“For some of them, I just underlined a few things. Look, through 1840 and 1841—reports of strange tracks, and of screams heard in the woods. ‘Again, posse unsuccessful,’” he read. “‘Heavy losses of chickens and sheep.’”
“That could’ve been a bobcat,” said Doris, lighting another cigarette. “Or a bear even.”
He pushed the chipped ashtray toward her. “In 1858, near Hanover Iron Works…”
“What’s wrong, Steve?”
“I don’t know—I felt a chill. Maybe I shouldn’t go on with this. Maybe we should stop here.” He set the notes down on the table, drained his cup with one swallow. “We could still. Stop, I mean.” He looked at the two of them, then down at the notes. “Like sane people. I get the feeling there’s a border we’re about to cross.”
Athena got up and put on a fresh pot of coffee.
“Read the rest of it.” It was Doris who finally spoke.
“Uh, Hanover Iron Works. ‘Management has trouble with workers afraid of Devil and refusing to venture out of their tents.’ Then in, let’s see…I don’t have to read all of this. The gist of it—time and again, we’ve got reports of laborers barricading themselves in their huts.”
Athena stood at the stove, seemingly totally involved by the task of making coffee.
“It seems to come in waves. Fifty years later, we hit pay dirt.” Steve read on, his voice deep, without emphasis. “In 1909, between January 16 and January 23, there’s literally thousands of sightings and incidents. All over Jersey, we have factories closing, schools closing. A theater in Camden closed. And, uh”—he squinted, trying to make out his own handwriting—“this is sort of confusing. We’ve got several accounts of local sheriffs emptying their guns into the woods. The mills in Gloucester and Hainsport shut their doors. People in Mount Ephraim refused to leave their homes even in broad daylight. There were full-scale hunts with dogs mounted in Burlington County, Columbus, Dunbarton, Haddonfield, Hedding…”
Doris emitted a low whistle.
“…Kincora and Rancocas. There was a substantial bounty offered, and twice the militia was called out.” He turned the page. “In 1927, we have two reports of stranded motorists threatened by ‘something that stood upright like a man but without clothing and covered with fur.’ Then, let’s see now, that same year, following reports of what sounds a lot like a giant German shepherd, posses formed in both Woodston and West Orange. Oh, and this one I especially like, it’s dated Thursday, November 22, 1951.”
“The date of my birth, how nice,” added Doris.
He ignored her. “It’s from a Gibbstown paper, The Chronicle. A group of youngsters are playing in a tree house, when a ten-year-old points out the window and screams….” He held up the paper and read. “‘The thing! It’s staring at me with blood coming out of its face!’” The paper rattled. “Then, let’s see…‘The boy fell to the floor and his body was wracked by spasms.’” He set the page down on the table. “I checked the files. Two days later, we have an unexplained disappearance in that area. But a search party only began beating the brush after numerous sightings of what’s described either as ‘a chunky man with a bestial face’ or a ‘half-man, half-beast.’ Good, huh?”
“So what are we dealing with?” asked Doris. “Is it the missing link? Neanderthal man? Tell me. I can take it—I watch old movies.”
Athena returned to the table, coffee spilling over the side of her trembling cup. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did anybody else want some?”
“Another bounty was offered,” Steve droned on. “A few weeks later in Jackson Mills, several dogs were torn to pieces by ‘sort of a wildcat, four feet tall…long…grayish.’ Then things quiet down for a while, until—”
“Oh, that’s enough! Let me see this.” Doris snatched the notebook from him. “Your handwriting stinks.” She glanced at the top page, then passed it to Athena.
She skimmed the list of dates.
1959: Wall Township, St. Trps arrest 30+ rifle-bearing “vigilantes” claim to be on track of creature.
1960: St. Police quell panic in Dorothy, NJ. Set traps & patrol w/rifles. Same in Sims Place, Jenkins Neck.
April 1966: Mullica River. Farm animals mangled and strewn about. Trps follow “humanlike” tracks deep into barrens before lose trail.
“She’s right. Your handwriting is terrible. Is that all of it?”
A jumble of papers spread across the table. “That’s about it, except for a couple dozen reports a year, mostly by vacationers.”
“Reports?”
“Just sightings mostly—of something that sounds a whole lot like Lon Chaney, Jr. Then there’s the poem of course.”
“What poem?”
He pointed. She flipped the notebook and read the scrawl on the back.
When the moon stands over the cedars,
And the waters are hidden by fog,
Comes the cry of the witch’s child,
And the Devil will rise from the bog.
“I couldn’t think where I’d seen it before. Then it dawned on me—it’s from that damned painting at the diner. Uh”—he looked around—“did you put more coffee on?”
“You say it comes in waves,” began Doris. “Does that mean there’s really a pattern? Let me see the dates again.” She scanned. “You realize there’s plenty of secondhand stuff, tracks, dead chickens, that sort of thing—even disappearances—but nothing you could really call evidence.”
“You mean like an eyewitness report? Somebody left to talk about it afterwards? No, there isn’t. Somehow I don’t find that especially reassuring.”
“Is it…God, I can’t even say it.” Athena put her cup down. “Is it a werewolf?”
Doris shuffled papers in embarrassment. “Look at the dates. It goes back…two and a half centuries. Well,” she sighed, “we’ve certainly got enough books here. Let’s see, here’s a good one—cannibal clans on the Scottish moors. Check out the pictures. I crave that bearskin.”
“I wasn’t sure what might be relevant to the case, so I just grabbed everything.”
Athena had been holding her fists close to her body. Now she relaxed slightly, comforted by the professional sound of that: relevant to the case. Listening to their voices, she sipped coffee and watched Doris’s cigarette smoke fill the room.
“This book’s about ghosts.”
“Let me see that. I didn’t mean to bring that one. Must’ve picked it up by accident.”
“Great chapter headings. Look, honey. ‘Haunted Places.’ Not houses, mind you. ‘Psychic Phenomena in America,’ ‘Poltergeist Activity and Pubescent Girls.’ Is this dirty, I hope?”
Athena paged through volume after volume, her attention only partially focusing. Now that they were actually down to it, it all seemed so foolish, so fantastic. For over an hour, they all leafed through in relative silence, skimming indexes, peering at illustrations.
“Here’s a good one,” said Doris. “Did you know you could tell a vampire by the smell?”
“Matty’s asleep finally.” Pam wandered in. “Oh, are you still talking? What are you still talking about? Them pineys, I bet.”
Athena opened another book. “Yes, we’re still talking.”
“Oh well, I’ll just get some coffee and go in the other room then.” Pam poured herself an inch of coffee, then filled her cup with milk and sugar, stirring it slowly and with some apparent difficulty.
Something thumped. Steve had opened a heavy tome. “I found this.” He turned to a marked passage. “The librarian told me the author was supposed to be a famous warlock. He claims that lycanthropy—that’s being a werewolf—that it’s…”
Pam’s eyes opened very wide.