Moon Glow

Clinical Lycanthropy is not a term one hears in everyday serious conversation. Sheriff Brian Preman made a note of it in the pad he had brought with him to the Walter Houston Mental Health and Rehab Center (a.k.a asylum).

“What was the subject’s name?” he asked again.

Dr. Ronald Price took a breath and pushed his glasses further up on the narrow bridge of his nose. 

“Sherman Hopstedder,” he sighed.

“And he thinks he’s a werewolf?”

“What?” The doctor looked surprised at the question, “Oh no, no. People who suffer from this sort of psychosis believe that during certain periods they undergo a transformation from man to animal. It is called Lycanthropy because of the shape shifter myth, not specifically because the subject believes that they turn into a wolf, or because these episodes are triggered by the full moon. Mr. Hopstedder is what you might consider a classic case.”

The sheriff nodded and was jotting down another couple of notes when his cell phone started to sing a merry little jingle in its holster.

“Excuse me a moment, doctor,” he said, and then exited the office.

Ron heaved another sigh and lowered himself into the embrace of the chair behind his desk. The leather was room temperature and felt refreshingly cool through the fabric of his cloths. The night was wearing on and all this excitement was really causing Ron to feel his age. He rubbed at his temples briefly with the index and middle finger of each hand, a nervous habit he’d never managed to break, and passed his fingers through his thinning silver hair before looking up to see the sheriff return.

“That was the hospital,” he announced as he entered, “The nurse your patient attacked is fine. She suffered some minor lacerations and bruising, but nothing serious.”

“Oh thank God.”

A trickle of relief cooled the doctor’s anxiety just a little.

“What exactly would she be doing in the patient’s room,” the sheriff asked.

“I really do not know,” Ron said, spreading his hands in a perplexed gesture.

“We have the staff do a room check at 10:30 after lights out, but it isn’t standard procedure to enter the room unless the patient is having a problem. Even so, the staff has been warned against disturbing Mr. Hopstedder during the full moon. Sharon is a new hire, so she may not yet be familiar with our procedures, but that still doesn’t explain her actions. Has she not been questioned?”

“Not extensively no,” said the sheriff, shaking his head, “The woman’s in shock. Whatever happened, it happened fast.”

A deputy appeared at the office door, drawing their attention.

“The K9 units have arrived,” the young man said.

“Good.” The sheriff then turned to Ron and asked, “Roughly how much of the property is wooded?”

The doctor thought about it a moment before he said, “We have about one hundred acres we use for nature walks. The property is fenced in, of course.”

“What is the likely hood that Mr. Hopstedder has already escaped?”

“Slim,” the doctor replied with a certainty. “We’ve had security watching the main gates since the man fled his room.”

“Couldn’t he just hop the fence?” the deputy asked.

Ron shook his head and said, “Mr. Hopstedder thinks he is a wolf and will act accordingly. Wolves don’t climb fences.”

The sheriff turned to his deputy, flipping his notepad closed with an air of finality.

“Let’s get out there and begin setting up a search grid,” he said, “The sooner we find this man the better.”

The doctor stood up from his desk as the other two men started to leave, catching the attention of the sheriff who paused.

“Where are you going doctor?” he asked.

“With you,” Ron replied as he reached to the coat rack behind his chair and pulled down his long heavy black overcoat and began to slip it on over his shoulders, “I’ll join the search.”

“We have enough of your staff helping us already, sir,” the deputy assured him.

Ron straightened his posture and pushed his glasses up again defiantly, asserting at much authority as a seventy year old, five and a half foot tall man with an expanding middle could muster.

“I’ve worked his case extensively,” he said, “and I’ve made good progress with the patient. When you find Mr. Hopstedder he’ll be scared, probably violent. If I’m with you I may be able to reach him through his dementia and calm the situation.”

The deputy looked to his superior but the sheriff merely shrugged and said, “Well, we don’t have all night.”

As the three men wound through the Center’s corridors to the front entrance, Sheriff Preman allowed his deputy to take the lead and he slowed a little to walk alongside the doctor.

“You mentioned that you have done a great deal of work on Mr. Hopstedder’s case,” he said.

