“Are we there yet?” Jess whines for the millionth time from the backseat.
Well, not literally the millionth time. That would be…physically impossible, I think. Actually I think I Googled that once and it said that it would take like twelve days or so? So maybe it’s not actually impossible. But it probably meant twelve days without stopping, and you would probably get really thirsty if you were doing that. Might even lose your voice. And Jess definitely hasn’t lost her voice. So it’s probably not the millionth time. But, you know, people just say that as a nicer of way of saying “you’re being really, really annoying.”
“Jess, I swear, if you ask that one more time I’m making you ride strapped to the roof rack for the rest of the trip,” I threaten over my shoulder. Jess just sticks her tongue out at me before going back to braiding Daniela’s hair. Those two have been joined at the hip since third grade.
Again, not literally—just to be clear. I feel like I should specify because there are real people who are joined at the hip. Conjoined twins. There’s a whole TV show about a set of such twins, I think. They’re also married…and…I don’t even want to know how that works. They’re not married to each other—to other people. And again, not something I want to learn more about. I just meant to clarify that that wasn’t the case for Jess and Daniela. They were just really good friends. We all were. I mean, duh—who goes camping with people you don’t like?
I focus my attention back on the winding forest road, hoping we’re close to the campground. Texas has a lot of great campsites, which may be surprising to some people who think the state is just a bunch of cowboys and cacti (apparently “cactuses” is also correct? But I grew up hearing “cacti,” which I think is also right, so cacti it is. I think it has to do with the Latin or something? Did anyone else’s mom make them study Latin outside of normal school?), but there are actually tons of places that are great for weekend getaways with friends like this.
Just expect to deal with things being hot. All. The. Time. Yes, even in the winter. This is Texas, after all. That, and unpredictable weather sometimes (besides the heat, I mean. Like rain and stuff. That’s what I’m talking about. No snow really.).
So when Jess and Daniela begged me to take them camping for winter break, a weekend of s’mores and probably a little bit of bug spray sounded kinda fun—heat aside. And maybe we’d get lucky—East Texas is known for having cooler weather than the south/west where I’m from.
But after six hours crammed in my ancient Honda Accord (fun Christian joke: did you know that I drove the same car that Jesus did? Yep, it’s true—John 12:49 says, quoting Jesus, “I did not speak of my own accord.” Ha. Haha.) blasting Taylor Swift though, I’m…starting to question my decision-making skills—just a little bit. Not because I don’t love my friends—they’re great—but something about what that vampire I killed had said a few months prior is still stuck in my head. The “end of all things.”
You know when a song gets stuck in your head but you just can’t get it out and you need to listen to the song again to get it out of your head but you’re afraid that having to listen to it again will just make it even more stuck in your head because your head is weird and you have anxiety sometimes? Yeah, that’s what I’m feeling right now. Nothing else unusual had really been going on since then. I’ve mostly been focused on getting adjusted to college life. But…I don’t know, I just have a feeling. “I have a bad feeling about this” kind of vibes (that’s Star Wars, for any of the uninitiated out there. Fun movies, but the new ones are overrated if you ask me.).
I spot a weathered wooden sign up ahead labeled “Tyler State Park” with a big map and an arrow pointing right down a narrow dirt road. “Oh thank goodness,” I mutter to myself, cranking the wheel. My little Honda rumbles down the bumpy path, tall pines whipping by on either side. After a few minutes, we enter a large clearing filled with tents and RVs ringed by the forest. There’s a large lake out on the other side. Great place for kayaking and stuff like that, if you’re into that sort of thing. I like this place because it’s not as far east as Houston but still lets you feel like you’re in the pine tree forest…which, I guess, is because you are in the pine tree forest.
Jess lets out an excited squeal. “It’s so pretty!” She did actually squeal—I have an uncle out in west Texas who has a farm and he owns a number of farm animals, including some pretty cute oinkers. But boy, do they squeal. And Jess, somehow, bless her heart, has perfected the ability to squeal exactly like one of the piglets. She just…doesn’t realize it…and I haven’t had the heart to tell her. It’s fine, as long as she doesn’t end up dating a farmer boy or something like that. (Did anyone read that book, Farmer Boy, as part of the Little House on the Prairie series? I don’t really remember much about the book other than that the main character was always eating tons of pies and foods. Reminds me of a pig. Maybe that’s why Jess’s squeal made me think of that. Also I’m hungry.)
Squealer or not, Jess has a point, and I have to agree with her, as I take in the towering trees silhouetted against the setting sun.
