Murdered by Human Wolves Read online

  Murdered by Human Wolves

  The Werewolf Saga

  Book 1

  Steven E. Wedel

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2013 Steven E. Wedel

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 061596477X

  ISBN-13: 978-0615964775

  Cover art © 2013 Russell Dickerson

  Cover design by Alex Wedel

  DEDICATION

  Murdered by Human Wolves is dedicated to Alex, who went with Dad in search of a grave marker despite some misgivings about the existence of werewolves. You’re a good kid.

  The above dedication was written in 2004. My oldest son was a boy of 12 at the time. He’s 22 now, a man living away from home and taking care of himself. However, I’ll always remember the day we drove down to Konawa and I teased him about the biker behind us being a werewolf chasing us away from the cemetery.

  also by steven e. wedel

  Darkscapes

  Little Graveyard on the Prairie

  Seven Days in Benevolence

  After Obsession (with Carrie Jones)

  Unholy Womb and Other Halloween Tales

  Amara’s Prayer

  THE WEREWOLF SAGA

  Call to the Hunt

  Murdered by Human Wolves

  Shara

  Nadia’s Children

  AS EDITOR

  Tails of the Pack

  CONTENTS

  Preface to the Final Edition

  1

  Introduction by W.D. Gagliani

  3

  Foreword

  5

  Murdered by Human Wolves

  9

  On the Trail of Werewolves

  83

  Afterword

  90

  About the Author

  91

  Preface to the

  Final Edition

  The temptation here is to write a scathing denouncement of the small press publishing world. It was less than eighteen months ago that I expressed hope that a new publisher would prove to be a redeemer, a light in the dark of the horror genre’s independent publishing scene.

  But that was not to be.

  Graveside Tales Publishing released an edition of this novella in October 2012, with the rest of The Werewolf Saga books to follow, divided up into a series of novellas, a plan I never did like. But after the publication of this first volume, the train derailed and Graveside Tales went on hiatus.

  It’s a new world in publishing, though, and so I took control of the series and released Shara and Ulrik myself, along with the never-before-published new novel Nadia’s Children under my own MoonHowler Press imprint.

  Unlike other publishers I’ve dealt with, Dale Murphy proved to be a good guy. He stayed in communication and, in lieu of whatever money his edition of Murdered by Human Wolves earned, he signed over the rights to the original cover art by Russell Dickerson. I’m very proud to be reusing Russell’s cover on this MoonHowler Press reprint.

  The interior content of this edition – with the exception of this Preface – is identical to that put out by Graveside Tales in 2012.

  But that’s enough from me. The werewolves are waiting, and they are not patient. Thank you, reader, once again, for choosing to give my story a read. You are much appreciated.

  —Steven E. Wedel

  Moore, Okla.

  February 2, 2014

  Introduction

  by

  W.D. Gagliani

  What is it about werewolves? Why are so many of us drawn to the wolf rather than the bat?

  Besides the doubtlessly harmful ubiquitousness of “all things vampire,” there may be legitimate reasons the werewolf is making a literary comeback of sorts.

  Perhaps it’s our fascination with the Beast Inside—the dark alter ego we all harbor. The werewolf is a perfect metaphor, reminding us that we all share a capacity for monstrous behavior, whether we acknowledge it or not. Perhaps it’s the tragedy of random victimization—either the monster’s or its victim’s. The werewolf is usually portrayed as a most unwilling monster, trapped in its tragic destiny. Somehow the werewolf’s blood-and-guts post-Change hangover strikes a deeper chord than the coolness of a black-clad, shades-wearing vamp out on the town for a spot of vintage O-neg. Perhaps it’s the lure of the animal itself—the wish-fulfillment of wanting to be free to romp in the woods and let our wild side out for a while. And, of course, there’s the moon’s influence—perhaps we werewolf lovers stare up into the night sky at the mysterious orb with longing, sensing its pull on our emotions. Or sanity.

  Whatever the case, the werewolf fascinates us as it has fascinated—and frightened—many through the centuries. Whether due to undiscovered mental illness, an unknown disease such as porphyria, or some other sort of rational affliction, you have to take it seriously when hundreds of people throughout the world were tried and executed for lycanthropy...

  Steve Wedel is one of us. When he looks up at the moon, he thinks wolf thoughts.

  With Murdered by Human Wolves, Wedel has perpetrated the best kind of speculation. He has taken some facts and a mystery, and shaped a construct around them that will make you wonder, as in all the best monster tales, who are the true monsters. For that is often the lesson of our history of intolerance, that those we label “monster” are more likely to be victims of our own petty fears, jealousies, and hatred. We know Katherine Ann Cross lived a short seventeen years into the 20th Century, and her grave marker reads: Murdered by human wolves. But we don’t know what that means, exactly. Steve Wedel has filled in what he thinks might have happened to young Katherine, and it makes for a riveting beginning to his Werewolf Saga.

