The Werebear

I was at the Maine house on a hunting trip with Dad, Grampa, Matty, and the sisters. The girls weren’t going hunting, they were just there. It was very cold, and for some reason Dad thought it was a good idea to start a fire with gunpowder. I was leery, but he and Matty ignored me, and set the thing off. It made a lot of smoke, but it worked.

There were strange things going on in Brownfield. There was tons of construction. They had built a road going right past our house, and on the other side were building some huge, ugly electrical transformer. Dad and Grampa talked about making an addition to the house, and taking out the windows on that side so we wouldn’t have to look at it. Someone (possibly Matty) was in the process of building another house in front of ours. It was almost done, closed in and had windows and insulation and everything, just didn’t have siding yet. And strangest of all, along the road behind our house there was now an enormous dilapidated warehouse that contained aviation machinery. Apparently some guy kept his little fixed-wing prop plane there. So the whole area had this ugly, ominous industrial feel to it, though the pines still loomed everywhere around it.

It was very late at night, we had just gotten in and settled, and Dad and Grampa wanted to be up at seven to go hunting. They would have liked to wake up at four, but we had arrived too late for that now, and nobody wanted to do that. At that point it was about one, and we were getting ready for bed.

Well, just then several cars pulled up into the driveway, and there piled out of them some rauckus inconsiderate people who apparently were renting or staying the night in the half-built house belonging to Matty, just generally rowdy and unusual folk who didn’t seem to understand we wanted to go to sleep. They barged in on us, and I stared at them bleary-eyed as they hauled into the house this very strange wooden rack on wheels that had a bear carcass all cut up and rather carelessly screwed onto it. They were going back and forth from their car, bringing gear inside, so I took hold of the thing, seeing that it was about to fall apart, and tried to screw it tighter so it would hold. But to my consternation I discovered that the screws were not screws at all, but just cheap metal plugs without threads. I stared at the bear in confusion, wondering why they had it cut up this way. It was very gory, and not quite bear-proportioned. It looked more like a hacked-up guy in a bear suit than a hacked-up real bear–though the head and claws did look real. I noticed, with oddly muted feelings of disturbance, that some of the parts were twitching like they were still alive.

Then the whole rack started to fall apart in my hands. The head tumbled to the floor, followed by a hind paw, and a long, armlike limb. They lay on the floor, panting and bending and wiggling. “That’s enough of this,” I thought. “This is ridiculous.” I let go of the offensive thing and went outside to yell at these people. I told them angrily about the bear, how it had come loose from the wierd rack, and how it was not dead–like it was a werebear or something, that they had forgotten to stake or shoot with silver.

They looked at me uneasily, like I was insane, but not entirely. I led them back inside to show them, and the bear was completely gone. No blood or anything. I knew it had regenerated and disappeared into the woods.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *