Grandpa told us many stories. Most of him as a strapping young lad, fighting off Nazis and commies and saving our hides (his words, not mine). But then there were his ‘other stories’. The ones he’d tell us late at night, after he’d ‘had a few’. Typically, we’d be at the cottage, surrounded by lake and stars, when he’d talk of The Grolf.
The Grolf, Grandpa told us, was a wolf-like monster lurking in the vast forests of Northern Ontario, the final destination for such creatures. It was long and lean, with teeth like swords and claws like Freddie Kruger.
My older sister Tara was enthralled. I, on the other hand, was terrified.
Then Grandpa got sick. Lung cancer came swift as morning rain. “Cancer sticks finally got the best of me,” he’d say, puffing away on his never-ending cigarette. Tara wouldn’t stop crying. She was always Grandpa’s favorite. They were like two peas in a pod.
As Grandpa lay dying, wrapped in his favorite duvet, family by his side, he told us one last story; “The Grolf is REAL,” he said, while hacking up a lung. “But it only comes out on very special occasions. You must remember this.”
We leaned in. The stench of death was permeating from his entire orifice.
“And it MUST be stopped. Once and for all.”
Grandpa stopped for a sip of water, his withered hands barely able to hold the glass. Not surprisingly, he refused our help.
Tara, who was now sixteen, was clutching my hands, tears leaking from her forest-green eyes. I’d never seen her so sad.
“There,” he pointed. “Look out the window.” His voice was like a chainsaw. “Tell me what you see.”
We peered out the cottage window. It was a gorgeous afternoon. Fallen leaves blanketed the forest floor; golden rays of autumn sun trickled through tall trees. The ashen moon hung over the lake like a silhouette. A stubborn rain cloud draped high above us, sprinkling us with delicate showers. Then a rainbow appeared, filling the sky with a banquet of delight. A Hallmark moment if there ever was one.
Grandpa snapped. “This is it! The time of the Grolf! When the sun and moon meet, it’s raining, and there’s a rainbow.”
A lifetime of memories loomed behind Grandpa’s dying eyes. His face turned serious. “The Grolf only appears under these circumstances.”
Tara’s grip on my hand tightened; her eyes as wet as water. Deep down, we thought he was delirious, but this was our final moment with him, so we surrendered to it.
Our parents entered the room with snacks. Mother was all worked up about something Dad had done. I could care less. I was thirteen. My parents’ squabbling was the furthest thing from my mind.
Grandpa succumbed to sleep. It would be his last. He died peacefully that evening. A glorious rainbow appeared, guiding his way to heaven.
Reports of a gruesome animal attack started pouring in. Apparently, some hikers set out along the Muskoka Trails – the day Grandpa died – and never returned. Their cell phones were discovered next to a pile of gristly bones.
As usual, it was deemed a bear attack.
Tara and I knew better.
“The Grolf,” she gasped, wide-eyed and confused. “It was true all along.”
I didn’t believe this, but was too sad and scared to say so.
Eventually, life returned to normal. The following summer we returned to our northerly cottage. Tara, who’d recently graduated from high school, was set to attend veterinary school in the fall. Grandpa left plenty of money, which easily covered the costs. To my chagrin, she brought her boyfriend Carl, whom I disliked immensely. Carl was a turd. With his greasy black hair and ever-present earbuds jammed into his oversized ear canals. His nasally voice and shifty eyes couldn’t be trusted. Oh, how I longed for it to be just the two of us again.
One morning, he and Tara set out on canoes, and crossed the lake. They were to spend the afternoon having a picnic, doing God-knows-what.
They never returned.
The weather was foreboding. The sun and moon fought like foes; the rain drizzled; a rainbow kissed the ominous sky. I shuddered. Grandpa’s warnings returned like a cycle of bad dreams.
“The Grolf.”
Still, I was fourteen. Too young to fear death, too old to believe in monsters. But I KNEW. Meanwhile, my parents were going berserk. They phoned the police, who with the help of a team of locals, set out on a search-and-rescue mission, lasting long through the night.
Tara and Carl’s belongings were discovered on a small slice of beach. Blood and gore soaked the sand. Not far away, was a pile of fleshy bones and matted fur.
This devastated my mother beyond repair. The following night, she drowned herself in the lake, leaving me and my father alone to fend for ourselves.
It was the worst summer ever. I’m still haunted by it. Sometimes Tara would visit me in my dreams, dead and decomposed, whispering warnings of toothsome monsters. Other nights it was Grandpa, his voice as sharp as razors. “You MUST kill the Grolf,” he’d say, before dissolving into darkness. I’d awake in a pool of sweaty sheets, longing for the days of my youth. The days before the sorrow.
After high school, I got a job as a welder, and soon formed my own family. My wife Sarah and our lovely daughter Lyla were my pride and joy. They kept my days bright and my nights worry-free.
Sadly, tragedy was lurking, waiting for the causes and conditions to arise.
Last year, we vacationed at the old cottage. I’d spent the previous summer doing renovations and repairs, until it was shipshape. Lyla, who’d just turned twelve, was thrilled. She was the envy of her friends. Against my better judgment, she brought her two besties: Brie and Bryce, who were twins, and sweet as pie.
One morning, while Lyla and I were fishing off the dock, Brie and Bryce sneaked off to go exploring.
We never saw them again.
“Where’s the twins?” my wife asked, while barbecuing burgers.
I shrugged. They were here a minute ago. I looked at Lyla, who was beaming, having caught three small-mouth bass that morning.
Thunder crackled in the distance. Rain drizzled like dancing fireflies. The morning moon appeared, followed by the orange sun. Soon a rainbow would appear.
I froze. Fear stole over me. My heart skipped a beat. I grabbed my wife and daughter, and hurried them inside the cottage.
Lyla burst into tears. My wife was giving me a look that could sink a fleet of ships.
“What’s wrong, Richard?” she asked, using her don’t-lie-to-me tone.
My mind seized. My gaping mouth ajar. No answers came. Do I mention Grandpa’s tall tales? The monster that only appears under specific circumstances; circumstances that have now arisen?
No fucking way.
Only a small part of me believed in the Grolf. That fraction of mind clinging to childhood. The rest of me declared: Monsters don’t exist.
I checked the time: The twins had been missing for almost an hour.
Lightning crashed.
My wife’s glare changed to: You’d better do something. Quick.
I called up our closest neighbors, Dave and Rowan, asking for help. Dave, a mountain of a man, came over straight away. He’s an ex-marine, and came heavily armed. I recoiled, being nervous of such weapons. Hell, I’d never even bagged a deer (a right of passage in the north). I was as green as a frog.
Dave wasn’t impressed. “Do as I do.” He quickly showed me how to load, cock and carry a rifle.
We prepared some food and drink, then set off through the winding forest. The grim realization that the twins may be dead was growing stronger by the second. I considered mentioning the Grolf, but chickened out. Adults don’t speak of monsters. And I wasn’t about to change that.
We hiked in silence, until a raging roar echoed off the lake, bringing us to a halt.
Dave’s face grew dim. “Be careful,” he said, in a gruff voice. He produced a hunting knife that would impress Crocodile Dundee. He looked scared, which made me feel uneasy. This man has seen combat.
“Tell me again, Rick,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a child. “When did they disappear?”
“Couple hours ago,” I said in a shaky voice. “Tops.”
Dave gazed at the sky and frowned. His face hardened as he spoke. “Your daughter’s friends are probably dead.”
Tears drizzled down my face like a leaky faucet. I wiped them as casually as a cat climbing a tree. Meanwhile, Dave continued studying me. We stood toe-to-toe for an uncomfortable length of time, before he finally spoke up.
What he said nearly killed me.
“You KNOW, don’t you?”
My face turned milk-white.
“Excuse me?”
Dave’s fists bulged like boxing gloves.
“Don’t play dumb with me, Rick. I know more about you than you think.”
As I gazed into his fearsome eyes, marveling in his massiveness, he said the two words I feared most:
“The Grolf.”
I started choking. Spittle and snot flew like firecrackers from my sullied face.
Dave snarled. “Get it together, Rick! This is serious!”
I pulled myself together, as best I could under these extraordinary circumstances, and told him of Grandpa’s stories. Dave nodded approvingly. Turns out, our grandfathers were once pals, having served together in the war. I couldn’t believe it. Then again, here I was, a middle-aged man, hunting a creature who only comes out when the moon is lit, the sun is bright, it’s raining, and there’s a rainbow.
We marched along the beaten path, calling for Brie and Bryce, until our voices grew hoarse.
