Halloween Haunts: The Wolf of Woodlawn Avenue
Ricardo D. Rebelo
I have a Halloween animatronic problem. Not the “Oh, I really like spooky stuff” kind. The drive three hours north to buy a 12-foot-tall skeleton kind of problem.
Last year, I scored a seasonal job at Spirit Halloween solely to get a 30% discount and give the company back all my earnings for merchandise. So, I spent the whole summer building displays to feed my addiction. When I was done, there were enough animatronics to build my own haunted attraction. Still…it wasn’t enough.
After Halloween was over, I scoured Facebook Marketplace in search of cast-off monsters. I found a ten-foot Cthulhu and a twelve-foot Skeleton. Both of which I wish to unleash on the children of Fall River this Halloween season.
That hunt and my wife’s disdain for my Horrific decorations inspired the following story.
Please enjoy The Wolf of Woodlawn Avenue.
The beast’s lips peeled back to reveal long, yellow fangs. Blood marked the tips, and clots of gore hung in the gaps where fresh meat had been hung, butchered many moons before. The snout was craned high, sniffing every scent, near and far. Eyes were glassy and bloodshot, matted fur mottled with browns and blacks. Clawed hands beckoned through the computer screen, reaching for Brad Medeiros.
Brad had never seen anything so beautiful.
“Liz, come here a sec?” Brad called his wife.
“What? I’m busy,” Liz Medeiros replied.
“Please, just come here.”
Brad heard her stumble down the hall, thumping into the walls with a full laundry basket in her arms.
“What?” she repeated.
“Look at this,” Brad said.
Liz sighed, and Brad felt the gust on the back of his neck.
“Bradley, we had this conversation about buying more Halloween shit, right?”
“I know, but this werewolf is always five hundred bucks. These people are asking seventy-five. That’s a bargain, please.”
Liz sighed again—colder this time. Brad knew she only called him Bradley when she was officially done with his crap. He knew he was going to have to bring out the big guns.
“I’ll finish putting up your She Shed and clean the yard if you let me get this.”
Liz trudged back down the hall. Over her shoulder, she tossed a single word: “Fine.”
“Thanks, Liz, I’ll message them now.”
“Whatever,” she called from the laundry room.
Brad went for it. The seller got back to him almost immediately. They agreed on the price, and an address pinged through.
Salem.
“Shit,” Brad whispered at the screen.
Brad hated going anywhere near Boston. Salem was a nightmare, especially in the fall. He was a horror fanatic, but traffic in that neck of the woods was pure hell. As a younger man, he had put up with it to see punk shows. But these days, at fifty, it all felt like an unearned punishment.
Still, this was the Home Helpo Giant Growler. He’d lusted after it for years, ever since Liz had sent him out for fall mums and he’d seen it looming in the seasonal aisle.
Brad sucked it up, borrowed Liz’s SUV, and hit the road.
Three and a half hours and a lot of road rage later, he pulled up in front of the seller’s house—a spooky, Second Empire Victorian on Hawthorne Street.
Sidewalks were narrow. Streetlamps slanted at strange angles. The house itself was squat and imposing, with a mansard roof topped in rusted black wrought iron. The clapboards were washed-out gray-green, spotted with algae. Warped glass made up the windows, many of which had lace curtains. One dormer window on the third floor stood half-open, its drapes swaying in slow, rhythmic waves.
The porch curved around the house like a broken dock. Its boards creaked underfoot from years of rain. A heavy oak door receded into a Gothic arch at the center, with a brass knocker in the shape of a snarling wolf’s head.
Brad was still staring at it when the door swung open.
“Glad you made it,” said the woman, who went by Colleen Johnson according to her profile. She was the epitome of a modern bohemian witch. Brad swore he could smell patchouli from ten feet away.
“Follow me,” she said, crooking a finger.
She led him to a rotting garage. With a grunt, she heaved up the gnarled rope on the door. Inside, it was pitch black, but she reached in and hauled out an enormous slate gray bag—the kind you use to store fake Christmas trees in.