“Without breaching doctor/patient confidentiality, is there anything you can tell me about the man’s history?”

“In 1994 Sherman Hopstedder was found inside a wildlife preserve being raised by a pack of wolves,” Ron said, “He was five.”

“Excuse me?” the Sheriff, who had been admirably professional up to this point now looked keenly interested.

They turned a corner and came into view of the Center’s big double entrance doors. The night was a disco of flashing red and blue light beyond and Ron could see a couple of police lingering by the front of the building.

“He quickly turned out to be quite a handful,” Ron continued, “He was violent. He walked on all fours, ate only raw meat, growled and gnashed his teeth when approached, and at night he would howl for his pack. Sometimes they would respond.”

An officer opened the doors for them as they approached. Beyond the climate controlled interior of the facility building, a snowless winter had set its teeth into the night. The chill cut straight through the thin fabric of the doctor’s kaki dress pants and shirt. Ron shivered against the cold and folded his arms over his chest, drawing his coat in tighter to his frame. The parking lot in front of the Center buzzed with activity as city police, deputies from the sheriff’s department, and Center staff intermingled. Four large German shepherds stood with their handlers to one side of the lot. One of the dogs was barking excitedly into the dark while the other three looked on with disinterest. Overhead the moon hung low in the sky, corn yellow and as round as a quarter.

“Sherman was placed into a state funded program to try and draw out his more human tendencies,” Ron said as they walked toward the dog handlers.

“In some cases, feral children can’t handle the adjustment. Those children die fairly young. In other cases, the children survive but are never normal. They live out their lives permanently handicapped. Sherman overcame all the obstacles, amazing enough.”

“Did any of the authorities manage to contact his parents?” the Sheriff asked.

“This is where the story gets really interesting,” Ron said. His facial expression had morphed into a look that said he was a man highly interested in this subject and was quite excited to finally be discussing it. 

“His parents came forward after Sherman’s story was aired on an episode of Unsolved Mysteries. Jacob and Martha Hopstedder.  A DNA test confirmed their identities. It turned out that Sherman had been reported as a missing person in May of 1990 when he was only a year old. The case was later treated as a kidnapping, as he had last been seen in the care of Jacob Hopstedder’s mother. She eventually confessed to taking the boy and was convicted, but she never revealed what she had done with him. For the next four years, the Hopstedders believed that their son was dead.”

“I think I remember that, actually,” the sheriff reflected, “It was big news at the time.”

“Once Sherman was deemed fit,” Ron said, “His parents regained custody of him, a normal little boy.”

“Who changed into a dog three nights out of the month,” the deputy quipped.

“That didn’t start until his teens,” the doctor said in matter-of-fact tones, clearly not amused.

“Sherman started suffering black outs around age twelve, usually starting around nine at night and ending just after sunrise.”

“Did his parents seek professional help?” the sheriff asked.

“Well,” Ron hesitated, “Not at first. I suspect they didn’t want to traumatize their son with any more doctors or tests. At night when the full moon rose, Mr. Hopstedder’s parents took precautions to keep him at home.”

“They locked him up,” The deputy guessed.

“Only at night,” The doctor said defensively, “He was perfectly normal during the day.”

“When did his parents admit him into your care?” The sheriff asked.

“Mr. Hopstedder admitted himself,” Ron replied.

“Three years ago he awoke in his room and realized that he had gotten out during the night. A neighbor’s cat was on the carpet beside his bed,” Ron paused, taking a short breath, “torn to pieces. At that point, Sherman decided his condition was beyond his family’s ability to contain. He was eighteen and checked himself in, not needing parental consent. He’s checked himself in every month since.”

“Then he’s not a full time patient,” the sheriff reasoned.

“No, only three nights of each month.”

They came to stand beside the K9 units and the deputy began to round up the other officers. As they drifted slowly together, Ron caught snatches of conversation here and there.

“…mauled a nurse…”

“…bite marks all over…”

“…should probably break out the kibble in case he’s hungry…”

“…get a face full of mace if he tries to bite me…”

Ron caught the sheriff’s arm and leaned close so that they could speak without being heard.