“There’s something your grandpa didn’t tell you,” Dave declared, while leading me through the thick of the trees. “The only way to kill the beast is by decapitating it.”
I gulped.
He continued. “Then – and this is the important part – you must bury its head as far away as possible. Otherwise, the head and body will reattach, and it will re-emerge, stronger than before. Burning the beast won’t work either. Believe me. I’ve tried.”
We hiked. Sweat was beating down my face, and my legs were growing tired. I drank sparingly from the canteen, trying to keep up, praying for this nightmare to end.
As we neared an anonymous stretch of beach, Dave stopped.
“There!” he pointed.
A child’s knapsack was scattered across the foliage. We hurried over. Brie’s backpack was painted in blood. Her sneakers shredded beyond repair.
Thunder boomed in the distance. The wind intensified.
Dave trembled. “Time to go.”
Feeling utterly dejected, I followed him back to the main trail. Dave’s eyes never left the sky, which boasted a battlefield between sinister-looking clouds and tranquil-blue sky. Dave sighed. As the clouds parted and the sun reappeared, a drop of rain splashed my forehead.
When the moon peeked its head from behind a cloud, all hell broke loose.
Something stirred in the bushes. Dave cocked his rifle.
I looked up. Stretching across the lake like the arm of an angel, was a radiant rainbow.
A series of gruesome growls skipped across the lake.
“The Grolf.”
Dave dove behind a fallen tree, taking cover. I gawked. Without warning, something lunged at me, seemingly from nowhere, and I was knocked unconscious. Darkness engulfed me, as I dissolved into nothingness.
Shots rang out, as loud as rockets.
My eyes opened suddenly. The beast was charging towards Dave, baring its treacherous teeth. It was fully-erect, with gangly arms and thick, greasy fur; its deadpan eyes devoid of life. The thing was translucent, and moving at an impossible speed. It snarled.
Dave open-fired.
Blood and gore spewed from the beast’s brute body. But the thing didn’t deter. Instead, it toppled Dave, stealing his weapon, as one might take candy from a toddler.
Dave fought diligently, but to no avail.
I watched in horror as the Grolf mounted Dave, tearing him apart. I snapped out of my fog. My fingers found the trigger. I took a knee, said a silent prayer, aimed and fired. BAM. The rifle’s kickback knocked me flat on my ass.
The shot rang true. I hit the beast square in the head. It collapsed. Blood and gristle leaked from its blown-apart brains. Dave, to my astonishment, jumped on top of it, and cut the creature’s head clean off. Its hideous body deflated like a beach ball, laying dormant on the crimson sand.
“We did it,” Dave declared, wiping the blood from his bayonet. “Well done, Rick.”
Dave looked haggard. Clearly, he needed an ambulance. I gazed upward. At that moment, the sky cleared, the rain ceased, the rainbow dissolved into emptiness. The moon disappeared, until the following night, where it hung like an omen, orange and speckled.
“We’re not done yet,” Dave said.
He led us back to the cottage, where he grabbed a large sack from his boat. He plopped the Grolf’s head into it, and we set out to bury it.
I dug the deepest hole imaginable. It took over an hour. Dave dropped the bag into the hole, and covered it.
I was fatally exhausted. My hands and knees were incapacitated. A deep depression devoured me.
“We’ll toss the body into the middle of the lake,” Dave said, looking worse for wear.
Except when we returned, the headless corpse was gone.
Dave shook his head; his face twisted in anger. “How could I be so stupid,” he repeated, over and over.
We returned to the cottage without saying a word. My family greeted us with worried-sick faces.
I made up a story and they pretended to believe it. The police set up another search and rescue. The bones of Brie and Bryce were found nearby. This added to my daughter’s demise, who has never been the same since. We left the following day and never returned. Dave was rushed to the hospital. We never spoke again.
Thus, the legend lives on.
Whatever became of the Grolf?
I don’t know.
What I do know is this: The Grolf is real. And it cannot be stopped. Fortunately (if there is a bright side), it only appears under special circumstances.
So let this be a warning to you. When you’re out in the woods, camping, hiking, fishing with your friends – whatever – and it starts raining; if you notice the sun and moon together, and a rainbow appears, drop what you’re doing and get the hell out of there. As fast as possible.
The Grolf awaits. And when it feeds, it leaves nothing but the bones.