Jordan Craig

     It was only a year ago that the strange events began in our small little farm town. October 29th 1989 the year of the circles and wolves began. It started just like any other fall harvest festival: the pumpkin carving contest, the crop contest– daddy always won a blue ribbon for his squash–, the big bonfire at Mr. Johnson’s, and of course the seasonal farmers’ market. As sunset approached upon our little party the wolves began their chorus, the blue moon shone brightly as the wild dogs sang sweet songs of submission.  

    “Where’s John?” asked Chris waving a 2nd place ribbon for carving in my face.
   “I don’t know, but he really needs to shave, you should have seen him,” I answered envisioning the half inch coat of hair covering most of his face though I’ve never seen as much as a five o’clock shadow before.

   “Howww haha howwwel,” echoed the plains’ infinite, open, space. 

   Shivers crawled along the course of my spine. Something about that howl seemed wrong, abnormal . . . unnatural.  All our agricultural architects felt a looming darkness approach upon our little No-Wheres-Ville Kansas. The party ended around 1 am. Well the festival did at least; we always went over to Sara’s and partied afterwards, then headed home around 3.

   “Annie, did you drive the tractor around last night?” asked papa after a good night’s sleep.

   He had this utmost disturbingly angry look on his face. One I had only seen once before, when he heard the winter wheat had failed and we would lose half the season’s wages. I warned him about the cattle having total free range. They’d eat it if possible but he wouldn’t listen.

   “No, why,” I curtly replied.

   “Well our Milo has a triangle with a cat’s eye on it as if it were plowed or something, and Mr. Peters said something about his corn goin’ missin,” he explained clearly fuming.

   “Oh it’s just the aliens,” I laughed not realizing how right I was.

   “Run Jack,” cried my mother bursting through the door.

   “What,” replied my father bewildered as rage turned to fear?

   “Them wolves has gone mad I tell ya. They’s heading straight for us,” she explained hurling the suit case from the hall closet.

   We were packed, in the car, and half way out of town within five minutes. That irksome eerie feeling swept over me again but this time it chilled me to the bone, and for good reason. Looking out across the red skyline as dawn approached, I saw a small square Z shaped silhouette. The shadow reminded me of that Tetris piece.

   I starred to the east at the odd floating figure. It just hovered an inch above the tree line, then out of nowhere a light shot out of the back end and half on Mr. Jamison’s corn and Mr. J himself were hoisted up, up, and away, never to be seen again.

   Oh no oh no it’s coming true granny always said “a blue moon and a red morn make for a permanently purple complexion,” screamed my inner thoughts.

    “Dad step on it!!” I cried out of shock as – the best way I can explain it – a wolf man lunged himself at the car and started pounding on the roof. My mother gave a blood curdling scream as the back window shattered. The engine roared into life with an alarming screech once dad found his legs. The car jerked so violently that the wolf man plunged into the pavement and everything in the car lunged a foot or more backwards.

 Our little farm town will never be the same but the few of us still intact have just learned to live with it – and barricade the doors around the full moon and All Hallows’ Eve.