“I hope that your men would know to treat the situation with the utmost care. The man’s not a lunatic, he just isn’t well.”

“My men will do their best to bring Mr. Hopstedder back safely,” the sheriff said quietly, “but if threatened they will defend themselves.”

When the majority of the sheriff’s men were gathered Preman raised a hand to catch everyone’s attention. One of the deputies in the crowd cried out “listen up!” and the idle chatter muttered into silence.

“First of all,” the sheriff started, “For everyone who thinks I haven’t heard all the little comments and jokes about this, you’re wrong. They stop right now, is that understood? This isn’t some freak hunt. We’re here as much for Mr. Hopstedder’s protection as we are for everyone else’s. You’re all professionals, now act like it.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the assembly of police.

“Now,” the sheriff continued, “Let’s get started.”

They began discussing the search pattern, quartering up the Center’s woodland, and establishing teams and shifts. Ron didn’t understand much of what was being discussed and so he allowed his focus to wander. Drawn as if by some instinct, his eyes drifted toward the left of the building and across the open grass to where the tree line began. The Center’s grounds were dotted with light poles which illuminated large patches of the yard, but the woods were full of shadows. Staring into their depths sent an instinctual chill riding up Ron’s spine. The forest seemed to be staring back at him, a primal thing that had been leashed in the Center’s back yard, but not tamed. He thought of Sherman Hopstedder, prowling the dark like a beast, teeth bared in a snarl, eyes glittering with animal malice. For a moment, the doctor was a little boy again, peering through his fingers at Lon Chaney stalking between the mist laden headstones of a graveyard as the Wolf Man on his neighbor’s black and white television. For a moment, just a moment, Ron was afraid.

“Doctor?”

Ron blinked, feeling as though he’d just been pulled from some nightmare. Sheriff Preman was staring at him with the kind of calculating observant stare that came naturally to good police officers.

“Sorry,” the doctor said, a little embarrassed, “Lost myself for a moment. What were you saying?”

“We’re getting underway.” The sheriff said, and Ron realized that the crowd was dispersing.

“You’ll be with officers Crout, Mitchelle, and Dylan on first shift searching the eastern side of the woods.”

He paused and looked as though he was searching the doctor’s face for something. Ron thought he saw a brief expression of worry flicker across the other man’s features.

“You sure you’re up for this?” The sheriff asked.

“Oh yes,” Ron said, not quite feeling the conviction in his voice, “I was just…thinking.”

Officer Dylan was the dog handler. He was a strapping young twenty something with a square jaw and close cut hair the color of sand. He couldn’t be much older than Mr. Hopstedder himself. They might have even shared the same class in high school.

“Come on doc,” the young man said, “Let’s go find your guy.”

Officer Dylan gave a tug on the dog’s leash and started off toward the tree line past the left hand corner of the building, the other two officers trailing after him. Ron started to follow when the sheriff laid a hand on his arm and stopped him.

“One more question doctor,” he said.

“Of course.”

If Mr. Hopstedder does manage to leave the grounds, where might he go from here? Do you think he might return home?”

“Mr. Preman,” the doctor said, “Treat Mr. Hopstedder with human courtesy, but hunt him like an animal. As he thinks of himself as a wolf, he’ll remain in hiding while in that state of mind. Once the sun rises, he may return home, or he might even come back here.”

The sheriff nodded, patting Ron’s shoulder lightly.

“Stay close to the others, just in case.”

Ron smiled and hurried off after his group. At the edge of the woods they paused for Officer Dylan who pulled a t-shirt worn by Sherman out of a ziplock bag and held it under his dog’s nose. The shepherd snuffled at the shirt a moment, snorted, and then sniffed the air. When the dog put his nose to the ground Dylan stood, handing both shirt and bag to officer Mitchelle.

“I think he’s got a trail,” Dylan announced, and then to the dog he added, “Find him boy, come on.”

The three police fell into step together behind the dog. Ron fell in about a pace behind them, close enough but not quite with the group. Over the sounds of leaves shuffling beneath their feet, and the occasional snap of twigs, Ron could distantly hear the Center’s staff in other groups calling Sherman’s name in the dark. That won’t work, he thought. Right now the man doesn’t even know his name.

