tagErotic HorrorLycanthrope Ch. 01

Lycanthrope Ch. 01









It wasn't until he came back from taking the longest piss of his life that David Carson noticed his son was nowhere in sight. He listened for a minute, straining to here the slightest twig break or rustling of a bush. The forest was quiet and strangely devoid of any animal sounds today, calm and sedated. He buttoned his fly and stepped back into the clearing, his heavy black boots kicking up saw dust. He frowned and looked down the twisted, uneven path wrought from the thick brush.

"Michael?" he shouted.

Only his echo bouncing between the trees into the distance replied.

David wiped his dark brow with the back of his large hand and walked down the trail to his Dodge Ram truck. Maybe the boy had gone back for a soda? He hoped so. The forest carried the sounds of his progress as he navigated the overgrown trail, his obsidian black eyes scanning the infinite woods as he went. The fresh unbroken evergreen brush and pine trees greeted him as he reached the red truck. He opened the cab door and found only the Igloo ice chest, untouched and exactly where he had left it.

"Michael Carson get your ass out here, boy!" he shouted again, his heart beginning to pound.

David went back up the trail, this time at more of a run than a walk. The clearing was packed with fresh cut oak and cedar, a fine truckload for this winter. The smell of the wood was normally refreshing and soothing for David, but at the moment it did nothing to ease his panicking heart. The six year old had gone wandering off despite what he had been told. But then what could David expect? Wandering off and disobeying were a stock in trade for little boys.

"Michael!" he cupped his powerful brown hands together and bellowed, his voice reverberating through the woods, "Michael speak up!"

A crow, black as the night itself, soared overhead and cawed. David jumped, mad at himself for being startled by a damned bird. He looked down at the Stihl chainsaw and axe he had left by the tree trunk Michael had been watching him cut up since nine that morning. The large ear protectors the boy used to hide from the noise of the chainsaw were lying on the ground in a damp pile of orange sawdust and dirt. David picked them up and then felt something wet on the headpiece.

He looked at his fingers and saw a smear of crimson blood. Every muscle in his powerful frame began shaking as he stared at the blood in a stupid kind of awe. He licked his lips, looked out into the forest again and screamed his son's name, "Michael!"

Upon further inspection of the ground he found more small spatters of blood leading off into the shrubs. Grabbing his battered axe, David followed the blood drops over the brush and undergrowth, a clear trail of broken stems and branches leading away and to the north. He followed the trail like a determined bloodhound as fine flakes of snow whished in the air around him. He didn't think or reason. He simply followed with a murderously single-minded determination.

'Someone grabbed him,' he thought, 'Oh Jesus someone grabbed him...'

How could he not have heard someone sneaking up on them like that? Sure, the chainsaw had been screaming all day long, but there had breaks in between. Maybe a man could have waited for the saw to be running hot to creep up, but during the long pauses while David explained what he was doing to Michael there would have been a twig snapping or an old rotted branch popping in two to warn them. The forest was unusually quiet today, the calm before a major storm he had figured. Hearing a mole fart underground should have been easy enough. Losing a hyperactive six year old shouldn't have been.


His heart was hammering now as he walked deeper and deeper into the Northern California woods. Heavy shadows were claiming the world as the gray clouds above became dark and foreboding. He could hear thunder rolling across the sky, another warning of the weather to come. The dead oak leaves beneath his boots slipped against the mud and threatened his footing at seemingly regular intervals as he treaded the uneven terrain. He gripped the axe with his hands tightly as the blood trail led him through several large collections of tangle wood and blackberry bushes. The thorns raked at his jeans and pricked at the dark skin of his arms. With each green leaf or brown branch he found blood dribbled on he became more and more possessed by his own fear.

"Please Jesus," he whispered, "Please Jesus in heaven..."

Finally, after managing to make it through almost fifty yards of thick foliage, he reached a large, decomposing cedar tree. The mighty tree had fallen years ago from the looks of it, it's bark splintered and decayed to washed out sienna. On the trunk of the tree was a large, dark smear of something wet. The rotted bark was soaked with it and David didn't have to touch it to know what it was. There was far too much blood for a little boy to loose and live.

Still, with tears in his eyes he shouted, "Michael! Where are you!? Talk to me, Michael!"

