protruding from the sleeves of his good black suitcoat have become snaggled paws.
And then he awakes.
Only a dream, he thinks, lying back down again. Only a dream, thank God.
But when he opens the church doors that morning, the morning of Homecoming Sunday,
the morning after the full moon, it is no dream he sees; it is the gutted body of
Clyde Corliss, who has done janitorial work for years, hanging face-down over the
pulpet. His push-broom leans close by.
None of this is a dream; the Rev. Lowe only wishes it could be. He opens his mouth,
hitches in a great, gasping breath, and begins to scream.
Spring has come back again-and this year, the Beast has come with it.
JUNE
On the shortest night of the year, Alfie Knopfler, who runs the Chat ‘n Chew,
Tarker’s Mills’ only cafe, polishes his long Formica counter to a gleaming
brightness, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled to past his muscular, tattooed
elbows. The cafe is for the moment completely empty, and as he finishes with the
counter, he pauses for a moment, looking out into the street, thinking that he lost
his virginity on a fragrant early summer night like this one
-the girl had been
Arlene McCune, who is now Arlene Bessey, and married to one of Bangor’s most
successful young lawyers. God, how she had moved that night on the back seat of his
car, and how sweet the night had smelled!
The door into summer swings open and lets in a bright tide of moonlight. He
supposes the cafe is deserted because the Beast is supposed to walk when the moon
in full, but Alfie is neither scared nor worried; not scared because he weighs
twotwenty and most of it is still good old Navy muscle, not worried because he
knows the regulars will be in bright and early tomorrow morning for their eggs and
their homefries and coffee. Maybe, he thinks, I’ll close her up a little early
tonight-shut off the coffee urn, button her up, get a six-pack down at the Market
Basket, and take in the second picture at the drive-in. June, June, full moon – a
good night for the drive-in and a few beers. A good night to remember the conquests
of the past.
He is turning toward the coffee-maker when the door opens, and he turns back,
resigned.
“Say! How you doin’?” he asks, because the customer is one of his regulars …
although he rarely sees this customer later than ten in the morning.
The customer nods, and the two of them pass a few friendly words.
“Coffee?” Alfie asks, as the customer slips onto one of the padded red counter-
stools.
“Please.”
Well, still time to catch that second show, Alfie thinks, turning to the coffee-
maker. He don’t look like he’s good for Long. Tired. Sick, maybe. Still plenty of
time to-
Shock wipes out the rest of his thought. Alfie gapes stupidly. The coffee-maker is
as spotless as everything else in the Chat ‘n Chew, the stainless steel cylinder
bright as a metal mirror. And in its smoothly bulging convex surface he sees
something as unbelievable as it is hideous. His customer, someone he sees every
day, someone everyone in Tarker’s Mills sees every day, is changing. The customer’s
face is somehow shifting, melting, thickening, broadening. The customer’s cotton
shirt is stretching, stretching … and suddenly the shirt’s seams begin to pull
apart, and absurdly, all Alfie Knopfler can think of is that show his little nephew
Ray used to like to watch, The Incredible Hulk.
The customer’s pleasant, unremarkable face is becoming something bestial. The
customer’s mild brown eyes have lightened; have become a terrible gold-green. The
customer screams … but the scream breaks apart, drops like an elevator through
registers of sound, and becomes a bellowing growl of rage.
It – the thing, the Beast, werewolf, whatever it is-gropes at the smooth Formica
and knocks over a sugar-shaker. It grabs the thick glass cylinder as it rolls,
spraying sugar, and heaves it at the wall where the specials are taped up, still
bellowing.
Alfie wheels around and his hip knocks the coffee urn off the shelf. It hits the