The quiet conversations between the officers ahead of him were casual, unconcerned. They talked about their work shifts, a little about their home lives and about the football game last night. The Cardinals had fumbled a pass in the last half; now Officer Crout owed Officer Simmons two hundred bucks. Officer Mitchelle touched briefly on the subject of the psycho they were tracking but Crout quickly changed the subject, casting a wary glance back at Ron. The doctor was absorbed in his own thoughts, however, still trailing the skeins of boyhood terror that he just couldn’t leave behind, and said nothing. The moon gradually climbed above them, visible though the skeletal fingers of the canopy. Streamers of cloud trailed in its wake, seeming to cling desperately to that now bone white celestial form like lost souls saving themselves from the river Styx by clutching the edges of Charon’s boat. There was a quiet that had settled over the forest, beneath the shouts of the searchers, and yet it encompassed them all. The silence went deeper than the cold of the season. It had a weight of its own which sat heavily on the night. Ron couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. His eyes darted continuously from shadow to shadow while his mind twisted them into tortured apparitions that were disturbingly human.

They came upon the perimeter of the grounds suddenly. The twelve foot high wire fence reflected the moonlight in cords of silver. Beyond the fence lay the road leading up to the Center, devoid of traffic at this time of night. The German shepherd came to the edge of the fence and paused sniffing around the base in one spot.

“Do you think he went over?” Deputy Crout asked no one in particular.

“That would be impossible,” Ron replied, “His mental state wouldn’t allow it.”

The three police shared a quick glance.

“You’re certain,” said Dylan

“Right now the man can’t even stand on his hind legs,” the doctor said a little irritably, “I’m positive he can’t climb that fence.”

Seemingly in agreement the shepherd made a huffing sound and turned, moving left along the fence line and then turning as if to head back into the deeper part of the Center’s forest. A harsh burst of static erupted from each officer’s belt radio, startling all four men.

“Subject spotted in grid one, moving toward grid two,” a voice hissed over the radio. The speaker was clearly trying to be quiet.

There was a shout off in the distance and the sound of a dog barking which caused Officer Dylan’s dog to halt and perk up his ears.

“This is grid two search team,” the radio said again, this time in a distinctly different voice, “We spotted the subject briefly moving along a path back toward the center. We uh… we’ve lost our dog.”

Officer Dylan grabbed at his radio and brought it up to his mouth.

“Grid two,” he said, “repeat that last bit.”

They waited a moment and got no response.

“Grid two,” Dylan said again, louder and obviously unhappy, “Respond. What was your last statement?”

“We lost our dog, Dylan,” the radio said sorrowfully.

“It got excited when we spotted Hopstedder and broke the leash. Last we saw, he was running west with the dog hot after him. Christ he’s fast!”

“We need to hurry,” he sighed, looking at Ron, “That dog could do some serious damage if it gets a hold of him.”

Without warning Dylan’s shepherd tossed its head back and howled. The sudden lamenting cry had the hair prickling on the back of Ron’s arms and neck. Officers Crout and Mitchelle looked just as shocked as the doctor, and Dylan dropped to one knee beside the dog to try and quiet it. A moment’s coaxing stopped the howling, but the shepherd continued to whine pitifully. The ensuing quiet couldn’t have lasted longer than a breath before a second howl rose and fell, distant but unmistakably different from the cry of the dog. The German shepherd’s whine shifted to a low growl and the four men stood listening quietly as the sound drifted to silence.

“What the hell was that,” whispered Mitchelle.

“Of course,” something had clicked into place within Ron’s mind, “Of course, that’s it.”

“Doc?” Dylan looked confused.

“Howling,” Ron said, as though it should be obvious.

“Sherman’s instinct is to avoid people, but he responds to canine communication.”

The officers looked at each other briefly and then back to Ron who stood before them with arms wide and hands splayed as if he were unveiling something magnificent. When no one seemed to have anything, Officer Crout tentatively said, “So…”

“So howl.” Ron replied.

Mitchelle threw his head back and gave it a hearty try. “Ow ow owwwwww!”

