Party Animal

The thought was creeping up on him. A dull idea, a wan concept, slowly warmed up to him. And then one day, it struck him hard, not unlike a mallet.

Jonathan bit down with more force than usual on his fork-full of stuffing. The dinner table was crowded with family, as it was Thanksgiving. The good china and good actually silver silverware was out, the kind of dinnerware that had been passed down through the McKillan line for generations. As he bit down, a searing pain ran up through his teeth, as if he had been chewing tinfoil. His back arched and he groaned in spite of himself.

His mother, Mrs. McKillan, glanced up. “Alright there, Jon?”

“Fine,” he muttered. He put down the fork, feeling sick. He tried to eat, but the silverware hurt whenever he put them in his mouth.

“No!” Roger snarled. “I will not hear of it!” His face was flushed with anger, his hair a bit out of place. This was very, very bad. “Take care of it, you know how!” Jackson flinched.

“Please,” he said weakly. “Please, Roger, try to be open minded.” The other boy began to growl very convincingly. “No, please, she’s amazing. She can cook, and clean, and she has a beautiful voice. Roger, don’t make me-”

“Make you?” Suddenly, Roger’s face had become clear, his voice oddly soft with a tinge of incredulity. “Make you? I don’t make you do anything you don’t want to. But I rather think you would want to do this yourself…or I would have to do it.”

“No!” Jackson’s voice cracked. “No! Roger! I…I’ll…”

“That’s good,” he continued in that frighteningly civil voice. “You made her, you can destroy her. If I see her by the next full moon,” he cracked his knuckles, “I’ll take care of her.” He glared for a moment. “And you will watch. Understand?”

Jackson nodded mutely.

Another party. How many months now? Was it…four? Four. Four months since his girlfriend, Natalie, had suspiciously disappeared. A few weeks ago, some of her remains had been found nearly three miles from the bank of the Fox River. That news had been another blow to her loved ones, especially to Jonathan.

Ever since her disappearance, he dreaded going to Roger’s parties. Now, a thicker cloud of ill omens seemed to follow him now. It was worse than ever. He felt sick, almost nauseous to the point of driving right back home. But one did not walk out on Roger Guiller; that was clear by the way his friends loyally came to each party, even though it was clear they rather not.

Not only that, but Roger had a certain air about him. He was in charge, and that was the end of that. He walked tall and proud, and had a way of making things feel like they are your doing, whether they are or not. But there was also an undetectable note in his voice, a kind of undercurrent that gave another meaning to his words: you will do as I say, or I will make you very sorry.

Jonathan got out of his old truck, and paused to look up at the sky. Mackerel clouds tinted pink scattered across the blue expanse. “Pink at night, sailor’s delight,” he murmured to himself. It was an old saying his grandmother used occasionally. Perhaps the weather would be fair.

As always, the Guiller household was unlocked, and he slipped in, feeling a powerful de ja vu. The walls were an elegant light blue, and the carpet was deep gray. The house was empty and silent, but only when he caught a glimpse of the clock on the VCR did he realize how early it was.

But then he realized that he wasn’t alone after all. Quiet steps down the stairs caused him to whirl around, startled. Lucy Ann, Roger’s kid sister, paid him no attention (a rarity) as she placed a large box on the coffee table. She ignored him when he offered to help. She went around him, head down, as she headed toward the kitchen and pulled out a two liter of cola. She ducked past him to put the soda on the coffee table next to the box of party things. It was only then that Jonathan saw that her eyes were bright and shiny, and there were abnormal blotches of color on her cheeks, nose and eyes.

The alarm must have shown in his voice. “Lucy! Have you been crying?” it was absurd, that such a cheerful, flirtatious, shallow person could cry over anything.

She shrugged. She grasped the bag of chips, wrenched it open and put it back down.

“You’re shaking!”

Again, she only shrugged. This was a strange reaction. He felt a little sorry for her, in spite of himself. He had never liked her, but he liked seeing her cry even less. Poor girl.

“What happened? Are you OK?”

It was a long moment, then, “I’ll be fine.” Her voice was gruff and too high. She did not look at him; she would not even turn toward him.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

Jonathan hesitated, then drew near to her, his hand pressing to her shoulder. She flinched away with a whimper.

“Are you bruised?”

She sniffled, bustling away. “A little.”

“What happened?” When there was no reply, he went on more forcefully. “Lucy, please. I want to help. Did someone hurt you? Tell me, what happened!"

“Nothing! I don’t know!” Her voice jumped to a shrill wail, and she was overcome with hysteria. “I juss, I juss, I juss, he- an’ then…” Lucy Ann began to gasp and pant, her breath coming in spasms.

“Breathe! Lucy, breathe! You’ll hyperventilate!” She had been facing the opposite wall, but now he forced her around to face him. Her eyes were huge, bloodshot, alarmed. She cringed away, but he kept her held firmly. It took him a moment to realize she had stopped breathing altogether, and another moment to realize that she expected him to hit her.

What was wrong with this family? “Breathe,” he said in his softest, kindest voice. She began to sob instead. He gave a resigned sigh. “There, there.” He hugged her and he could feel her tears soaking into his shirt. “Alright, alright. Take it easy.” He patted her on the back, feeling incredibly uneasy. When the weeping turned back into sniffles, he took a step back. “Go wash your face, and get a glass of water,” he told her. She left for the bathroom, rubbing her eyes.

He slouched over and slumped on the couch, baffled. He was just no good with emotional displays. The house was silent except for the sound of running water. It did nothing to ease the prickling tension on the back of his neck, though.

Lucy returned looking better. She busied herself once again with party preparations, and Jonathan did not ask her any more questions. Guest arrived shortly thereafter. First Gabriel, followed closely by the inseparable duo, Ken and Peter. Eustace came some minutes later, and Jackson came with Roger, fashionably late.

As usual, Jonathan lost consciousness sometime early on. His dreams were dominated by blood and screams as an animal was torn to shreds. Then the floating to the surface.

He awoke sprawled, as usual, on Roger’s couch. Everyone by now had left the party. He got to his feet, stretched, and was surprised to find how stiff he was. What the hell? He had dreamed that they were fighting two wolves, a male and a young female. The female had been torn to shreds, and the male had been punished for his impudence. Severely. It was the leader of the pack who had delivered the death blow to the female, and the following strikes on the male. The dream was vague, and fuzzy around the edges. Already, he was losing it in his fully awake state.

Lucy came downstairs, her face screwed up. He was instantly wary. “What happened?”

She looked up, stricken. “Jackson’s in the hospital.” She swallowed hard, and then her voice was little more than a croak. “Animal attack…when he was going home.”

He felt cold as his memory came back to him with excruciating force. Even now, with the dream slipping away, he remembered the mutinous dog. Wolf. Thing.

He swallowed. “How bad?”

“Jonathan,” Lucy whispered, wringing her hands. He understood. This was not just any animal attack: this was one helluva animal attack. His nightmare come true. Like he was psychic.