Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or Bates Motel.
This is just a werewolf fic.
Another dead body.
Another night spent in local woodlands, scratching around in the dark whilst searching for a suitable place to bury the corpse.
The black bag which encased his recent victim dragged against the forest floor, leaving a trail behind it. Norman paused, took a deep breath—then continued. The sooner the grisly task was completed, the sooner he could leave.
A shower was what he craved the most right now—not six hours of digging. His clothes were stained in fresh blood, which he knew would never come out.
Yet another shirt wasted.
Huffing with the weight of the body, he gave one last tug before letting it thud to the floor. Usually he had his mother here for help—but even she didn't know about this victim.
Not yet, anyway.
Rubbing an equally blood caked hand over his brow, he surveyed his surroundings. Tall trees littered the area around him, blocking out not only the full moon—his only source of light—but also the nearby roads. In fact, all Norman could hear were a few animals— An owl hooting in the distance, a deer shuffling through the branches.
But no other humans.
Now all he needed was a suitable burial site.
The ground beneath his feet was a tangled mess of dirt, twigs and moss with a few rocks thrown in for good measure. If the Sheriff wanted to find this body he'd have to search hard, and pray for a miracle.
Norman gave a small smile at that and set to work, snatching up the shovel he had brought with him.
One hour turned into three, which then turned into five but finally, at four am the hole was deep enough. He had to get back to the motel soon, before his mother and Dylan woke up and started asking their endless questions.
With an exhausted sigh, he grabbed the end of the body bag and began tugging it towards his makeshift grave. It was halfway into the pit when he heard a sound—
A rustling, coming from his left, caught Norman's attention. He squinted into the darkness, but saw nothing except an endless forest of trees.
Slightly on edge now but determined to finish the job, he continued dragging the body—his ears picking up nothing more than the crinkling plastic from the bag as it moved across the uneven ground.
And then he heard it again—a wave of goosebumps rippling down the length of his neck.
Because that wasn't a rustling, that was a snarl.
Maybe wolves were in the area, he considered, eyes darting to the shovel. One he could potentially take on, but a whole pack? Not a chance.
Straightening up and on high alert now, Norman scanned around himself once more. It felt as though something was watching him, stalking him, and waiting for his next move.
If i wolf, then perhaps it could solve his problem. By eating the body. Removing the evidence. But that was a big perhaps.
He whipped up the shovel and gripped it tightly, eyes straining to see into the darkness.
After what felt like a lifetime, the creature stepped forward—and Norman could see that it definitely was not a wolf.
Not completely, anyway.
On two legs and slouching it was still at least 9ft tall. Thick brown fur covered the animal's body, but the very tips were streaked with blond. Massive paws, with equally big claws, hung at the creature's side—not yet in an attack pose.
The beast dropped down onto all fours and inched closer—its tail twitching and flicking in agitation.
Now it looked like a wolf.
Grasping the shovel tightly like a weapon, Norman waited for the animal to attack. Surely it could smell the blood? He was covered in it, after all.
But, it didn't. In fact, its amber coloured gaze moved towards the grave, where the body bag was still partly on view.
And then it snarled—hackles raising as its angry eyes snapped back onto Norman. The sight of the body seemed to piss the creature off. And there was something else too.—the look in the wolf's eyes seemed familiar to him.
There was human intelligence behind those dark pupils, that was for certain, but it was almost like he knew the wolf.
Which was utterly ridiculous.
And yet, the creature seemed to be having a similar internal struggle—paws flexing and unflexing as it continued its silent fight with itself—until finally and without any warning, it lunged, knocking Norman to the ground.
"Get off of me!" He hissed, struggling to get the shovel into a position where he could hit the wolf. But the animal was too strong. It had him pinned down with its huge paws as though he were nothing more than a baby—helpless and vulnerable.
No amount of squirming or fighting back made any difference.
The wolf watched him try and try until he was exhausted—
—and then it bit him.