The echoes of his voice danced away into the night and faded. They waited a moment, listening, and soon heard the reply; a throaty, hungry sound that rose like a nightmare. It sounded more bestial than before, and was much louder. Dylan’s shepherd peeled back its upper lip with an ugly snarl, hackles bristling.

“That was a bit closer.” Crout said

“From over there I think, “Mitchelle observed, pointing back into the woods and to their right.

“What’s out that way Doc?” Dylan asked.

Ron pushed up his glasses and squinted into the shadows.

“I believe,” he started cautiously; “There is a small duck pond beside the path in that direction. I can’t be certain.”

Dylan shrugged.

“Good enough for me. We have to start somewhere.” He said, pulling the radio off his belt and bringing it up to his mouth.

“This is search team four. We believe the subject has moved into our grid. We are making our way to the duck pond.”

“Roger that team four,” the radio replied in familiar tones, “This is search team two; we’ll meet you at the pond.”

Dylan hung up his radio and tugged at the dog's leash, making a clicking noise with his tongue. The animal barked once and then set off ahead of them, tugging determinedly at its leash each time it seemed as though Dylan might slow down. The officers had no trouble keeping up with the dog, but after only a few moments at the new hurried pace, Ron’s side began to cramp and he was soon huffing and puffing, falling steadily behind. His breath steamed heavily in the cold and he could feel the tickle of a bead of sweat traversing down his forehead despite the chill. Officer Mitchelle paused briefly and looked back to see the older man struggling.

“Are you alright, doctor?” he asked

“I’m fine,” Ron replied a bit testily, “I’m just old.”

The younger men chuckled but slowed a little. Long moments later they were growing near to the pond when the German shepherd stopped suddenly, snuffling furiously at the ground.

“Come on boy,” Dylan urged, but the dog held its ground resolutely before turning and starting off in another direction away from the pond. When Dylan tugged the animal’s leash, the shepherd uttered a short growl that quickly changed into a whine as the dog looked plaintively at its handler.

“What’s wrong with him?” Crout asked.

“I don’t know,” Dylan said, perplexed, “Maybe he’s picked up a different trail.”

“Radio it in,” Mitchelle said, “It’s worth a shot.”

Dylan got on his radio again, notifying the other search teams of their intentions, and the three of them started off after the dog’s new lead. Ron followed but something, some sixth sense, made him turn back toward the direction of the pond. The officers didn’t seem to notice him and so he left them behind and continued on their original path. Half a dozen steps lead him out of the woods and onto the concrete walk path that encircled the water. The pond was ahead of him, black waters rippling lazily under the moonlight with hypnotic effect. A cold wind whipped suddenly to life, rocking the tree tops and roaring through the branches. Something rustled in the bushes to Ron’s right, startling him and spinning him about. Almost thirty feet away amid a group of laurels growing from the crown of a small hill flanking the walk path, something was watching him. Ron could just make out the shadow of a silhouette and for a brief moment, he caught a tiny glimmer of light; moonlight reflected in the eyes of a predator.

“Sherman?” Ron asked tentatively.

The thing in the bushes moved in a clumsy motion that was almost a waddle. Slowly, it worked its way down the slope of the hill, shuffling leaves and crackling brush as it came. It was dragging something in its mouth, leaving a glistening black stain in the leaves behind it. Ron’s eyes were no good in the dark, but he thought for a moment as his heart beat quickened and his imagination ran wild, that the object Sherman had in his mouth might have been the leg of a dog. It was Sherman coming down the hill, Ron could see that clearly now. Mr. Hopstedder reached the bottom of the slope and dropped the thing in his mouth, issuing a long low snarl at the doctor like some demon, chilling Ron to his core.

“Sherman,” Ron spoke calmly, slowly starting to back up with his hands raised in front of him in a placative gesture.

“Sherman, this is doctor Price, remember? You have to stop this Sherman.”

Mr. Hopstedder was still advancing; slowly, purposefully, deliberately. There was a sound like twigs and small limbs popping beneath the young man’s weight. It might have been Ron’s imagination, but Sherman’s movements seemed to grow more graceful, almost fluid, as he drew closer.

