“Dogmen & Owlhoots”

A Frost Harrow™ story

for the Firefly Forest

9 October 1992 – Frosthaven, Northern Wisconsin

“What are you ogling those trees for, boy?  You want to hug ’em or something?”  Abner Winslow’s hoarse laugh split the stillness of the cool October air and echoed across the wooded expanse of Winslow Hills as the sun dipped toward the western horizon.

Grant Winslow lowered the Canon EOS from his eye and let the expensive camera dangle from its neck strap.  He turned away from the colorful autumn foliage at the edge of the woods toward the nearby clearing where his family’s autos sat parked.

Uncle Abner, gaunt, grey-haired, and dressed in a suit only a mortician could love, leaned against the side of his huge black limousine.  Grant’s parents, Steven and Karen—he in a charcoal grey Armani suit, she resplendent in a sapphire Versace ensemble—shifted restlessly near their glacier blue BMW M5.  Karen’s flat-heeled designer loafers were her only concession to her brother-in-law’s “little woodland outing.”

His parents’ choice of clothing should have warned seventeen-year-old Grant that this field trip wouldn’t include much tramping around in the woods, but he refused to feel uncomfortable in his flannel shirt, well-worn jeans, and hiking boots.  And if he was coming sightseeing in autumn, why not bring his new camera?

His family’s ostentatious cars and fancy outfits looked absurd to him amid the bright leaves, golden-brown grass, and wildflower-dappled rustic hillside.  Jill Collins, Abner’s blond secretary, seemed even more out of place here.  She sat in the old man’s limo, clutching the steering wheel nervously, like a pretty bird trapped in a cage.  Abner’s usual chauffeur, the apelike goon called Stroika, must have been off on some other dubious mission tonight.

“Head out of the clouds, boy!” Abner shouted.  “Are you expecting someone to drop a house on you?”  He laughed again.

How his uncle managed to put so much contempt into a laugh without bursting a blood vessel, Grant Winslow could never figure.   Abner’s emaciated body seemed an endless wellspring of malicious scorn.

Over the years, Grant had gotten used to that—mostly, though the like-minded chuckles from his own parents stung.

Grant understood his folks submitting to Abner on matters of business; Grant’s dad was only a junior partner in the Winslow companies after all, but…

“Just looking around,” Grant countered (less forcefully than he intended).  “There’s some nice old growth here—good habitat.  Last year, the Chronicle reported a snowy owl sighting nearby.”

“Owls…” Abner scoffed.  “Listen to him…!”

“Grant’s always been fond of owls,” his mother offered.

“Our boy loves anything that creeps, crawls, flies, or sprouts from the ground, Mommy,” Grant’s father concurred.  He rolled his hazel eyes.

Grant often thought that the only reason he’d been given Steven as a middle name was because of family tradition, the same way his first name came from his maternal grandfather.  Without “family traditions,” would his mother have given birth to him at all once she’d passed age thirty?

Certainly not if Uncle Abner had anything to say about it.  Abner despised rugrats, a point made very clear time and again during Grant’s childhood.

“…And it’s a nice view,” Grant added, forcing himself not to grit his teeth.  “Great trees…  Beautiful colors…”

“Well, don’t get used to it.  Because the view here in Winslow Heights will be much better once the bulldozers knock down some of those ‘great’ trees, fill in those hollows, and level the place out—make it worth building on.”

“It’ll have a really nice view of Frosthaven, won’t it, Daddy,” Karen enthused.  Her green eyes sparkled as she leaned into her husband, clutching his elbow.

“Prettiest little two hundred high-end houses a family can buy,” Steven agreed.  He draped his hand on her waist.

“If you can afford it,” Grant muttered.  He wondered why anyone—especially rich folks—would want their windows facing a city when, instead, they could be gazing at pristine woodlands.  Lately, he’d found it more and more difficult to stay silent while his parents came to heel at Uncle Abner’s every command.

“Time you got your priorities straight, boy, while you still can,” Abner growled.  “Winslow Heights isn’t for your precious proletariat.  Winslow Construction is about making money—good capitalist money.  If it wasn’t, how could you and your folks afford to live with me in my beautiful home?”

Godawful mausoleum is more like it, Grant thought.

He noticed that his dad winced, and his mom squeezed Steven’s arm sympathetically.  Abner owning the mansion remained a sore point in the family.  Grant knew that his parents couldn’t fathom why Grandpa Winslow’s will had given Abner sole ownership and control of the family estate and businesses.

Grant figured that lopsided distribution of inherited wealth was just greed seeking its own level.

His parents loved money, station, and power, but in no way could they match the avarice of Uncle Abner.  Covetousness, not money, was the thing that really ran in the Winslow blood.

Maybe I’m adopted, he thought, not for the first time.