She dropped it at Brad’s feet and held out her hand. “Seventy-five dollars.”
“Oh yeah, definitely,” Brad said, giving over the cash. He would have checked it over, but the price was too good to pass.
As he snagged the bag, a sudden chill shot up his arm. He dropped it in his hand.
“You okay?” Colleen asked.
Brad shook it off—just a head rush, probably. He hauled the bag into the SUV with some effort. As he climbed inside, Colleen’s face popped into his window.
“Enjoy that wolf now,” she said with a smile. Brad thought he saw something move in her eye. A shimmer. A twitch.
He didn’t wait to find out. He put it in reverse and drove home.
By the time he got in the driveway, the sun had set. Liz sat on the back deck reading her Catherine Coulter novel.
“Made it,” Brad announced.
“Yes, you did,” she replied, without looking up.
“I’ll put it up this weekend… we don’t need to rush it. It’s awesome.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she muttered, without looking up from the page.
Brad had expected an eye-roll. Maybe the olive branch had worked.
It didn’t.
He dreamed of it that night. Kids lining the block to get a glimpse of the giant werewolf in his yard. Generations to scare. An urban legend in the making.
It would be his legacy.
It was also the last good night’s sleep he ever had.
Saturday morning, Brad ground a jet-black pot of pumpkin spice coffee and drank it like gasoline. Nothing was going to interrupt Halloween Decoration Day.
He drug the bag out onto the front lawn and plopped out each piece. It all matched the manual. Every part was there.
Plus one.
A jewel. Amethyst. Diamond-shaped, set in silver, ten by twelve inches. From within the purple stone, Brad could see an inverted pentagram. It seemed to give off heat.
“You’re not gonna put that damned thing up already, are you?” shouted Mr. Hall from the sidewalk.
Brad flinched, snapping out of his trance.
“I’m sorry—what?”
“That damned Halloween thing! You’re putting it up already?”
“Mr. Hall, it’s September. That’s fair.”
“Bullshit! Back in my day, you didn’t see a paper pumpkin until October! You people leave this crap up all year.”
“It’s fall, Mr. Hall.”
“Bullshit! It’s probably Indian Summer.”
“You can’t say that anymore, Mr. Hall.”
“Fuck you and that woke crap,” Hall growled.
“You have a good day,” Brad said.
Hall waved him off. Brad was used to it. Every neighborhood had a crank. Hall was theirs.
Brad turned back to the amulet. It pulsed in his hand. Or maybe he was imagining it. He set it on the porch—it wasn’t in the instructions. He’d add it at the end.
The building took thirty minutes. Not too shabby. Once assembled, he hefted the monstrosity upright. Twelve feet tall. It was a beast, but it looked incredible.
“It’s gonna be a great Halloween,” Brad said aloud.
Then he heard it—a rhythmic thump. Like a heartbeat.
It was coming from the porch.
The amulet.
It flashed purple. It was calling him.
He climbed the ladder, hooked it around the werewolf’s neck.
The energy surged.
The werewolf turned its head. It howled. Then again. And again. Then… it started panting.
Brad reached for the control box and cut it off. The light drained from the wolf back into the jewel.
He told himself it was a mod. A real cool extra feature.
He hoped.
Inside, Liz called out, “Take your shoes off.”
“Already did,” Brad replied.
He walked into the living room. Liz reclined in her chair, halfway through her book. Rosemary chicken simmered in the oven, the smell of garlic and herbs permeating the house.
“Smells good,” Brad said.
“Just chicken. How’s your monster?”
“Up. Working. Kinda weird.”
“How weird?”
“Hard to explain.”
“That’s what you get buying shit off Marketplace.”
“Suppose so.”
“Mr. Hall was giving you crap, huh?”
“Yeah, Hall was being Hall.”
“He probably thinks that thing’s gonna come to life and eat him.”
