Werehunter (anthology)

He’d condescended to tell stories at their campfire several times. Most of them were tales of what his life had been like as a boy on the reservation at the turn of the century—but once or twice he’d told them bits of odd Indian lore, not all of it Cherokee.

Like the shape-changers. George didn’t remember what he’d called them, but he did recall what had started the story. One of the boys had seen I Was A Teen-age Werewolf before he’d come to camp, and he was regaling all of them with a vivid description of Michael Landon’s transformation into the monster. The old man had listened, and scoffed. That was no kind of shape-changer, he’d told them scornfully. Then he had launched into a new story.

George no longer recalled the words, but he remem­bered the gist of it. How the shape-changers would prey upon the Indians in a peculiar fashion; stealing what they wanted by deception. If one wanted meat, for instance, he would transform himself into a hunter’s game-bag and wait for the Indian to stuff the “bag” full, then shift back and carry the game off while the hunter’s back was turned. If one wanted a new buffalo-robe, he would transform himself into a stretching-frame—or if very ambitious, into a tipi, and make off with all of the inhabitant’s worldly goods.

“Why didn’t they just turn into horses and carry everything off?” he’d wanted to know. The old man had shaken his head. “Because they cannot take a living form,” he’d said, “only a dead one. And you do not want to catch them, either. Better for you to pretend it never happened.”

But he wouldn’t say what would happen if someone did catch the thief at work. He only looked, for a brief instant, very frightened, as if he had not intended to say that much.

George felt suddenly sick. What if these things, these shape-changers, weren’t just legend. What could they be living on now? They wouldn’t be able to sneak into someone’s house and counterfeit a refrigerator.

But there was all that roadkill, enough dead animals along Mingo alone each year to keep someone going, if that someone wasn’t too fastidious.

And what would be easier to mimic than an old, flattened box?

He wanted to laugh at himself, but the laughter wouldn’t come. This was such a stupid fantasy, built out of nothing but a boy’s imagination and a box that didn’t behave the way it ought to.

Instead, he only felt sicker, and more frightened. Now he could recall the one thing the old man had said about the creatures and their fear of discovery.

“They do not permit it,” he’d said, as his eyes widened in that strange flicker of fear. “They do not permit it.”

Finally he just couldn’t sit there anymore. He picked up the phone and mumbled something to his manager about feeling sick, grabbed his car keys and headed for the parking lot. Several of the others on the engineering staff looked at him oddly as he passed their desks; the secretary even stopped him and asked him if he felt all right. He mumbled something at her that didn’t change her look of concern, and assured her that he was going straight home.

He told himself that he was going to do just that. He even had his turn-signal on for a right-hand turn, fully intending to take the on-ramp at Pine and take the freeway home.

But instead he found himself turning left, where the roadkill was still lying.

He saw it as he came up over the rise; and the box was lying on top of it once again.

Suddenly desperate to prove to himself that this entire fantasy he’d created around a dead ’possum and a piece of cardboard was nothing more than that, he jerked the wheel over and straddled the median, gun­ning the engine and heading straight for the dingy brown splotch of the flattened box.

There was no wind now; if the thing moved, it would have to do so under its own power.

He floored the accelerator, determined that the thing wasn’t going to escape his tires.

It didn’t move; he felt a sudden surge of joy—

Then the thing struck.

It leapt up at the last possible second, landing with a splat, splayed across his windshield. He had a brief, horrifying impression of some kind of face, flattened and distorted, red eyes and huge, beaver-like teeth as long as his hand—

Then it was gone, and the car was out of control, tires screaming, wheel wrenching under his hands.

He pumped his brakes—once, twice—then the pedal went flat to the floor.