No real chance of that, though; if he’d been adopted, Abner would never have let the family live in the Winslow manse.  And Grant’s parents enjoyed the luxury, even if it tied them to Abner’s leash.  Why did his filthy rich uncle put up with them?  Probably because Uncle Abner liked to have a few dogs around to kick now and again.

But Grant wouldn’t have to put up with this shit much longer.  He’d graduate from Frost High next spring, and then there wasn’t enough money in the world to keep him in the Winslow heap.  He’d quit the place, leave Frosthaven and the generations-old Frost-Winslow feud behind.  He’d travel the world… Work for his passage if he had to…  Maybe join up with Jacques Cousteau or some environmental group…

Abner had made it very clear he’d celebrate the day Grant left the household and never returned.  Grant could hardly wait.

“Dreaming your socialist dreams again, Granty?” Abner scoffed.  “You hoping to find a spotted owl or some other endangered species?  Maybe call the Feds in here to save your precious trees?  Sun’s setting.  We’ve seen what we came to see.  Time to go home!”

“Spotted owls live in the West, not here,” Grant replied.

Abner sneered, his pale skin stretching tight across his face, making him look ghoulish in the fading light.  “Well, look who knows geography!  Guess that bullshit Frost public school didn’t ruin you entirely.  Tell you what, Mr. Ecology…  You tramp around these woods, find a hodag or a Michigan dogman or some other rare varmint, or even one of those owls your mommy says you’re so fond of.  You find any of that and bring me a picture from your fancy camera as proof, and maybe I’ll spare a tree or two when I let the chainsaws rip and the bulldozers roll in on Monday.”

Grant hesitated, absently clutching his Canon EOS.  This felt like a trap.

“But don’t expect us to wait around while you do it,” Abner finished.

Ah.  There it was.  Grant could go snipe hunting to save part of the forest, but then he’d have to walk home.  And it was a long way back to the city and over the river to the Winslow mansion.

Grant glanced at his parents.

“We can’t stay,” his father said.

“We have a party, an important party at the Hyatt…” his mother added.

“A business party,” Steven finished.

“And I have to change before we go.”  Karen forced a smile, as if smiling might crack her perfect makeup.

Change your shoes, you mean.  Clearly, his parents believed their attending this party would force Grant to ride back to the mansion with them.

He merely nodded.  “S’okay.  I’ll be fine.”

The edge of town wasn’t that far.  Once he got there, he’d find a payphone and call a cab.  “I can walk.”

A grin tugged at the corner of Abner’s leathery lips.  Grant couldn’t tell if it held some grudging admiration or merely pleasure at how well his “trap” had worked.  Could there be more to it?

“If you don’t make it home,” Abner purred, “I’ll send Stroika out to look for you in the morning.  Gonna be a cold, dark night out here.”

A trap within the trap, then.  As Abner’s attack dog, Stroika handled a lot of dubious assignments when not driving the old man around.  Mostly, this involved strong-arming one recalcitrant business associate or another, possibly at the point of the automatic that occasionally peeked out from under the big man’s carefully cut suit.

Sending Stroika to pick someone up always carried an implied threat.  And sometimes, Stroika’s passengers, especially Abner’s enemies, didn’t make it to their intended destinations.  Though of course, the police could never prove anything.

Could the old man want me out of his hair before I can leave on my own?  Does he hate me that much?

Grant wasn’t sure, but Jill Collins, peering out from behind the wheel of Abner’s limo, looked very worried indeed.  Was she concerned for Grant, though, or herself?  Why was Abner’s secretary his driver today?  Where was Stroika?

“No problem,” Grant replied.  “I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t get lost, boy,” Abner warned mockingly.  “Get lost out here, and the crows will be picking your bones clean like local owlhoots scarfing up discount candy at Piggly Wiggly the day after Halloween.”

He grinned, and a shiver ran down Grant’s spine.

Somehow, bones and death often made their way into his uncle’s conversations.  Was it because Abner looked like he already had one foot in the grave?  He was fifteen years older than Grant’s dad, who was Abner’s only living sibling.  Despite the age difference, Grant doubted the old man would do them a favor and kick off anytime soon.

“It’d be a shame if you missed your step because you were staring at the moon or thinking about some pretty little thing,” Abner teased.  “Why’d you leave Haughton Academy anyway?  Better trailer trash trim in Frost High?”

Steven and Karen reddened, seeming abashed at the vulgar reference.

Grant clenched his fist and then quickly released it, hoping none of his relatives had noticed.  “You have a nice night, Uncle Abner.  Mom… Dad… See you after the party.”

Steven and Karen looked at Grant, then at each other, and then at Abner.  They hesitated, as if they wanted to say something, a warning perhaps.

Abner laughed—one final stabbing bark—as he turned toward his limo.  “You wander around in the dark as much as you like, Granty.  Save the damn owls.  Save the whales, for all I care.  Have a nice walk home.  Collins…!”

