Chapter 3: The Werewolf

No one disturbed them on their walk to Mr. Rags’ house. Some residents gave Shane a dirty look in passing, but it wasn’t as bad as he and Herbert had feared. If the worst thing he had to deal with was dirty looks, he’d be okay.

Rags’ home was an old farmhouse at the end of a side road. The property was vast and unused from what Shane could see. Overgrown fields of weeds and wildflowers gave way to forest and part of the river far in the back. A half-collapsed barn sat a good trek from the main house, and a couple of sheds lay in equal states of disrepair. The large lawn was sprinkled with at least a dozen run-down, rusted-out cars and trucks.

Rags lived far enough from downtown that he was isolated on his land, with his nearest neighbor so far down the road that the house was barely noticeable from the lawn.

“Mr. Rags was a big act in his day,” Herbert explained as they approached. “He was never with Bartolomy as a freak. He was more of… I’m not sure what you’d call him. A consultant? He helped Bartolomy Sr. spruce things up back before what happened with Lisette and Dash. Back when things were still good.”

“He’s a freakshow expert?” Shane asked.

“Oh, definitely. He’s got hypertrichosis. Gave him a unique insight,” the ghost said.

“I’m not sure what that means.”

Herbert looked at him as they walked up the overgrown driveway.

“It’s almost the opposite of you, I suppose.”

That description was even less helpful, but Shane didn’t press the matter. They had reached the farmhouse, a three-story yellow brick building that looked like it was on its last legs. Some of the brickwork on the chimney had already crumbled, and the outside shutters were more peeled paint than not. Everything looked tired and old.

The warped wooden steps of the porch creaked under Shane’s weight, and he hoped the whole thing wasn’t about to collapse. He pulled open an old aluminum screen door that screeched and whined on rusty hinges before he knocked on a thick wooden door that was once sky blue but now was faded and chipped after years of neglect.

“You sure he still lives here?” Shane asked.

“No,” Herbert admitted. “But where else would he be?”

Shane grunted in response.

Something thudded and creaked inside. Shane waited and heard more creaking and then footsteps before the door lock turned. The hinges squealed, and the door opened slightly.

A fur-covered face stared out through the crack, blue eyes narrow and fixed on Shane.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Shane Ryan,” he answered.

Though he was mostly obscured by the door, it was clear that the man talking to Shane was covered in a thick coating of dark hair. Not an inch of bare flesh was visible.

“Good for you,” the furry man said. He closed the door, and the lock clicked.

“Rags! Rags, it’s Herbert,” the ghost yelled through the door. He could have just walked into the house if he wanted, but Shane didn’t think Herbert had spent a lot of time acting like a true ghost in his afterlife.

The lock clicked again. Mr. Rags’ face appeared once more. Herbert came closer, and Shane backed up to allow him some room.

“Herbert? Jesus H. Christ, what the hell happened to you?”

He let the door fall open and Shane could see now that Rags’ entire body was covered in hair. He wore a tank top and boxer shorts, but his arms and legs and even his hands were covered. Ironically, his chest looked to have the thinnest hair, enough that the flesh could at least be seen beneath it, but the hair on his face and arms was as dense as the hair on his head.

“I died,” Herbert answered.

“Good gravy, big man, did you ever. Oh my stars, when? What happened?”

“Long time ago.” Herbert shrugged. “Heart gave out.”

Rags shook his head.

“’Course it did. What did I tell you, man? You can’t sit on your behind eating yourself to death.”

“I know,” Herbert said, smiling. “You look good.”

“I look like hell,” Rags countered. “Losing the hair on my chest. Who the hell goes chest bald? I’m going to look like this fella soon enough.”

He pointed to Shane and sneered, and Herbert laughed.

“This is Shane,” Herbert said.

“I heard him the first time. The hell you two here for?”

“You must have been a real hit in the carnival back in the day,” Shane pointed out. Rags fixed him with a glare. He was several inches shorter than Shane, and beneath the furry frame, he looked extremely thin and frail.

“Oh, you brought a comedian. Are you going to tell me to look on the bright side of life? All the memories of the joy I brought to little girls and boys who pulled my hair and called me a monster for thirty-odd years? I’ll stick my hairy foot up your backside and we’ll see who’s a real hit.”