“Looks like no rain this week!” Daniela calls out from the passenger seat.
“Will it be hot though?” I grumble, still thinking about squealing pigs on a hot day.
“Rey, it’s winter-time! Of course it won’t be hot!” She replies, scrolling absentmindedly through her weather app. No rain is a start. But really? That confident in no heat?
“Your overconfidence is your weakness,” I say, channeling the Emperor (Star Wars again), mimicking the raspy old evil dude’s voice. My friends just laugh—typical. But hey, no rain. Nice to know this outdoor excursion won’t be a total bust. I find us a decent site that isn’t already occupied, park the car, and my friends help me pitch our tent as the daylight fades. Soon we have a cozy fire crackling away, the three of us huddled around it toasting marshmallows in preparation for our s’mores.
“Isn’t it kind of funny how we say the fire ‘crackles’ and then we make s’mores and stuff, which have marshmallows, and you use marshmallows to make rice crispy treats, and the literal slogan for Rice Crispies™ is ‘Snap, CRACKLE, pop’?” Daniela and Jess look at me. Jess rolls her eyes. “Oh my gawd, Rey. You’re so funny!” She and Daniela burst into laughter. I grin, despite myself—they’re used to my scatterbrained thoughts being live-streamed for them when we hang out like this. (And yes, I did say “trademark sign” out loud when I said that.)
“C’mon, Rey, tell us a scary story!” Jess demands, chocolate smeared all over her face. Daniela nods eagerly next to her.
I laugh. “Jess, we’re already out in the middle of nowhere surrounded by what’ll soon be pitch darkness. Not creepy enough for you?”
Jess just sticks out her lip in an exaggerated pout. I pretend to think hard.
“Hmm alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I scoot in closer to the fire. “So, rumor has it these very woods we’re camping in tonight have some unusual inhabitants…”
I spin them a tale, drawing inspiration from some of my own wilder adventures. Daniela and Jess are soon clinging to each other, eyes wide.
“…and so, the beast dragged the man’s mangled body back to its lair, leaving a trail of blood in its wake…” I continue, dropping my voice lower. As I say this, a twig snaps loudly from the tree line behind us. Daniela shrieks as all three of us whip around.
My muscles instantly tense for action until I spot the culprit: A totally regular, non-supernatural squirrel perches on a low branch, tilting its head curiously at us. It’s carrying what is probably some kind of nut—and its cheeks are very fat-looking, I assume stuffed with more nuts. I’ve always found it so funny how obsessed squirrels are with nuts—to the point that they’ll literally stuff their cheeks full of them but then can’t actually eat them while doing so. But I guess that’s just to carry the nuts. And I guess that’s what happens when you don’t have pockets. You and me both, squirrel. Someone should start a clothing line for women that exclusively has pockets. That’d be pretty cool. Maybe a squirrel could be the mascot. No one would get the joke except me, though, so maybe not.
Jess bursts out laughing. “Oh man, nice going Daniela!”
Daniela shoves her, cheeks flushed. “That was scary, shut up!”
I join in their laughter, my pulse calming back down. “Maybe that’s enough spooking each other for one night.”
We chat for a while longer until the girls start yawning. It’s been a day—driving takes it out of you, even if all you’re doing is sitting there. We douse the dying fire and climb into our tent, zipping ourselves into our sleeping bags. Surrounded by the sound of wind whispering through the trees, we eventually drift off.
I awake some time later to an eerie howling piercing the night. My eyes fly open, instantly alert. Next to me Jess and Daniela slumber on, dead to the world. Not literally dead, I remind myself—just figuratively dead. Like a zombie. Haven’t seen one of those before—but supposedly they actually exist. Father Ben (he’s our residential bishop—and a close family friend; he is familiar with what we do. Makes confession time easier—not that killing vampires is a sin or anything) once said that a zombie is probably what would happen if someone ate from the Tree of Life while possessed by a demon. You’d basically be a walking dead person—dead soul and decomposing body but somehow weirdly alive and unable to fully die. My friends aren’t zombies, it just made me think of that.
Heart pounding, I quietly unzip my sleeping bag and grab the compact crossbow I covertly brought, just in case. It is Texas, so gun territory and all that, but there’s something about a trusty crossbow that just hits different. (Literally—you can’t shoot a wooden stake through the heart of a vampire with a pistol, but you can with a crossbow. It hits different, get it?) Plus, I want to try this thing out. My dad gave it to me as a birthday gift a while back and I hadn’t gotten a real opportunity to use it beyond practice—which I am getting pretty good at. Why he couldn’t have given it to me before I hunted that other vampire I told you about before (the one in the old abandoned hotel), I don’t know. It would have made things a lot less scary.