Jill Collins scampered out of the limo to open the rear door for Abner.  Her red dress rode up her hose as one shoe caught in the prairie grass, and she nearly fell, leaning against the door for support.  Flustered, she heaved the door open, and her miserly boss climbed inside.

Abner leered at her, and his greyish tongue darted out and briefly licked his withered lips.

Grant shuddered as Jill closed the door behind his uncle.  She pulled her skirt back down, shot Grant a desperate glance, then climbed back behind the wheel and drove the limo away.

“Grant, are you sure…?” his mom asked.

“Son, you don’t have to—” his father began.

Grant cut him off.  “Yeah, I do.”

Karen clutched her husband’s arm.  “Daddy, I don’t see why you made Grant come along in the first place…”

“It’s business, Mommy.  The boy’s got to understand business—learn to be a proper man—sometime, and now…”

Grant laughed, flushing hot with righteous anger.  “‘Proper man…?!’”  He turned away and stomped toward the woods.  “You two can let that decrepit asshole yank your chains for the rest of your lives, but don’t expect me to be Uncle Abner’s lapdog, too!  Have fun at your party.”

“Don’t worry,” his dad huffed.  “We will.”

Karen looked torn between her husband and her son.  “Just… Be careful, son.”

Grant’s parents got into their BMW and roared away, turning the dirt track back to Hill Valley Road into a cloud of dust.

Grant blew out a few angry breaths before allowing the calm of the twilit forest to seep in.  The grit from the departing cars settled, leaving the cool air smelling of wilted autumn flowers, fallen leaves, and prairie grass.

“Glad I dressed warmly,” Grant muttered, buttoning his down vest over his flannel shirt.  The temperature had stayed in the mid-fifties during the day but could dip below freezing tonight.  The rapidly darkening sky remained clear, and the moon would be full two nights from now.  He figured he should be able to see fairly well, even without a flashlight.

He didn’t want to stay out too long, though, certainly not long enough to find Stroika waiting for him in the morning.  Only heaven and Uncle Abner knew how an encounter with the chauffeur-cum-rottweiler might turn out.

“This was a stupid trap to fall into,” Grant mused.  “Shit… Time to find some owls—or maybe a hodag.”

He laughed and trudged down the clearing and into the untamed woods of Winslow Hills.

* * *

The ghostly fingers of twilight stretched across the hillside, quickly enveloping the forest in a maze of dark shadows.  A chill wind murmured through the brittle foliage, whispering secrets that Grant couldn’t quite catch.  Autumn had silenced the night frogs, but a few crickets—either more hardy or more foolish than the rest—still chirped their futile lament against the encroaching frost.

Grant tucked in his shirttails, leaving no gaps in his wardrobe for warmth to escape.  Tonight would be a cold one, for sure.

He’d spent plenty of time tramping the woodlands of Winslow Hills when he was a boy, and even more as a teenager, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends.  He and Sharon Walpole had spent a lot of time together under the trees exploring both the landscape and each other.

A vivid memory sprang up in Grant’s mind: her lying on a plaid blanket, warmed by their lovemaking, humming the melody of “More Than Words” in the late afternoon sun while he tried to pick out the tune on his guitar…

Grant had liked her a lot.  Rotten luck that just when the two of them seemed to be settling in as a couple, her father got that big promotion and, practically overnight, moved the family to Redmond, Washington.

Finding the Walpoles’ forwarding address had been trickier than Grant thought it should be, and they must have had an unlisted phone number, because he never could hunt that up.  He’d written to Sharon, of course, but she’d never written back.  That rankled.

He and his childhood friend, little Ivy Frost, had managed to keep a pen-pal correspondence going for years, even though she was only nine (and he eleven) when she moved to New York City.  When was the last time she’d written…?  And had he written her back?

Anyway, the two of them had managed to keep exchanging letters, despite the Frosts and the Winslows hating each other.

But with Sharon Walpole… Nothing.

Grant had imagined her as some kind of Juliet to his Romeo, a star-crossed love that would last forever.  Did everyone feel that way about the first person they had sex with?  Maybe.  Maybe that’s why there were so many heart-rending songs and sly jokes about young love fading fast.

Even now, more than six months later, the loss felt more tragic than funny to Grant.

He shook his head, trying to chase away the maudlin nostalgia as his hiking boots crunched across the leafy forest floor.  The remaining foliage, denuded of its brilliant colors by nightfall, dangled overhead like millions of restless bats, rustling their wings with fall’s every soft breath.

An eerie trilling sound pierced the night air.  Grant froze, startled.

Another strange cry followed, as if to answer the first:

HOO-hoo-hoo-HOOOO!

Owls, Grant realized; two different types.  Screech owls in the woods ahead of him, and a great horned owl at the edge of the forest near the clearing—sharing owl gossip or claiming their territory or some other mysterious owl business.

