By Michala Hampton
I sit crisscross in front of George’s cage, sharing a bag of potato chips. Most people know “George” as Bigfoot, but as a teenage girl with the embarrassing surname Clutterbuck, I thought he deserved a more distinguished title.
The double doors to the Habitat open, and a cacophony of grunts, clicks, and screeches from the other caged cryptids greet my older brother as he enters.
Mo saunters up and gestures to George’s bandaged leg, the handiwork of my cryptid veterinarian mother. “He’s healing well. I thought for sure that poacher trap would paralyze him.”
George growls.
“Don’t talk about it,” I say through clenched teeth. “He’s sensitive.”
Mo holds up his hands. “Sorry.”
“Is Jock Genius secured?”
“Yeah, along with the other patients. Those silver-reinforced cages are holding up well.”
“Do they have snacks?”
Mo quirks a brow. “They’re in rage mode, Sel. I don’t think they care about snacks.”
“Food calms my angry soul.” George’s hand extends through the bars, and I pour some chips into it.
“If only that kind of cure worked for werewolves.”
The doors crash against the wall, and my cryptozoologist father runs in, panting and red-faced. “Mokele, Selma, we have a Code L21! The other teams are spread thin. I need your help.”
Mo and I groan in unison.
“Great,” Mo mutters. “Our plans for watching Star Trek reruns are botched.”
“Full moons always occur on the most inconvenient nights,” I sigh.
We hurry around the facility gathering werewolf hunting supplies. Mo fetches the night vision goggles and thermal imaging cameras. Dad goes for the silver net and wolfsbane tranquilizer guns.
A crazy idea hits me as I grab the first aid kit. Racing into the kitchen, I swipe a Costco pack of raw ground beef and a jar of homemade cookies for the cryptids.
Mo wrinkles his nose as I buckle myself into the Humvee. “Did you bring those nasty biscuits?”
“They’re essential oil cookies,” I correct.
He snorts. “Good luck stopping a werewolf with those.”
We speed into town and are greeted by the screams of fleeing trick-or-treaters.
“There he is!” Dad points at a gray-and-white werewolf attacking motion-activated yard zombies.
I pull the food from my backpack. “Dad, I have an idea—”
“Come on, mates!” Dad yells.
He and Mo pile out of the Humvee with their weapons and open fire. The beast howls and moves at lightning-speed, dodging the darts.
I break open a canister of liquid wolfsbane and douse the cryptid cookies. Then I shove them into the ground beef and form a soccer ball-sized mass.
Something screeches like a hundred nails on a chalkboard. I cringe, look up, and gasp. The werewolf is slashing a car where Mo’s taken refuge. My brother’s gun lies outside the door. Dad smacks the side of his weapon and frantically tries to fire it, without effect.
Snatching up my net-tranq gun and the meat-cookie concoction, I leap out of the vehicle. The werewolf rips Mo’s car door off.
“Hey!”
Feral blue eyes fix on me, and the beast lunges.
I throw the meat, then aim my weapon with shaking hands. The werewolf leaps into the air, devours the food in one gulp, then continues toward me.
As I pull the trigger, my foot slips on scattered Halloween candy. I topple backward and shriek, the weapon flying from my hands. The werewolf lands on top of me, jaws wide and dripping with saliva.
My breath hitches as I stare at his sharp fangs, inches from my face. The werewolf licks his lips, his snarl widening into a malicious grin. Abruptly, his expression shifts. An almost calm look comes over him, then his features contort. He topples over, whining and growling.
I retrieve my gun and fire the silver net, capturing my prey.
Dad and Mo run up to me.
“Thanks, sis,” Mo pants.
“Good show, girl!” Dad kisses my cheek, then opens the Humvee’s rear hatch. “Quickly now. Let’s get him back.”
***
The next morning, I gaze through a one-way mirror into the examination room. Mr. Fletcher, an eighty-year-old grocer, sits trembling on a table, his wide-eyed gaze darting around. He jerks when my parents enter.
“How are you, old chap?” Dad asks jovially.
“Dr. Clutterbuck? Where am I?”
“You’re in the Werewolf Ward of the Cryptid Conservation and Research Facility.”
“The Werewolf Ward?” Mr. Fletcher stares at his wrinkled hands and shredded clothes. “I can’t believe this happened. I… I assumed it was only a cold. I didn’t tell anyone because…”
“You were afraid of government experimentation,” Mom finishes softly.
Mr. Fletcher’s tired eyes mist. “What’s going to happen now?”
“You’re free to go!” Dad declares.
“You’re not going to report me?”
“Oh, pish posh. You no longer pose a danger to society. I do recommend, though, that you return by the next full moon so we can keep you and others safe.”
Mr. Fletcher’s shoulders droop. “There’s no cure?”
My heart sinks at the despair on his face.
“We’re working on one.” Mom pats his shoulder. “In the meantime, we have a support group that meets after every full moon.”
While they discuss management steps with Mr. Fletcher, I grab a bag of potato chips from the kitchen pantry. In the hallway, I meet Dad’s brilliant young assistant—who is somehow painfully stunning in both his human and werewolf forms. Even now, he doesn’t look any worse for wear after spending the night locked up in the Werewolf Ward.
I catch myself staring too long and almost choke on a chip.
“Hey, Sel.” Tallis winks as he passes me.
“Hi,” I croak, then dash toward the Habitat.
Mo is standing by George’s cage, arms folded as if he’s been expecting me. “Beef-wrapped, wolfsbane spiked, essential oil cookies.” He shakes his head. “How’d you know that would work?”
“Personal experience, Mo Bro.” Grabbing a couple of chips, I stuff them into my mouth, then offer some to George. I finish chewing and grin. “Food always calms an angry soul.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I enjoyed both the story and the idea of cryptid caretakers. This would make a fun series.
I’m glad you enjoyed it! I would love to make it into a series someday.
yes to the series…fun story!
so so glad you enjoyed it!
I tried the old essential-oil-cookie-stuffed-into-a-loaf-of-meat trick in the past. Doesn’t work. And now I’m a werewolf because of it.
You have to get the measurements just right. 😂 Don’t worry, though. There’s a support group for folks like you.
Fun story, Michala! Glad to know there’s a werewolf support group out there…in case I’m ever in need. 😂
Admitting your struggle is the first step toward healing. 😂 Please don’t be afraid to show up!
I love the idea of a werewolf support group! Unfortunately, WWA (WereWolves Anonymous) kind of sounds more like a wrestling organization. 😆
😂😂🤣
It really does! 😂
Or a wildlife preservation group. Wait are they in hiding?
Essentially, yes.
Big foot name George who also enjoys snacking on potato chips?! Yes please! I loved this whole world, Michala =D thank you for sharing!
Thanks so much for reading, Tracy!