Unzipping the entrance, I carefully crawl out of the tent, scanning the dark woods, one hand resting on the crucifix on my belt. The howl sounds again from my left, closer this time. Too deep and guttural to be an ordinary wolf. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure if Tyler, Texas has wolves. Maybe they do. I should probably look that up next time I camp here…if there is a next time, of course. I creep towards the tree line, crossbow raised, and pull out a small but powerful flashlight I have fixed to the crossbow.
About twenty feet into the forest, my flashlight beam illuminates something hunched behind a rotten log, fur bristling, fangs bared. It takes me a second to process what I’m seeing. I see the large canine muzzle first, wet saliva dripping from bared fangs. The creature has a large dog’s shape and size, but its eyes are burning red instead of what I would expect from a dog or wolf. (Not literally burning—just like, glowing.) Its flesh ripples horrifically under the beam of my flashlight.
My breath catches as I feel fear choking my throat. Could it be…a werewolf? Weredog? I’ve researched werewolves but never actually encountered one. I assume weredogs could be real, too. But why here, and why now? Before I can ponder further, the beast lets loose a bone-chilling snarl and charges straight at me. So much for s’mores and bug spray. I guess I was right about things taking a “hairy” turn. My heart lurches as I leap sideways, barely avoiding the snarling beast’s snapping jaws.
“Whoah there, uh, boy?” I say uncertainly. Do you call were-creatures boy or girl based on their human or animal form? I have no idea. Not that I had a chance to inspect its, uh, you know. Plus who knows, maybe they’re gender fluid? Daniela is always saying that gender is just a social construct—but I wonder how that applies to a werewolf with probably no social skills. I put a pin in that thought for later since Fangface here keeps attempting to use me as a chew toy.
I scramble up onto a nearby boulder, crossbow aimed steady in my hands. Down below, the creature prowls back and forth, its glowing crimson eyes following my every movement. I notice a strange symbol branded into its shoulder, still smoking faintly red - some kind of occult marking? My mind races to try and place it. An alchemy sign, perhaps? Before I can puzzle it out further, Wolfie McChewstein braces on its muscular haunches to spring.
I loose a bolt from the crossbow, striking the beast in the tail somehow. It yelps, more startled than injured, before rounding on me again with a ferocious roar.
“Yikes, sorry!” I yell instinctively. Wait, what is wrong with me?! I’m in mortal peril here, stop being so polite! I think it just reminded me of when I went hunting once with my dad and we found the perfect buck for dinner. I thought it would be so cool if I could show my dad how great of a shot I was. Except I hit the poor fool in the shoulder and didn’t kill it right away. I felt so bad. But that was just a normal deer, not at weredeer. I wonder if weredeers exist. Regardless—now isn’t the time for manners!
I hop to another rock barely in time to avoid a swipe of its claws. Think, I tell myself, panting hard. Silver! I need silver to fight a werewolf! My hand jumps to my neck where my silver (and most importantly, pointy-tipped) crucifix hangs…and I come up empty. Crap. I took it off when I was showering and we were in such a rush this morning that I left it in the bathroom at home. And of course didn’t bring silver bullets or other blades, rookie mistake. All I have are blessed oak bolts and a vial of holy water. The bolts seem about as bothersome as mosquito bites to this freakish hellhound.
Maybe I could try exorcising it? Though…I’ve never seen symbols like those markings before. Could be something more ancient, something…else. I rack my brain, wishing I paid better attention during Occult Studies 101 with Father Mike (he’s some distant second-removed uncle or what have you who’s both a priest and a family vampire et cetera hunter). But his class was honestly just not well taught. Remember, kids: just because you’re good at your job does not mean you should be a teacher.
The beast lets loose a bone-rattling roar of frustration as I leap just out of reach again. It braces to spring up the rock towards me, lips curled back to reveal rows of glistening fangs longer than my fingers.
“Down boy!” I shout in desperation, my fingers managing to wrap around the small vial in my pocket, popping the top off and splashing it with holy water. To my shock, the creature yowls in pain, smoke rising from its drenched fur. It staggers backward with a furious snarl, red eyes blazing. Huh. Maybe this thing isn’t a werewolf after all? They usually don’t react to holy water. But it sure ain’t no ordinary wolf or dog either. I glance between the glowing symbol still searing its shoulder and the sizzling holy water dripping from its muzzle. Come on, think! Put the pieces together! There’s something almost…demonic about this beast.