His heart pounded with excitement.

Maybe his uncle hadn’t sent him on a night-long snipe hunt after all.  Though whether Abner would keep his “promise” to spare some trees remained another matter entirely.  Grant could only do his best, return to the mansion, and keep his fingers crossed.

He looked around but saw only the deepening shadows of the forest.

Finding the owls would be difficult, even if they kept hooting at each other.  They were supreme predators with plumage designed to blend in with tree bark along with keen eyes to spot prey (or intruders), and feathers that allowed them to fly like silent ghosts.

Grant put the EOS viewfinder to his eye and scanned the twilit canopy, using the camera’s zoom like a spyglass.  The great horned owl should be easier to spot, being much larger and located closer to the lighter-colored hillside.

But… No luck.

“Shit…!” Grant hissed, only then realizing he should make as little noise as possible if he wanted to sneak up on the elusive birds.

Trillll-lil-lil-lil…!

Screech owls again, deeper in the woods but calling regularly.  Maybe they’d be easier to photograph than the great horned.

Almost silently, Grant snuck across the fallen leaves, carefully picking his path, sliding through the brush, and avoiding the tripping roots underfoot.

Again, the haunting, tremulous call—and another in response, a mated pair, probably.  Because of the ever-dimming light, the clearing where Grant’s family had parked quickly became invisible amid the trees and underbrush.

The screech owls sounded so close, though.  Grant paused and scanned with the zoom lens again.  He spotted a shape, aimed, and pressed the shutter button.  The camera did its thing, reeling off five rapid shots in sport mode, but the sudden burst of flashes blinded Grant.  By the time the afterimages cleared his eyes, any owl that might have been in the tree had vanished.

Grant resisted the urge to curse.  He hadn’t remembered to reset the camera after trying it out at the school basketball game earlier in the week.  Probably none of those shots would turn out.

Idiot!

He took a deep breath, turned off the sport mode and auto-flash, and opened the aperture wide for dim light shooting.

You were willing to stay out all night to do this.  No need to get frustrated less than an hour into the hunt.

Scanning from side to side, he saw no trace of the birds.  Determined, he strode forward with careful purpose, camera at the ready.

The calls again… Trillll-lil-lil-lil…!  Further away now…

Dammit!  It was almost like the screech owls were teasing him, drawing him deeper into the forest.

Awooooooooooo!

Grant stopped, cold fingers of fear dancing down his spine.

That was no owl.

Probably a coyote, possibly a wolf, though wolves were rare in northern Wisconsin.

Despite himself, his mind flashed to something Uncle Abner had said earlier: Michigan dogman.

Absurd, of course.  The legend of the dogman began with song a Michigan DJ created as a joke a few years back.  After the song took off, some folks said they’d seen the creature years earlier, but Grant didn’t believe in such backfill nonsense.

Sure, a few folks claimed to have seen the dogman recently, too, but wasn’t that how legends worked?  Somebody dreamed up a monster, and then everyone in the area started seeing it?

Just like that “werewolf” allegedly spotted down in Walworth County at the end of last year.  Some reporter wrote it up in a local paper, and the news media latched on, spreading the “Beast of Bray Road” across the world.

After all, who didn’t like a good spooky story?  Plus, Halloween was only a few weeks away…

Don’t be a sap.  Find the owls, get some pictures you know will turn out, and head home.

Another trill, maybe not too far…  As darkness encroached, it became harder to tell.

Grant tramped ahead, trying not to crunch many leaves.

AWOOOoooooooo!

The beast call…  Closer now…

A shape moved through the darkened woods ahead, just at the limits of Grant’s vision.   It didn’t look like an animal; it looked… upright.

Grant stopped, brought up the camera and snapped… But it had gone.

He tensed.  Halloween prank…  Or Stroika!

Would Uncle Abner really have sent his goon to play tricks on Grant?  Or worse?

Tonight’s setup had felt like a trap.

But what would Abner gain from it?  Frightening his nephew…?  Having Grant scurry back to Winslow Manse with his tail between his legs…?

Was this some kind of perverse dick-waving contest for the old skinflint to prove his manhood?

Yes, that might amuse Abner.

Though his uncle’s one-upmanship usually involved something worse.

Grant didn’t want to think about that.

He was alone in the Winslow Hill woods at night in terrain he didn’t know well…  It would be very easy for someone to go missing out here.  It might take a long time to find a body.

“Don’t get lost, boy,”

The screech owls had stopped trilling.

Somewhere behind him, the lonesome moan of the great horned owl echoed.

CRACK!

A sharp sound nearby… A gunshot…?  Could Stroika be shooting at him?!

THUD!

Something struck Grant hard on the back of the neck.  Spots exploded behind his eyes.