His terrified voice mocked him as it carried away on the wind, bouncing between the trees and plants in some sort of twisted game. David scratched at his goatee, his handsome African features contorted in a grimace of desperation. He held the axe in one hand and wiped the tears from his eyes with the other. He looked back at the stain of blood on the bark of the cedar as snow began to fall more evenly. The white powdery snow lighted on the rain drenched forest and began to coat.

"MICHAEL!" he bellowed as the wind kicked up, spinning the frozen flakes wildly.

A twig snapped behind him. David spun on his heel and looked into the woods, his eyes frantically scanning for any sign of his son. From behind another broken tree he saw something move. David felt a wash of relief and took a step forward. He smiled as he cried, "Oh Jesus, Michael. You scared me to death."

A low, guttural growl registered from behind the debris of the tree and the bushes in had destroyed in the fall. In the fading light, David saw more blood on this new tree. A lot more of it. He stopped in his tracks, the growl becoming a wet, sloppy snarl. His throat closed off as he listened, his grip on the axe becoming shaky and uncertain.

And then it rose up from its hiding place.

It was huge, the size of full-grown man only much more muscular and primitive. Coarse black, gray and brown fur covered its entire body like the coat a finely bred German Shepard might sport. It looked like a man, but the head was all wrong. Large ears, pricked to attention and slightly laid back against the skull twitched at the sound of David's gasp. Its muzzle was stained red with blood, pulled back from large gleaming teeth. Something ragged and fleshy was hanging from those mandibles. Blood tinged saliva dripped in long, ropy gobs from its bared teeth.

"Oh Jesus help me," David breathed, seeking a strength he knew he did not possess on his own.

But it was the eyes that made David believe he would never see another sunrise again. Powerful green eyes, like glowing emeralds embedded inside the creature's skull watched him curiously. The lids narrowed to slits and it let loose a mighty roar. The sound was deafening, forcing David back as he tried to cover his ears and keep the axe in hand. He could hear the sounds of a lion and bear in that ungodly release, a sound that was out of alignment of with the rest of the natural world. And then he looked down at its human like hand.

There was a bunched up length of cloth, white and stained to crimson black. He could see the bright blue number 7 on the ragged fragment of what had been his son's shirt. David felt the fear fall away from him and rage fill every fiber of his being. His mouth worked open and shut silently as he shook his head, the cry of anguish building up to match the bellow of this thing before him. They stood there for only a second, facing each other as two mortal enemies.

"My boy," David wheezed.

The thing opened its maw and hissed.

"MY BOY!" David screamed, his whole body tensed and thrown into the howl of pain, "YOU MOTHER FUCKER!"

David raised the axe into the air and charged forward. The creature recoiled back as though to run in fear, but it was only then that David realized his mistake. It wasn't giving him ground, it was back stepping for room. Room to lurch forward. It leapt from the brush with an eerie silence and ease, launching itself at him. The beast caught him in the chest and they both went sailing back towards where he had been standing before. David landed with a hard thud that forced the breath out of his lungs and nearly cracked his ribs.

"You," he gasped as the creature dug tremendous claws into his chest, "You fuck-"

His words were cut off as the beast snapped its jaws together over his throat and began tearing. Violent jerks and pulls, like those of a rabid dog feasting on his evening meal severed most of the tendons and meat from David's neck and head within a few seconds. He beat his hands mercilessly at the creature's head and shoulders. In a crazy moment of clarity, he realized that his axe had been taken from his hand and was now embedded blade first into the wet ground. Strangled gurgles and watery screams filled the winter wind for a few moments more before David fell out of this world, his last thoughts only of his son.

The forest heard one final meaty rip and the brutal snap of bone before the world fell silent again, save for the thunder overhead, followed by a long, triumphant roar that became a lonely howl.


"Buster," Dr. Catalina Hughes said as she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, "Is one sick dog."

On the wide examination table she held the golden retriever's head in her hands. The dog's nose was cool and soothing even through her latex examination gloves, his soulful brown eyes looking up as though to question her. She stroked the pure bred animal's blond coat of fur as his tail wagged woefully from side to side.

"Poor thing," Eve, her assistant, muttered as she prepped the shot. She looked at the long needle and tapped the side of the syringe as Catalina comforted the whimpering dog.

