Steve, did you hear what happened last night?" It was Brian Marsdon, Steven's best friend since childhood. He was excited -- the most excited he had seemed since he was fourteen and discovered his father's cache of Penthouse magazines in a closet.

Steven heard a click has his mother hung up the downstairs phone. He sat up in bed. "No, what happened?" he asked, more curious than excited.

"Man, someone killed Mrs. Lawton last night," was Brian's grim reply.

"Oh fuck..." Steven gasped, feeling sorrow well in his chest.

Mrs. Myra Lawton had been Steven's and Brian's grade two teacher. The boys had known each other just a year and were only seven back then. That was twelve years ago, but at that moment it seemed a lifetime away to Steven. Mrs. Lawton had retired at sixty and for the past seven years she had lived alone since the death of her husband from lung cancer. Her house was less than a mile away and Steven passed it often on his way to Brian's. Now his sadness over the murder of the kindly old lady was mixed with questions.

"Not just killed her," Brian continued, his voice softer now. "I mean, the word that Dad used was 'gutted'. He said it was the worst thing he's seen in all his years as a sheriff's deputy."

Gary Marsdon had been a deputy with Putnam Falls Sheriff's Department for almost ten years. He had always been friendly to Steven when he visited Brian and never seemed what Steven considered to be a 'typical cop'. Steven knew that Mr. Marsdon hoped some day to become sheriff and he would make a good one. He had a reputation around town as being a fair and conscientious police officer, in addition to being a loving husband and father.

"Fuck," Steven hissed into the phone as gruesome images filled his mind. "Do they know who did it?" he asked.

"Uh-uh," Brian grunted. "Dad was working the night shift when the call came in around two. You don't know any of this, okay? 'cause Dad could get fired for telling people, but he told me and Mom that they found no fingerprints; no murder weapon either -- just Mrs. Lawton in her kitchen. Dad said that she'd been... well... man, you don't wanna know... It was pretty gross." His voice faded out until only his breathing was audible.

"But who'd want to do this? Everyone liked Mrs. Lawton. And she wasn't rich, so it's not like they went there to rob her." Steven furrowed his brow as he spoke.

"That's just it," Brian said. "Dad said that nothing was taken. Her purse was on the kitchen counter and there was some money in it -- not much -- but whoever killed her didn't take it."

Steven stared at the floor as he listened to his friend, trying to piece together in his mind the information he'd been given. He shook his head, then brushed sandy-blond bangs of hair from his eyes. "It just makes no sense," he said. The corner of his mouth turned up as he thought.

"I know," his friend agreed. "That's what Dad said. There seems to be no motive, outside of some monster deciding to kill a harmless old woman. I hope they catch the bastard and send him to hell for this."

"Yeah... hopefully they will."

There was silence on the phone before Brian spoke again. "Hey, what are you doing today? I'm not up to much, but I thought we could hang out and watch a movie or something," he suggested.

A faint smile formed on Steven's face. He was not in much of a mood to have fun anymore, but didn't feel like being alone now either. "That sounds good," he said. "I'll be over in about an hour."

The crisp December air bit through Steven's green pullover as he walked down Gibson Street. There had been another snowfall three nights previously and mounds of it lined the sidewalk where the plough had pushed it aside from the street. He tugged at the zipper of his black nylon jacket, closing it up around his neck as the cool breeze blew his hair about. He buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket and turned left on to Mason Avenue.

Almost as soon as Steven turned the corner he noticed two cars from Putnam Falls Sheriff's Department in Mrs. Lawton's driveway. A man in a uniform and wearing a Smokey the Bear cap was on the snow-covered lawn taking photographs. He saw another uniformed officer enter the front door. Yellow crime scene tape was wrapped around trees and shrubs, cordoning off the area. Steven paused a moment on the sidewalk, surveying the scene. He noticed Gary Marsdon talking with someone who was probably a reporter. His thumbs were hooked in his Sam Browne belt. Gary looked up and nodded at Steven. He gave a wave to Mr. Marsdon, then with a sigh and a heavy heart he continued along towards Brian's house.