  Let Steven Wedel tell you a story, a mysterious and tragic story based in fact. Then let yourself heed the moon’s call.

  Keep Howlin’,

  —W.D. Gagliani

  Oak Creek, WI

  October 2007

  Foreword

  Katherine Ann Cross did exist. She was born in 1899 and died in 1917. Very little is known about her, though it is generally believed she died because of an illegal abortion. Her grave marker in the cemetery near Konawa, Oklahoma, states that she was “Murdered by human wolves.”

  It is said that there were many such epitaphs on grave markers in this cemetery and others in the region from that same time period, though many have been defaced, stolen, or are simply no longer legible. Some people say they have seen ghostly shapes and heard unattributed growling or howling sounds near the grave of Katherine Cross.

  I have incorporated into this piece of fiction some newspaper accounts, local legends, and information obtained through interviews of people familiar with the history and location of the grave. However, this tale is not meant to be an historical record of the life and death of Katherine Cross. Nor is it an indictment or exoneration of any other actual people mentioned herein; Elise Stone, Dr. A.H. Yates, and the schoolteacher, Fred O’Neal all were actual citizens of Konawa. Luther and Thomas McGrath, as well as many other minor characters, are people of my own invention. This is simply a story, one that builds on fact, legend, and speculation in a way that incorporates it into my own fictional world of The Werewolf Saga.

  The interview contained in the feature article that follows this story is real. It was conducted with paranormal investigator Mary Franklin, done over several e-mail messages and one face-to-face discussion.
I have not embellished on her tale in any way; what she had to say was strange enough.

  Do I believe it? I’m not going to bias you one way or another with my beliefs. Read it and decide for yourself.

  I will say this: By all accounts, Katherine Cross died an unnecessary and likely very painful death at a young age.

  Rest in peace, Katherine.

  —Steven E. Wedel

  July 6, 2003

  Moore, OK

  Katherine

  “You did what?” Katherine Cross asked.

  “I did it,” Elise Stone repeated. “I gave myself to Luther McGrath. I ain’t no virgin no more.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “‘Cause I wanted to. He says it ain’t no big thing. He says men and dogs don’t have no inhibitions about sex and women shouldn’t neither.”

  “Inhi-what?”

  “Yeah. You know, thinking it’s all dirty and bad. It’s a natural thing, he says.”

  “My daddy says he’s the devil, or working with the devil,” Katherine said. “And Mama said I better stay away from him.”

  “He ain’t no devil. He’s just a man,” Elise said, laughing. “I saw him naked and he ain’t got no tail or no horns or nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Katherine giggled.

  “Oh, he’s got that.”

  “How ... how was it?” Katherine asked. “Did it hurt?”

  “Hurt sumpin fierce at first,” Elise said. “But then, I don’t know, it felt purty good. I liked it. He said there at the end I was moving like a woman with experience.”

  “Elise! No!”

  “That’s what he said.”

  Katherine snickered into her hand, her eyes straying across the dusty street to the lumber mill where her father worked. She kept walking without saying anything until they were past the mill and almost out of the little town of Konawa, Oklahoma. “My daddy’d skin me alive if he knew I was talking to you about that kind of stuff,” she said. “He’d call you a ... a whore, Elise. Lots of folks would if they knew.”

  “I ain’t no whore,” Elise said. “I just done what’s natural, like a horse or chicken or dog would. Like Luther said.”

  “We ain’t animals, Elise. People are supposed to get married before they do that.”

  “That ain’t what Luther said. He said marriage was just sumpin people made up to pretend we’re civilized.”

  “Don’t you want to be civilized?”

  “Not especially. It was fun. The second time we did it, he was growlin’ and I swear I was screamin’ like a demon from Hell ‘cause it felt so good.”

  “The second time? You mean you done it with him more than once?”

  “‘Course I did. We been meetin’ down to the creek regular, just ‘bout every evening.”

  “Aren’t you worried you’ll get pregnant?”

  “If’n I do, I reckon we’ll just have to get married real quick so’s people won’t know.”

  “They’ll know, Elise. Old Mrs. Collins’ll count the days from your wedding until when the baby’s born and she’ll go straight to the newspaper.”

  “Let her. I won’t even care. I got to go, Katherine. Mama wants this flour to make biscuits for supper.”

  “Okay, Elise. I’ll see you later.” Katherine stood quietly as Elise started up the lane that would lead her home. “Elise,” she called. When her friend turned around, Katherine said, “You be careful.”

  Elise only laughed and skipped away, the basket holding the supplies she’d bought at the general store bouncing heavily at her hip. Katherine continued west, then turned south at the cemetery, following the county road that divided Seminole and Pottawattamie counties, until she came to stand at the gate of her own home.