"It'll be okay," Catalina smiled and scratched behind the dog's ears. Buster nuzzled his snout to her white lab coat as she braced the dog for the injection.

"So, just for the sake of conversation," Eve pressed the long needle to the dog's hindquarters and gently inserted, "How are you doing?"

Catalina eyed Eve through her glasses, "Is this really the time for this?"

"Come on, Cat," Eve pressed the plunger and injected the dog with the vaccine, "It's been two months now. Seriously, are you feeling any better?"

Buster tried to move but Catalina held him down, stroking his head reassuringly, "Divorce isn't something you get over quickly..."

"Are you gonna sue him for alimony?" Eve cocked her brow as the last of the clear fluid passed into the dog's body, "Please tell me you're going to nail him for alimony."

"No," Catalina shook her head, "If Walter wants to leave that's his choice."

"God," Eve looked at her as she withdrew the needle and applied a wad of gauze to the point of entry, "You're too nice, Cat."

"I don't pay you for personal advice, you know," the doctor smiled as Buster licked her hand.

"That's all free of charge," Eve smiled, her brown eyes filled with mischief.

"Aren't I lucky?" Catalina rubbed her nose against the side of Buster's head. The dog replied by lapping at her ear, tickling her.

Two months ago, the day before their tenth wedding anniversary, Walter Hughes had come home from his blossoming reality office in the city and declared that he was leaving Catalina for his business partner, Sheryl Chirique. Catalina had thought it a cruel joke at first, but when Walter began packing his bags she realized he was serious. Their marriage had been rocky for certain, but she never expected him to up and leave her.

News spread quickly, and all she seemed to ever hear about was Sheryl Chirique. Her incredible good looks not withstanding, Sheryl had become the sexual fantasy for almost every man in the small mountain town of Breystaff, California. She was reviled by most of her fellow female neighbors, but no one could deny that selling real estate was a cinch when blessed with a body that most Playmates have to have airbrushed to attain. At the age of twenty-nine, Sheryl had the town of Breystaff, maybe even the entire Siskiyou County by the balls, not to mention Walter.

To say that Catalina was crushed was an understatement. She had no idea that Walter was that unhappy. After thirty-eight years, she had gained a few pounds but she still had a good shape with large firm, pear-shaped breasts and a shapely rear end. Her hair was a bronzed auburn, cut to shoulder length and layered to a sexy perfection. Her elegant amber-framed glasses only added to her unique look, setting her apart from women like Sheryl Chirique through brainy sex appeal.

None of that was apparent to her though. When Catalina looked into the mirror every morning, she saw a moderately pretty woman who was simply growing older by the minute. Her five foot eight frame carried all one hundred and fifty pounds of her weight well, though sometimes she felt like one hundred and twenty of those pounds were invested in her breasts. She knew that she was attractive; or at least had been attractive in the past. She wasn't blind to men checking her out in the grocery stores after the lab coat came off and she was in her civilian clothes.

But that didn't seem to matter anymore.

Catalina knew she had a bookish quality to her that Walter had always whished she would abandon. Sometimes, she wished she could be brazen and bold like Sheryl Chirique, so sexy and demanding of affection, so carefree. But with all the sacrifices made and experience gained in earning the title of "doctor" she felt obligated to dress smart and present herself for the professional she really was. Maybe she worked too many hours but being the most successful veterinarian in three counties required a commitment most couldn't make. If her schedule had been the problem, then Walter had never hinted at that once. He certainly didn't complain when spending her hard earned income on a new motorcycle (which she affectionately nicknamed "Midlife-C" for his sudden need to reclaim his youth at age forty).

"You know what you need to do?" Eve asked.

"What's that?"

"You need to get laid, doctor," she said flatly.

"Eve Lawrence," she playfully slapped her assistant's arm, "Shame on you."

"Don't act so surprised," Eve laughed, recoiling from the slap, "I know the color of horny when I see it. You need to have sex."

Catalina couldn't deny that Eve had a point. She asked, "Sex? What's that again? Oh, sex is what you have when you're not running your own business and seeing nearly every domesticated animal from rats to horses in the tri-county area."