Steven found that Brian was in as dour a mood as he was that afternoon. The two friends watched a movie in the living room while Brian's mother busied herself elsewhere. Once the movie had finished the conversation returned to the murder of their former teacher the night before. Brian promised to share anything else that he gleaned from his father, but at that moment he had already told Steven all he knew. Steven appreciated his friend's sharing of information and promised not to tell anyone what he heard -- not even his parents.

It was getting close to five o'clock when Steven left Brian's and was walking back down Mason Avenue. To his left he could see a faint hue of orange from the setting sun through the overcast. As he approached Mrs. Lawton's house he felt the muscles in his back and neck knot. He drew in a deep breath, steeling himself to once again pass by the scene of the old woman's grisly murder. In the distance he saw the yellow bands of police tape fluttering in the breeze. They reminded Steven of the yellow ribbons tied around trees, placed by people who anxiously awaited the return of loved ones fighting wars in foreign countries. His mouth turned into a grimace at the thought of Mrs. Lawton never returning to her home.

When Steven was abreast of the cement walkway leading to the white front door of his former teacher's home, he stopped. There were no cars in her yard now. Besides the police tape, the only evidence of any activity there were footprints in the snow carpeting the lawn. His hands clenched into fists, deep in the pockets of his jacket. He felt a tear run from one of his hazel eyes and wasn't sure if it was out of sadness or because of the wind, or both. He wiped it away and swallowed hard.

He began to walk on, then as the side of the small white house came into view, Steven paused. He noticed something hanging from a small open window. Dusk was falling and Steven squinted, trying to discern what he could see being blown about by the cold wind. He stepped closer, now realizing that the open window was one belonging to the kitchen where they had found Mrs. Lawton, sprawled out on the floor and eviscerated. Dangling from the window and wafting back and forth was a curtain. It was white, with pale yellow stripes.

"That's odd," Steven said to himself.

Taking a look left, then right, Steven stepped on to the lawn and began walking through the snow towards the open window. There were no cars going by and soon he would be hidden by the shrubbery, so he was not concerned with being seen. Besides, it was growing dark and he had not entered the area bordered by the yellow tape. He followed the trail of prints in the snow made by the boots of the sheriff and deputies, closer to the open window.

Once Steven was in front of the window he discovered that it had not been inadvertently left open. The pane had been broken, probably by Mrs. Lawton's murderer. The curtain dangled through it, nearly brushing across his face. As he was examining the broken window and trying to imagine the events there not yet twenty-four hours ago, Steven heard a crunching sound of someone approaching through the hard snow to his left. Every nerve in his body fired and his heart began to climb up into his throat. He clenched his fists.

When he whipped his body around in the direction of the sounds he gasped. Standing in the shadows, just beyond a stand of spruce trees, was a shadowy figure. Steven's heart pounded and he pulled his fists from his jacket pockets. When the intruder spoke, Steven felt somewhat relieved and curious.

"What are you doing here?" the silhouetted person asked. It was a woman.

"W-what are you doing here?" he stammered, now less fearful.

The sound of snow crunching underfoot returned as she stepped closer to Steven. Now he could make out her features. She was around Steven's height, maybe five-foot seven, with curly black hair. Her corkscrew tresses moved in the evening breeze and hung down slightly past her shoulders, resting against her purple nylon jacket. Her lips moved into a smile and there were faint lines at the corners of her mouth. She appeared to be about thirty. Steven thought that her eyes looked brown, or maybe blue. It was hard to tell with so little light.

"Probably the same thing you're doing here," she replied shrewdly. "Just having a look around."

Steven nodded, eyeing the woman with suspicion. "Did you know Mrs. Lawton?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"She was my teacher years ago, when I was a kid," he said, thinking that might explain his intrusion in a crime scene.

The woman let out a soft laugh. "Well, it couldn't have been too many years ago," she retorted, running her eyes up and down him.

Steven bristled. "I'm nineteen," he snapped as he glared at her. "As if it's any of your business."

"I'm Krista Cooper." She removed a glove and extended her bare right hand to him. "And I left nineteen behind about ten years ago." She laughed.