He pitched forward, tumbling downhill through the bracken, catching a glimpse of clawlike fingers raking toward him as he fell…

Then everything went black.

* * *

The world returned through a fuzzy dark grey haze.

Where am I?

The cold leaf-covered ground beneath Grant’s spine sent a chill deep into his body.

He put a hand to the back of his aching head.  His hair felt damp.

…Blood!

As he probed further, something scratched his palm…

…Claws!

No.  Not claws…

Wood…   Splinters or a twig from a tree branch, stuck in his hair.

He’d been struck by a falling limb… Maybe concussed.

How long was I out?

What were the odds of a tree falling on him in the forest?  Unless…

Stroika…!

Maybe Grant had heard a gunshot, and a bullet meant for him had struck a tree limb instead.  Gun hunting season didn’t start for another month.  Why else would anyone be shooting out in these woods?

Shooting at me!

AOWOOOOOOOOOO…!

The stalker, much closer now… Almost on top of him.

Grant heaved himself up, body bruised and aching, the woods around him an unfocused blur of darkness.

He had no idea which way led back to the parking area.

Movement to his right… a shadow… something large… a bear or…

Stroika!

Grant ran to the left blindly, branches and undergrowth tearing at his clothes and skin.

Heavy feet tramped through the brush behind him; rasping breath reverberated in deep huffs.

The shadow hadn’t looked like Stroika.

It had been the size of a large man, but the outline had been all wrong.  Its head looked… canine—like some crazy Egyptian god, an obscene mix of human and beast.

Dogman!

Impossible!

Tree roots snagged Grant’s feet and lashed his legs as he ran.  The snares felt deliberate.

Impossible!

AOWOOooooooo!

Still the predatory footsteps hounded him, the awful breath snorted…

Grant ran harder.  Sweat poured out of him, making every scratch sting.  The stench of his own fear smothered the scent of decaying leaves and the cool fall breeze.

Don’t look back!

To his left, an eerie trilling sound… The screech owls again.

The owls had been between him and the parking area.  If he followed them, maybe he could find his way out before…!

Don’t think about it!  Run!

He could outrun Stroika.

It’s got to be him.  Doesn’t it…?

Grant had made varsity in track and field, specializing in cross country.  He didn’t know these woods well, but Stroika didn’t, either.  The big chauffeur spent far too much time catering to Uncle Abner’s every whim; he sure as hell didn’t go tromping through the woods regularly.

You can do this!

Grant put his head down and sprinted as if the finish line were in sight.  The clearing had to be nearby, though he hadn’t caught even a glimpse of it.

The blood pounding in his ears drowned out everything except the heaving of his own breath.

A root grabbed his ankle.

Grant sprawled, scraping his hands raw on the cold earth, his palms bleeding.  He risked a glance back as he rose.

The shadowy thing still chasing him, closing in…

Every muscle burning, Grant ran for his life.

Hoo-hooo-huh-HOOO!

The great horned owl!  Just ahead…

Grant turned toward the sound.

The clearing!

One last sprint…

Rrrrrr…!  A growl behind him…

Something scraped his boots, tearing at his heels…

He bounded over a fallen log; behind him something heavy crashed into it.

Grant almost laughed.  Got ya!

Arms flailing, he broke from the edge of the woods onto the moonlit prairie grass.  Joy and relief flooded through him.

The sounds of pursuit had gone: no heaving breath, no savage growls, no pounding feet—human or otherwise.

Grant slowed, peering across the moonlit landscape.

A black shape loomed atop the rise ahead…

A car…  Big…

His uncle’s limousine…

The vehicle driven by Stroika.

* * *

Grant crouched, trying not to be seen in the tall grass, trapped between the woods and the car.

Where was Stroika?  Still behind Grant?  Or had he gotten to the car first, somehow?

No sign of the big man in the woods.

Dammit!

Grant’s head throbbed.  Every part of his body felt worn out, and his skin felt as if he’d fought a cheese grater.  But he couldn’t stay where he was.  Not here; not now.

In his exhausted state, exposure would kill him before dawn.

And if he tried to hike the road back to town, Stroika would easily find him and run him down.

Grant had to reach the limo and take control of it, somehow.

He looked for a weapon but found only tall grass, not even a decent rock in sight.  Going back into the forest for a tree branch seemed out of the question; too easy to get ambushed if Stroika still lurked there.

Grant shook his head, trying to clear it.  The adrenaline of the chase was wearing off, and his neck felt heavy, weighted down…

The camera!

Somehow, despite everything he’d been through, he still had the Canon EOS hanging around his neck.

The expensive SLR had gotten beat to hell, the body dented, the zoom lens bent at a crooked angle, useless for taking pictures, the film inside likely ruined.  But its leather strap remained sturdy, and it was heavy enough to swing like a flail or nunchaku.