With a grunt, Eve picked Buster up and sat him down on the floor. She said, "How long has it been for you?"

Catalina shrugged, "Oh, a year and a half-"

"Oh my God," Eve shook her head.

"-since I stopped trying," she finished, "I'd say it's been two years all together. But it makes sense, considering that was about the time he started seeing Sheryl."

"Sheryl Chirique is a walking delivery system for pussy and tits and that's all," Eve remarked callously, "God, Cat. Get out there and find yourself a stud."

"A stud?"

"A hunk."

"A hunk?" Catalina asked doubtfully.

"A boy toy," Eve winked.

"Eve, really..."

"Yes really," Eve nodded as she cleared the examination table. She glanced down at Catalina's crotch and added slyly, "Someone to fill the void in your life, so to speak."

Catalina shook her head as she pulled her latex gloves off, a sad smile on her full lips, "You're assuming a stud or a boy toy would find any fun with an old maid like me."

"When you turn eighty, we'll talk about you being old," Eve rolled her eyes.

Sex and fun?

Catalina could still remember when sex was fun, when she really looked forward to that feeling of excruciating excitement coursing through in heated anticipation. She could recall the electric sensations and erotic delirium that accompanied a good fuck. How long had it been since she felt that way? Certainly before career and family (or lack thereof) got in the way. Most certainly before Sheryl Chirique.

She knew that she wasn't the most creative lover in the world and maybe she was a bit shy, but Walter had never once complained. Despite her best efforts to focus on her work, the last few years had seen her mind drifting to sex a lot more than she wanted to. When things were fine between her and Walter, it didn't matter much. Sex was a given that she simply took for granted. But when he started drifting away from her, she realized just how insatiable she truly was.

'I handled it better than Walter, though,' she thought grimly, 'But God knows there's temptation...'

She had first noticed how horny she really was in Ray's Supermarket shortly after Walter had ceased their sex life. Young men in the aisles would pass her, their eyes hungrily looking her over and admiring her. She would feel that familiar arc of sexual excitement at their frank appraisals of her body. She figured she was just enjoying the hyper-accelerated sex drive most women acquire in their thirties and forties. If she had been subconsciously tempted while under the illusion of a monogamous marriage, she had resisted easily.

As time wore on, her increasing desires sprang forth with a vengeance. She went so far as to try and seduce Walter with sexy lingerie purchased at the Fredericks of Hollywood in Redding, even offering to let him videotape their sex. He seemed so disinterested, and that had hurt her to no end. Every romantic and flat out blatant sexual advance was met with apathy or excuses or both. In retrospect it was all so ridiculously clear to her. Walter had taken a younger lover, someone who was new and exciting. Someone who looked like the Greek bombshell that was Sheryl Chirique. Why would he want someone like Catalina when he had Sheryl?

"I don't know," Catalina sighed and leaned against the wall, her hands in her coat pockets, "I mean, who am I going to date around here anyway?"

"What about that one guy?" Eve washed her hands in the sink, "The salesman from Portland your mom set you up with?"

"Ken?" she looked at Eve incredulously, "The man asked me to marry him after three dates."

"Hey, remember Rod Stewart and Rachel Hunter?" Eve said, "He saw her in a video, wrote a letter and asked her to marry him."

"Can you blame him?" Catalina smiled half-heartedly, "Have you seen that video?"

Catalina was not ready to jump back into marriage yet, let alone a serious relationship. Her divorce from Walter had been quick and painless (painless being a relative term, mind you) as far as divorces go, everybody leaving with what they come in with. Even then, she hurt. But she had tried to move on. The first step to recovery had come in the form of Ken Underwood.

Things had gone fine for a while, but when Ken's sudden proposal had come out of the blue one night after dinner, she knew it was time to part company with him. The need move on or not, she wasn't ready. Getting over Walter was hard enough, but the brash antics of Ken Underwood only made things more complicated.

Ken was a good man, a well-known tractor salesman for John Deere who had lost his wife and daughter to a car accident. He was nice almost to a fault, his insistence on strict chivalry wherever they went more a nuisance than a turn on as their relationship progressed. He had wanted to take their relationship to the sexual level, but something made Catalina hold back. As much as she wanted to satisfy her needs, she knew Ken wasn't the man.

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