"I'm Steven Paxton," he said as he shook the woman's hand. Her skin was soft and surprisingly warm. He wanted to hold it for longer than a just brief handshake. "So, what are you doing here then?" he asked, drawing his hand back.

"You'd laugh if I told you," she said as she tugged her glove back on.

"Try me," Steven replied defiantly.

Krista Cooper drew in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. "I'm trying to catch what killed this poor woman," she explained.

Steven cocked an eyebrow. "Don't you meanwho? And, besides, that's the job of the cops." He gave the woman a curious glance.

Krista leaned over, bracing her left hand on her knee. She pointed down to the snow with her right index finger. "See those tracks? she asked, looking back up at him.

Steven peered down in the direction towards where Krista was pointing. He could see footprints in the hard snow that he had left, as well as those made by the police, or perhaps even Mrs. Lawton's murderer. Beside those, he noticed what looked like paw prints. "Yeah, footprints and tracks made by a dog -- probably a police dog," he said.

Krista shook her head once more. "Have you ever seen paw prints that big? From a dog, I mean," she asked. Her eyes met his. Yes, they were definitely brown, like mahogany. Even in the dusky outdoors they sparkled.

Steven leaned closer, examining the animal tracks once more. "Well, no," he conceded.

"That's because they weren't made by a dog," Krista said.

"So what?" Steven shrugged, now very curious but trying not to show it.

"What killed Mrs. Lawton wasn't a dog. It wasn't a person either -- at least not a normal person," she said.

"Of course not. Normal people don't murder innocent old ladies," Steven snapped.

"Have you ever heard of a wendigo?" she asked. Strands of her raven hair had blown across her ruby cheek, just below her left eye. She brushed them aside.

Steven gave his head a quick shake.

"How about a manitou or a skinwalker?" she added.

"No. What the hell are you talking about?" Steven demanded. Now anger tinged his voice.

"They're shape-shifters; sort of like werewolves. They feed on humans. For centuries, long before the European settlers arrived here, the Native North Americans knew of these creatures. The Hopi, Algonquin, Cree, and Ojibwa -- they all encountered them, although they had a few different names for them," she explained.

"You expect me to believe some superstition that people believed in hundreds of years ago?" Steven jeered. He gave her a derisive look and chuckled.

"No. I didn't come here to convince you or anyone else," she said defiantly. "I know a skinwalker killed that woman and I intend to kill it. I've seen it's tracks in the snow around this area for the past week or more."

Steven let out an incredulous laugh.

"Have you followed those tracks -- the ones you think were made by a dog?" she asked, although she knew the answer.

"No," he admitted.

"Come here. Follow me towards those trees," Krista said.

In back of Mrs. Lawton's house was a wooded area of about half an acre that abutted Beech Street. It was dotted with pine and spruce, as well as thickets of alders and shrubs. Krista motioned to the left with her head as she pointed towards the snow, coaxing Steven along. Once they had gotten beyond a cluster of spruce trees, she stopped.

"This is where those so-called dog prints of yours end," she told him.

"And, so?" he asked.

"Look..." she insisted, jabbing her finger down towards the tracks in the snow.

Steven squinted, letting his eyes adjust to the darkened thicket they stood in. When he leaned over and looked down to where the animal prints ended he now noticed that they abruptly changed. Less than a yard from where the paw prints stopped they were replaced by human prints. But obviously made by someone walking, or running, through the snow barefoot. His mouth went agape as he raised his wide eyes to Krista. She wore a smug grin.

"How many superstitions leave tracks in the snow like that?" she demanded.

"Holy shit..." he gasped.

Krista nodded. Now her arms were crossed and she was shifting about as the cold began to penetrate her jacket. Vapor from her breath clouded the air in front of her. "Yeah... that's what I thought the first time I encountered one of these beasts," she said. She turned from Steven, casting her wary eyes up to the sapphire sky.

"So, what are you going to do?" Now Steven was eager to hear more.

"Right now I'm getting back to where I'm staying so I can get something to eat," she said. "It's cold. And dark. You don't want to run into a skinwalker at night, believe me. You should get out of here too," she cautioned.