Would it be enough to dent Stroika’s thick skull?

Only one way to find out.

No time to worry if any surviving photos might show the forest-saving owls, or whether using the camera as a bludgeon would destroy it entirely.  Grant’s life was on the line here.

He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, then crept upslope to where the limousine sat, its engine idling, its headlamps and interior lights dark.

If he could get to the driver’s side without being seen…

For the first time tonight, he’d gotten lucky.  Stroika had parked the car facing toward the road, either for a quick getaway or to run Grant down if Abner’s nephew tried to escape that way.

But if Grant circled uphill through the grass, out of sight of the rear- and side-view mirrors, then a few quick steps would take him to the driver’s door.

With a bit more luck, Stroika hadn’t locked it.  Why would he?  Abner’s attack dog might need to get out of the car quickly to finish Grant off.

Improvised weapon clutched in hand, every part of his being weary and drenched in cold sweat, Grant crept toward the car.

He reached the uphill edge of the grass unseen, so far as he could tell.

From there, he’d low crawl to the limo, spring up, yank open the door, and knock Stroika unconscious before the big man could react.

The dry grass felt like needles stabbing his belly as Grant inched toward the car.  The few yards seemed like miles.

In the woods nearby, the owls resumed their trilling, hooting conversation.

Grant waited for a lull, making sure the calls hadn’t attracted his enemy’s attention.

Then he leapt to his feet and threw the door open, makeshift flail reeled back, ready for murder.

Someone screamed—loud and high—terrified!

“No!  STOP!”

Grant stopped in mid swing.  The broken camera dangled limply from its strap.  “Jill…?!”

“Jesus Christ…!  Grant!”  Jill Collins huffed out a trembling breath.  “I thought… Jesus… I don’t know what I thought.”

“I thought you were Stroika,” Grant said.  “I thought you’d come to kill me and were waiting in the car to finish the job.”

Jill rested her head against the limo’s steering wheel.  She looked exhausted, if very much relieved.  “No, I… I heard what your uncle said.  I didn’t want you out here alone all night…  I didn’t want Stroika picking you up in the morning.”

“Stroika…!” Grant blurted.  “Unlock the front passenger door.  I’ll slide in.  We have to get out of here!”

Jill nodded, her eyes brimming with fear.  She pressed the button to unlock the other side, then yanked the driver’s side door shut.

Grant raced around the hood of the limo and scrambled inside.  He pulled the door tight and locked it behind him.  “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Let’s go!”

She nodded again, body shaking, and pressed the pedal to the floor.  The limousine’s headlights blared to life as they raced down the narrow dirt track, heading toward Hill Valley Road, away from the menacing forest.

Something about Jill reminded Grant of Sharon.  Not her hair or the color of her eyes…  Maybe it was her guileless, caring face.  She seemed so concerned about Grant, so relieved when he climbed inside the car.

Though the pounding of his heart had lessened, Grant kept checking the mirrors.  He craned his head back the way they’d come, peering into the darkness.

“What are you looking for?” Jill asked.  “You’re okay now.  You’re safe—though you look like hell.”

“We won’t be safe until I know where Stroika is.”

She glanced at him, clearly puzzled.  “Stroika…?  He won’t be back until early tomorrow morning.  He’s east visiting relatives—has been for the last two days.  He meant to come back tonight, but his flight back from Bangor got cancelled.”

For a moment, Grant felt dizzy.  “That’s impossible.  Stroika took a shot at me in the forest.  He’s been chasing me… almost caught me a few times.  I think he meant to kill me, make it look like a hiking accident.”

Jill shook her head.  “Grant, he can’t have.  I put him on the plane myself.  That’s why I drove your uncle out here in the limo today.”

Grant’s stomach knotted; he rubbed the back of his neck.  His scalp still felt sticky with blood where the tree limb had clobbered him.  Maybe Stroika—and Abner—weren’t trying to murder him but…

Could he have imagined the figure in the woods, the pursuit, everything that happened?

“You’re sure?”

Jill nodded.  Then her eyes went wide.

“Maybe it was…”  She paused and bit her lip, looking frightened.

“It was… what?”

“I heard this awful howling… and I saw something at the edge of the woods.  I-it looked like a wolf, but… Grant, I swear to God… It was walking on two legs!”

END

Special thanks to Warren Langlois, David Annandale, and (as always) Kifflie Scott for proofreading and commenting on the drafts of this tale.

ABOUT THE STORY

“Do you know what you’re writing about yet?” Kiff asked when the subject of my annual Halloween Frost Harrow story came up.

Those of you who have followed these Frost Halloween stories won’t be surprised by my wife’s question.  As noted in past “About the Story” sections, we have a similar conversation sometime early in October every year, and then a repeat conversation about my Cushing Horrors Christmas story after Thanksgiving.