My eyes widen with sudden realization. Surely it couldn’t be that easy. Matthew 8 tells of a situation where Jesus cast demons out of a man and the demons possessed some pigs. The demons, for whatever reason drives demons to do anything, made the doomed oinkers jump off a cliff and into the ocean, where they drowned. Poor squealers. But the point is: demons can possess animals. It just is extremely rare—because what’s the point? The limited mental capacity of a common beast just doesn’t let the demon work as much evil as they could by possessing a human.
“Daemon, dimitte eum!!” I cry out, commanding the foul spirit lurking within to release its hold on what I suspect to be an otherwise innocent forest predator. I guessed right. The possibly-demon-wolf-but-still-possibly-Jacob-from-Twilight shrieks furiously as I reveal my awareness of its true nature. Heart pounding, I steady the crossbow once more—mostly for my own confidence than anything else. There’s just something about a sturdy crossbow that makes a gal feel confident in her abilities to expel Hell’s worst.
“Alright Fido, let’s send you back to the pound.” Eyes locked on the prowling monster, I begin chanting the banishing prayer under my breath. Banishing prayers for demons aren’t complicated – but they don’t really tend to work unless the subject of the possession is either bound with secure restraints (which is why it wouldn’t have worked on Mr. Vampire from my last encounter), because the restraints help minimize the overall level of resistance they can give…or they’re so mentally weak that you can utter the right prayer. And possessed animals definitely fall into the latter group. Which is why any demon worth its salt won’t possess an animal if at all possible. Still, it is one terrifying sight to behold.
The demon-possessed wolf writhes on the ground, howling in pain as I finish the prayer. Black smoke starts pouring out of its mouth and nostrils. Gross. I didn’t realize demons smell so bad when they exit a body. I haven’t been this close before—smells like rotten eggs mixed with skunk spray. One time when I was twelve my brother convinced me to help him make stink bombs to get back at the school bullies. We looked up how to do it online using stuff from my dad’s garage. It involved mixing all these nasty chemicals that smelled so bad I almost barfed. David said real winners power through adversity or something like that. Easy for him to say with his shirt pulled up over his nose. Unfortunately, the stink bombs kind of exploded in our backpacks on the way to school because of the bumpy road we biked on…annnd yeah, you can imagine how well that plan worked.
Anyway, where was I? Oh right: demonic wolf exorcism. The dark wispy entity fully emerges from the creature’s body, coalescing into a vaguely humanoid shape with glowing red eyes and pointed teeth bared in a snarl. How cliché. Don’t demons have any originality? The bargain bin villain/demon vibe is so overdone. I bet this guy doesn’t even have a backstory or motivations beyond “rawr evil.” I mean…he possessed a wolf for crying out loud.
“Begone, foul fiend!” I shout, splashing the demon with holy water. It shrieks and dissipates into smoke—finally gone. The now-freed wolf left behind blinks dazedly then turns tail and races off into the dark woods. I breathe a sigh of relief, glad the innocent beast is free—and glad I didn’t fatally wound it with my crossbow earlier. I guess Twilight fans don’t have to riot over poor Jacob’s untimely demise after all.
I scan the surrounding trees warily in case the demon wolf was just a distraction from something worse lurking in the shadows. But the forest is calm and quiet once more, only the usual nighttime sounds of bugs and the occasional owl hoot or frog croak in the distance. Nothing to indicate the epic supernatural throw down that just went down minutes before. Talk about going out with a whimper instead of a bang.
My adrenaline rush fading, I suddenly feel totally wiped. Who knew exorcisms took so much out of you? I stifle a huge yawn as I gather up my fallen gear. I’ll have to remember to thank Father Mike for making me memorize all those prayers. Though teaching skills he may lack, he did have a knack for getting us to memorize things. Maybe I won’t even fall asleep in his next lecture. Well…we’ll see.
Anyway, I’m ready to get back to that cozy tent and sleeping bag. This chick needs her beauty sleep. Another day, another foe vanquished.
As I crawl back into my warm sleeping bag, and drift back off to sleep, I can’t help but wonder about the strange glowing symbol seared onto the wolf’s shoulder. I try to visualize it in my mind’s eye as consciousness leaves me. A partial circle with short ends coming off of the bottom part…why does it seem so familiar. But it’s lost to my dreams as I fade off into slumberland.