"Where are you staying?" he asked.

"At a bed and breakfast place just down the road," Krista told him.

"The Elms?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's it." Krista nodded.

"What room are you staying in?" he asked, squinting a bit.

A foxy grin crept over Krista's pretty face. Her eyes glimmered. "Why? Are you planning on paying me a visit?" she taunted.

"No, it's not that," he blurted out. Despite the cold, his cheeks felt warm. "That place used to be a brothel a hundred or so years ago, back when the tin mines were still in operation. They say a hooker hanged herself in room seventeen and it's haunted."

"Oh... well, I'm in number twelve," she told him. "Too bad. Maybe it'd have material for another book if I was in seventeen."

"Mom worked there when I was little -- not as a hooker though. She worked in the kitchen for Mr. and Mrs. Casey; they own the place now." He gave an amused chuckle. "I hear that Mrs. Casey is crazy as a shithouse rat."

Krista's laughter filled the night and she clamped a gloved hand over her mouth, still smiling with her yes. "Steven..." she scolded.

"Well, that's what my dad says," he said, hunching his shoulders.

Krista looked up at the darkening sky, then her watch. "I better get going. You should too," she said.

Steven bobbed his head, thinking about the fate of Mrs. Lawton. "I live just around the corner," he explained. "But, can I ask you something else?"

"What?" she asked, sounding impatient now.

"What are you going to do about whatever killed Mrs. Lawton?"

"Well, I'm up here doing research, in addition to hunting it," she answered. "I'm going to write a book when I'm done. Once it's dead, that is."

"Oh... I see," Steven said. Her eyes were on him and he was suddenly aware of how pretty Krista Cooper was. His heart sped up. "Ah... need any help?" he asked before considering his offer, then regretted it.

Krista smiled. It wasn't a condescending smile like he had expected. It was warm and accepting. "Maybe. How are you at looking through old newspapers and microfiche?"

"Okay, I guess," he answered, wondering how difficult a task that could be.

"Well, I can always use another set of eyes. Meet me at the library tomorrow morning around ten. I'll be in the Reference section, on the third floor."

Before Steven could reply, Krista had turned. She was hurrying through the snow, as lithe as a doe. He watched her through the bushes as she moved through the snow until he saw her get into a white car parked on Beech Street. As she drove off Steven began to hurry home.

That night, as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, Steven's mind was flooded with a myriad of thoughts. When he has twelve he had found a cache of old magazines and comic books in the attic. They had once belonged to his Uncle George. His uncle had been killed in Vietnam and Steven only knew him from the stories that his father had recounted of his older brother to Steven. In the old tattered cardboard box were copies of "Tales From the Crypt", "Weird Tales" and a stack of various DC and Marvel Comics. Steven was happier to find this cache than Brian was to chance upon his father's porn collection. He devoured them, one by one, until he had read them all -- then began again.

Reading those eerie stories of ghosts, ghouls and monsters made a indelible mark on the young, impressionable Steven Paxton. In his mind those creatures came alive and it kindled within him a belief in the unseen and paranormal. Steven smiled to himself as he recalled meeting Krista Cooper that afternoon and their appointment the next morning. Maybe this was the adventure that he had longed for over the past seven years.

###

Steven hurried down to the public library the next morning after telling his mother he was going to the mall. He had barely slept due to his excitement the night before. Despite this, he was not tired. He felt invigorated and more alive than he ever had. He dashed up the steps to the third floor of the library and looked around for Krista. When he didn't see her his heart sank. Then he looked at the clock behind the Reference desk and realized it was nine forty-five. He sat down and flipped through a copy of Time magazine.

When he saw Krista approaching the table that he was sitting at about a half hour later, he smiled. Not only was he glad to see her, but he was taken by how pretty she looked in full daylight. She was wearing jeans and the same jacket she had on the night before. Beneath it she wore a pale blue blouse. Her black leather purse hung down from long straps slung over her left shoulder. She smiled when she noticed him and tugged at the pink fleece scarf wrapped around her neck.

epiphany65
epiphany65
3,779 Followers