My standard reply followed: “I’ve thought about it, but nothing’s really gelled in my mind yet.”

Which led to the usual good suggestion from Kiff.  “I think you should do a Grant story.  You haven’t written about Grant in a while.”

I protested, because I felt sure that wasn’t true; I’d done “Fata Morgana” not that long ago.  Plus, a notion for a story featuring Ivy had started percolating in my mind as I read another Beast of Bray Road book by my late, dear friend, Linda Godfrey.  Thinking about Linda and our work on Uncanny Radio, watching any of the numerous “true cryptid” shows she appeared on, or reading her books always puts me in a Halloween mood.  (Linda, in case you didn’t know, was the Queen of Werewolf Lore, and the original reporter on the Beast of Bray Road case.)

I also had a notion for another Witchpool tale, because I like that title, and it deserves a sequel.

So, my proud Muse resisted any deviation from the ideas already brewing.  But…

Checking my previous Frost Halloween stories, I discovered Kiff was right, as usual.

“Fata Morgana,” the last story featuring Grant Winslow, had come out in 2016—nearly ten years ago.  And since Grant is one of the three main characters in Frost Harrow (Ivy and Tony are the others), a new tale with him was probably a good idea.  I’d had some Tony in “The Witchpool” (2023) and Ivy in both “Lost River Horse” (2022) and a bit in last year’s “Mall Witches” (2024).

Plus, if I did a Witchpool sequel, that would make three stories in a row featuring witches in some form or another.  Which, as Buffy’s friend Xander pointed out, “…Is ridiculous, because witches, they were persecuted, Wicca good and love the Earth and women power and I’ll be over here.”*

Or, to put it in more-or-less original words, I didn’t want Frost Harrow to become an annual Halloween witch hunt.

“Have we seen anything with Grant’s parents?” Kiff then asked.

And of course, we hadn’t, not that I could remember.

Despite my wife having clearly won this annual “argument” and presenting a good story seed, my Muse still resisted.

“I’ll think about it,” I replied, intending to throw Kiff’s prompt into the stew of concepts mixing around in my brain.  I’d sort them out and then see which emerged victorious.

A few days later, Halloween Season inspiration hit, and I jotted four possible ideas into my commonplace book: one that might feature Grant’s parents, two other possible Grant stories, and an asylum story featuring Ivy.  (My Witchpool sequel temporarily forgotten.)

Of all those notions, the one with Grant’s parents remained the least solid in plot and resolution.  “Is there even enough there for a story?” I wondered.

Regular readers probably know that my tales usually start in my notebooks.  They then move to either Google Docs or yellow legal pads—GDocs most often for shorts, because full outlines on paper tend to lead to novelettes or full novels, rather than short stories.

But even as the narrative you just read expanded into GDocs, it didn’t really come into focus.

Then, a snatch of a possible opening sprang to mind while I was driving to a routine doctor’s appointment.  The dialogue became so clear in my head that I switched on my phone’s voice recorder and taped a little speech by Grant’s evil Uncle Abner:

“Don’t get lost, boy.  You get lost out here, the crows’ll be pickin’ your bones clean like yokel owlhoots pickin’ over discount candy at Piggly Wiggly the day after Halloween.”

Ah ha! I thought, inspired.  Which led to more notes and checking my previous character backgrounds and interactions in the original Frost Harrow series.  (To be republished soon.  Honest!  Though you can read drafts of the first two books serialized on www.FrostHarrow.com.)

I discovered that Grant’s parents had only been mentioned in the original books as being dead.  I had a few notes about their fates in my nearly-thirty-thousand-word series bible, but other than that…  We knew their names were Steven and Karen, but that was it.

Sum total knowledge of Grant’s folks: they’re dead and buried in a cemetery that Grant and Ivy visit once or twice.

That lack of background produced a burst of new ideas and snippets of dialogue pertaining to Grant’s folks.  But still, the rest of the story remained maddeningly elusive.  I had the start, and I had the end, more or less, but in the middle just trees and moonlight.

I found that super frustrating, because by now I’d decided that Kiff was totally right, and a story featuring Grant and his parents was the way to go.  And of the five possible stories I’d come up with, only this one had any place for Steven and Karen Winslow.

Part of the problem was that the story had to be supernatural—it’s Halloween, after all—but it couldn’t be too supernatural, because Grant is a skeptic at the start of the Frost Harrow series, despite any events that happen earlier in his life.

I wrestled with that contradiction for what seemed ages (though it probably wasn’t more than a day or two).

Then, fortunately, good buddy and fellow author David Annandale came to the rescue by suggesting a point-of-view (POV) shift for the final part of the tale.

I didn’t end up doing that exactly—Grant remains our POV throughout—but chatting with David made me realize how I could accomplish both my goals at the same time.

I went back to my brief outline, and suddenly the whole thing came together.  You readers can judge how well “saving my cake and eating it, too” it worked.