“Sherman,” Ron said, still backing up slowly, “You are not an animal. You are a human. You’re just very sick. I want to help you Sherman, but you have to help me too. Come back, Sherman.”

Ron became vaguely aware that Sherman had moved onto the pavement, yet the popping sounds that he had mistaken for breaking twigs continued. It wasn’t Ron’s imagination, Sherman now moved with a fluid grace; a creature built to walk on four legs, not two. The doctor felt a moment of confusion, and then Mr. Hopstedder moved out of the shadows and into the moonlight. What Ron saw caught his breath in his chest, his blood running cold in his veins. This is why no one noticed him among the wolves, he thought. The dog knew. It was trying to lead us away. In the distance someone was calling Ron’s name and the thing that was Sherman Hopstedder snarled. The police wouldn’t reach him in time, Ron knew. He was right. Sherman was on him with such a burst of speed that Dr. Ronald Price didn’t have time to even consider screaming. With his dying breath, he simply muttered, “Extraordinary.”



…………………………………………………………………………….



The phone woke Jacob Hopstedder at around four in the morning. His severe tone of voice with the caller drew his wife out of bed shortly thereafter. “The police are looking for Sherman,” he explained to her after hanging up with the Sheriff, “He assaulted a nurse and escaped his cell.”

“What will they do with him?” Martha asked, her face growing pale.

“Right now they just want to make certain he’s ok. One of the police department’s dogs got off its leash while they were searching for him. It apparently attacked and killed that doctor who runs the Center.”

“Dr. Price?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” she raised her hands to her mouth, distraught, “God no. Has it hurt Sherman?”

“They hope not. They said we should call if he comes home.”

They waited in the quiet of their kitchen, each absorbed in their own worries. After a while, Jacob went back to bed. He had to be ready for work in a couple of hours and Martha insisted he should rest while he had the chance. She then settled herself into the reclining chair in their living room. She didn’t remember falling asleep, but in her dream there came a scratching sound on the door. Something thudded against the wood planking on the front porch of the house, a sound which was shortly followed by a soft shuffling noise and more scratching. Standing, she went to the door and stretched to peer out the window. The shadow of something large on the porch moved in the moonlight. Martha quickly flipped on the overhead light. A creature crouched on the porch in the yellow luminescence from above, leaning against the railing behind it for support. It’ limbs were long, narrow, and appeared to be canine, though the paws on its front legs had elongated digits. Its torso and hips were narrow but its shoulders were too wide for any kind of dog. Its hairless white skin strained to contain its form, wrapping around the creature’s frame like strips of plaster, leaving many gaps that revealed dark red bands of corded muscle and bone white tendon. Its head was just a skull, a twisted elongated horror wrapped in red glistening tissue. Her son’s eyes stared up at her from sunken sockets. Why, those eyes asked, what is happening to me?

Her son parted his jaws as if to speak, but he had no lips to form words with and his tongue, too large for his mouth, hung limply like a long red worm over the jagged ruins of his teeth. He only managed a strangled warbling noise that prickled Martha’s skin. The changes were easier for children. They came naturally and without thought. It only got difficult once age became involved. The older the person was before their first real change, the harder it was, the uglier. It would get easier from here. Someday Sherman might even be able to control himself, and then the full moon would no longer threaten him. There was no reason to wake Jacob. His mother had understood. That was why she had taken Sherman away so long ago. If Martha’s husband hadn’t figured out by now what his mother had discovered then there wasn’t a reason to tell him. The curse passed from mother to child. This would be a secret between Martha and her son.

“Hush baby,” she whispered, her breath misting the glass, “It always hurts the first time.”



“What the hell?!”

Martha was woken by Jacob’s exclamation. Her heart pounding, she rose from her chair and hurried to where her husband stood at the front door, looking confused and a little disgusted at whatever was on the front porch. The sun was rising, still pale and cold in the early hours of the morning. Jacob had been trying to slip out quietly to work without waking his wife. He made room for her as she came to stand beside him.

“What on earth happened out here?” Jacob asked.

“Did you hear anything after I went back to bed?”

Martha shook her head, strangely calm. On the porch in front of the door a dark stain was drying in the morning light, wreathed in dark red paw prints.