  She was eighteen years old and had been born in the home she shared with her parents. As she opened the gate and walked up the path to her front door, she studied their little home, made with lumber John Cross had milled, and wondered what it would be like to live in one of the big cities she’d heard about, maybe Kansas City or Denver or even New York City.

  Two of her father’s three coonhounds raised their heads to look at Katherine as she came up the three steps to the porch of the house. The third only raised an eyebrow as he opened an eye, then closed it and resumed his late summer nap. The other two hounds lowered their heads. One, the female Katherine had named Bonnie, thumped her tail a couple of times, as if to say she wouldn’t be opposed to the human’s attention, but it really didn’t matter.

  “Not now, girl,” Katherine said. She pulled the screen door open and went inside to the smell of beef cooking in the great iron stove her father had bought from a store in Oklahoma City two years ago. Katherine remembered how proud her mother had been to have that hulking blue and silver stove squatting in her kitchen, having been forced to do most of her cooking over a fire in the hearth for so many years.

  “That you, Katherine?” Mary Cross called from the kitchen.

  “Yes, Mama.” Katherine went to the kitchen and plopped her sack of corn meal onto the table.

  “Thank you, dear. Did you have a nice walk?”

  “Yes. I met Elise in town and we walked home together.”

  “How is Elise?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “And her family?”

  “They’re all fine,” Katherine said, watching her mother measure out the grainy yellow powder from the bag. “Mama, why does Daddy say Luther McGrath is the devil?”

  Mary stopped, her measuring cup poised over a bowl. She looked up at Katherine, her brow crinkled and the little lines around her eyes suddenly seemed very deep to her young daughter. “You stay away from that man. And his family, or friends, or whatever they are.”

  “I will, Mama,” Katherine promised. “But what’s wrong with them?”

  “You ever see Luther McGrath in church?”

  “Well, no, but maybe he’s a Presbyterian.”

  “That man’s no Presbyterian. He’s no Christian. You mark my words on that.”

  “That makes him the devil?”

  “That makes him somebody you stay clear of.”

  “I will, Mama,” Katherine said. “Has he done something bad?”

  Mary pursed her lips, then sighed before answering. She dumped her corn meal into her bowl, then cracked an egg and let the yolk run over the meal. “Not that anybody can prove,” she said.

  “What do folks think he’s done?”

  “Unspeakable things. Nasty things. Murder. And worse.”

  “What’s worse than murder?”

  “Things you don’t need to trouble yourself with. Why are you asking about Luther McGrath?”

  “No reason.” Katherine dropped her gaze.

  “Katherine Cross, you tell me or I’ll tell your father you’ve been asking.”

  “It’s not me, Mama,” Katherine said. “It’s Elise. She’s ... I guess he’s courting her.”

  “That man is after Elise?” Mary’s voice was filled with panic. Her weathered hand went to her chest, then she fanned her face. “Elise Stone?”

  Katherine knew she’d said too much and tried to think of a way to take it back. “I don’t think it’s really courting, Mama,” she said. “Elise was just saying he’d talked to her and she thinks he’s a handsome man.”

  “The devil wouldn’t take an ugly shape,” her mother said.

  “If folks think he’s killed people, why ain’t he in jail?”

  “Nobody can prove he did it. Lots of us just think he did.”

  “Who’s he supposed to have killed?”

  “Girls mostly.” Mary stopped stirring milk into her cornbread mix and looked Katherine in the eye. “Girls about your age. Mostly in Thackerville.”

  “How long’s he lived in Konawa?”

  “Since the town was moved after the flood,” Mary said. “Folks thought they was moving away from trouble when they moved after the flood. All of a sudden, though, Luther McGrath and his kin were neighbors.”

  “He came
in the land run, like you and Daddy?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s lived here all that time and nobody’s proved he killed anybody?”

  “Katherine, I’ve heard enough about Luther McGrath for one day. For one lifetime. You stay away from him. You understand me? Him and all his kin.”

  “I told you, Mama, I’ll stay away.”

  All during supper, Katherine worried that her mother would mention her questions about Luther McGrath. Katherine didn’t want to have to face her father’s questions about why she was asking. She’d never been able to lie to her father and she didn’t want to worry him over a problem that really only concerned Elise’s father. As she ate, she stole glances at her mother, waiting to see if she’d bring it up, but she seemed to ignore Katherine, paying attention only to her husband’s account of his day on the job.

  After supper, Katherine helped with the dishes, then went outside to help John with the evening milking. They kept about a dozen milk cows, along with the team of two mares that pulled the wagon and the plow, several chickens, a few geese and the hounds.

  “What did you do today?” John asked as he brought the first of the milk cows into the barn. Katherine helped guide the cow to the feed trough, then placed the sliding boards against her neck, just behind her head, so she couldn’t pull away from the food and disrupt the milking process. She sat on her stool as John brought in another cow to milk.

  “Nothing much,” she said. “Did my chores this morning, then went to town for Mama to get some corn meal.”