Writing the main story took four days with another day for the About section and two for the first polish.

At the start, I struggled to get words out, because—when I stopped to think about it—I realized that it’d been almost a year since I’d written anything longer than the material I’d generated for games and convention appearances or the short reviews on my website.

I’ve had plenty going on in my life in the last year, including a wedding, minor surgery, obtaining and setting up both a new laptop and a new studio computer, cataloging my classic comics and gaming magazines and arranging to have them sold, retirement planning, two conventions, a personal appearance, some interviews, and a ton of grief from too many deaths of family and longtime friends.

All of that tamped down my prose writing.  And not surprisingly, I’d gotten super rusty.

But it felt good to sit in the studio and grind out this story.  Really good.

And I won’t stop here, because there’s that Cushing story (which Kiff will help me figure out) coming up before Christmas, plus at least eight books that only need a final polish and typesetting to get them released.

And yes, there are at least four Frost Harrow books in that bunch.

At some point, I’ll probably even find time to write the four other Frost short stories I came up with before knuckling down to write this one.

Final story notes…

Grant’s middle name has always been Steven—because most (all?) of my main heroes and heroines have “S” as a middle initial.  (A longstanding affectation.)  However, I didn’t realize he was named Grant for his maternal grandfather until writing this story.

Grant’s mom has always been Karen from when she was first created for the Frost stories sometime between 1996 and 1999.  Back then, “a Karen” wasn’t a thing, though obviously it is now, and if the shoe fits…

In her defense, Karen has always been a name I’ve liked, along with Kathy, Kathryn (for Kathryn Leigh Scott) and a bunch of similar names.  The portrayal of Grant’s mother should in no way be seen as jumping on the Karen bandwagon or impugning the name in general.  Great name.

We actually have both screech owls and great horned owls in our neighborhood.  Our house is near the back of a 1920s subdivision and behind us is mostly Department of Natural Resources (DNR) land (i.e. unbuildable marshlands) and old family farms.  I’ve never seen the owls, but we hear them now and again.  The screech owls were very active at the start of fall this year and did engage in a hooting contest with the great horned owl (or owls) one night.  I want to thank them for comfort and inspiration.

I hope that our owl populations will not be affected by the destruction of what I’ve dubbed the Firefly Forest just half a block south of our house.  That little section of forest at the edge of DNR land has stood vacant, populated by old trees and bracken, for the nearly forty years we’ve lived here.

In winter it shelters squirrels and other small fauna; in spring it comes alive with birdsong; in summer I’ve seen it filled with so many fireflies it looks like Christmas lighting; and in fall, its tall trees—both healthy and those riddled with woodpecker holes—have given an extra spooky wonder to Halloween.  It may also be home to some of those owls I’ve heard and never seen.

But two summers ago, somebody cut some trees and removed a lot of the undergrowth.  Complaints to the cops seemed to have stopped that, and the bracken reasserted itself.  But this last weekend—after I finished the first draft of this story—I discovered the scrub cleared once more, and most of the medium-sized trees felled and turned into firewood logs.  And today as I write this, October 20^th, the chainsaws are going again, and there’s wood smoke in the air.

Sadly, the sheriff’s office informs me that the person responsible for this devastation now owns the land (I had thought it part of the DNR or some other set-side parcel) and has permission from the local fire department to burn off the brush and whatever else they’re doing.

So, I fear that when I take a walk later, nothing will remain of this small block of woodland that has stood largely unchanged for the last forty years.  And soon, there will likely be a boxy new house in its place.

I will mourn the Firefly Forest deeply.

My only hope is that this new builder will not impinge on the DNR land behind that property (as others in this subdivision have), and that any owls who were roosting in the Firefly Forest will simply flit off to the remaining wild lands next door.  They’re better neighbors than many of the humans in these parts.

Judging from their calls, the owls seem to move around the neighborhood; I’ve heard them north and south and west and even occasionally to the east.

Let’s hope that the chainsaws and bulldozers never find them.

They are, of course, welcome in my tree-filled yard.

Keeping the Halloween Spirit Alive,

Steve Sullivan, 20 October 2025

*Lyrics from “I’ve Got a Theory / Bunnies / If We’re Together” song from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the Musical (series episode and CD album)

 Read the FREE Frost Harrow Halloween stories:
“The Weeping Ghost” (2012), “A Trace of Violet” (2013), “Lunchroom Zombies” (2014), “Omens & Visitations” (2015), “Fata Morgana” (2016), “At the Appointed Hour” (2017), “Devil’s Lake” (2018), “A Walk on Witches’ Hill” (2019), “The Beast of Bay Road” (2020), “Cat Burglars” (2021), “Lost River Horse” (2022), “The Witchpool” (2023),
“Mall Witches” (2024)