Brad laughed nervously. “Yeah, maybe.”
They ate dinner. Watched some trashy TV. Went to bed.
Outside, storm clouds gathered.
Rain came first—heavy, fist-sized drops. Then thunder, deep and slow. Lightning licked the sky.
The beast pulled at its cables. Leaves flew in tiny cyclones. Wind howled.
The lights on the block flickered, then died.
Lightning struck the amulet.
It didn’t explode. It absorbed the bolt.
Then the glow returned. Purple. Veins of light crawled to the creature’s eyes.
It reanimated.
The wolf jerked its first anchor free. Pried it off its post with meat-hook claws, launched it like a boulder—straight through Mr. Hall’s bedroom window.
Hall woke with a start. Thought he was under attack. Grabbed his AR-15 and stumbled outside.
The wolf was ripping up the second anchor. Hall stepped into the storm, long Johns drenched, gun shaking in his hands.
“You motherfucker!” he yelled and opened fire.
A bullet hit the amulet.
The wolf turned.
Inside, Brad woke. Something felt wrong. He looked out the window.
The wolf swung the cable like a flail. Cement and steel. Hall’s clip emptied.
He never saw it coming.
The block of concrete smashed into his chest, tearing his head clean off.
Brad stared, mute.
“What’s happening?” Liz said from behind him.
Brad could barely speak. “Stay here. Please. Just stay.”
“Is this another one of your stupid projects gone wrong?”
Brad didn’t answer. He opened the nightstand and grabbed his Saint Benedict medal—the one he’d bought on Amazon. He also snatched up the wooden cross from above their bedroom door.
“You’re gonna exorcise it, Brad? Seriously?”
But it was too late. He was already outside.
The werewolf was devouring Mr. Hall.
Brad stood in the rain.
“The power of Christ compels you!” he shouted.
The beast turned. Blood and entrails dripped from its jaws.
It howled again.
Neighbors peered through windows. Some came outside with flashlights, bats, even a sword.
Lightning struck the amulet again. A purple laser beam shot toward Brad.
He raised the medal. It absorbed the blast and glowed gold.
Brad slammed the cross into it.
“It is Christ who compels you!”
A golden beam shot from the cross, striking the werewolf square in the chest.
The beast screamed. Not a howl. Not a roar. A scream.
The amulet cracked.
Light spattered like fireflies.
The medal burned Brad’s hand. Skin blistered. But he didn’t stop.
“In His name,” he coughed, blood mixing with rain. “You… are… cast… out!”
He smashed the cross and medal together.
A blast of light and thunder knocked neighbors off their feet. Windows shattered.
The wolf convulsed. Its fur burned away. Shrank. Crumbled. The monster shriveled into ash and sparks.
Silence.
Then mist.
Brad dropped to his knees. The medal still burned in his hand.
Liz ran to him. “You stupid bastard… why’d you have to be the hero?”
Across the street, Hall’s porch was crushed. The headless corpse lay still.
On the sidewalk, shards of the amulet glowed faintly. Pulsing.
Waiting.
The End
The author and his inspiration.
Ricardo D. Rebelo is a horror author and documentary filmmaker from Fall River, Massachusetts. His short fiction has been published in Monsters in the Mills, Dracula Beyond Stoker Vol. 6, Halloweenthology, Flash of the Un-Dead, Children of the Dead, Dead Girls Walking, and the magazines Monster Mag, The Chamber and Scars. He also directed the PBS award winning documentaries Island of My Dreams, Dark New England, and Lizbeth: A Victorian Nightmare.
His newest collection, Rotting Pumpkins, is where you can find “The Wolf of Woodlawn Avenue,” which will be FREE on Amazon Kindle for downloading from October 1st–5th.
Get your copy of Rotting Pumpkins on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FNDGQCDX
Learn more: https://ricdrebelo.wixsite.com/ricardo-d
Instagram: @ricardo_d_rebelo
