Stanley Uris-1988
Stanley Uris was not one to procrastinate. Upon arriving home and placing his backpack neatly upon his desk chair, he snatched up his small black binoculars, sitting in the place they always were, right between a small lamp and a wooden pencil box etched with various species of birds. He was wearing his brown winter coat with the tan ducks printed on it that his mother had given him along with a navy blue scarf and mittens. The temperature was below freezing and Derry was a wintry wonderland, blanketed in snow and ice crystals hanging from the roof of the homes. Andrea Uris had begun a routine of breaking the icicles above their porch with a hammer, so as to lessen the danger of them falling and causing serious harm to any member of the Uris family. Their neighbors should do the same, she'd told her son.
"But they won't," she'd said with a disapproving shake of her head. "No common sense, those folks."
The holidays were around the corner, but the looming threat that had quietly been terrorizing the town-the horrific child murders-was putting a damper on any merriment, even with Christmas vacation approaching. Bill, whose little brother Georgie had vanished, Richie and Eddie had simply gone their separate ways after school let out. Eddie's mother had insisted he stay indoors due to the weather and Bill's morose attitude didn't make for much fun in terms of any activities they could do.
Stan was still rattled from his passing encounter with the Bower's Gang, who'd suddenly taken to calling him "Stanley Urine." The ducks splashed across the knitted fabric of his jacket made for a good source of ridicule as well. He'd rushed past them and jumped on his bike as they pointed and laughed and made a sharp beeline home. Their cackling shrinking in the distance as he neared his destination.
He stuffed his bird book in his backpack after removing his school books. He coasted through town on his bike towards the Barrens. Parking it under the Kissing Bridge, he took his bird book in hand, binoculars strung around his neck. As his boots sloshed through the crystalized blades of grass along the frozen waters of the Kenduskeag, he thought of the Black-capped Chickadee. It was widely considered an unremarkable bird to many, but it was one of his favorites due to its super-power-like abilities; it could grow its hippocampus in order to increase memory, control its body temperatures, preserving their energy by going into regulated hypothermia overnight. They were to Stan, admirable creatures capable of surviving the worst conditions.
The curfew was in place, so he would only stay an hour. Just an hour before the sunlight begins to drain from the sky and the temperatures plummet even further. Ample time to just sit and view his favorite bird. He wanted to at least enjoy this serene moment of observing. It was calming.
Crouching down in the grass, the spot in which he knew the bird was abundant, he places his book beside him and brought his binoculars to his eye sockets as he immediately spots it balancing on a twig protruding from from a nearby bush. Just as he's focusing in on it, his eardrum pricks at a sound. Subtle. Had it not been so quiet, he may not have heard it at all.
It sounded like crunching, mixed with squishing noises. Like an animal gnawing on a fresh kill.
A black bear maybe. Not a wolf, as there are none in Maine. A coyote is another possibility.
Charily, Stan rises up, casting his gaze along the Barrens, shading his eyes with his left palm from the bit of sunlight shredding through the overcast. He stands for a moment, blinking, staring, before he heads in the direction of the peculiar sound, his chest fluttering with anxiety. Something was drawing him near, even though normally his instinct would be to run. But the need to see whatever it is making these sounds was forcing him to go against it.
Certainly not like him. A bit jarring.
His breath was visible in the chilled air, billowing out from his lips as he edges closer to a small boulder along the side of a thick tree.
The noise was just below, in a short drop off within a cluster of small boulders.
He places his hands along the cold surface of one of the boulders, his breathing increasing, those clouds of chilled white still bursting from his mouth. He peers over.
At first he sees only a splotch of dark red stark against the sparse snow. It takes a few seconds before he sees something moving in the center of it.
A coyote. A massive one. Blinding white fur that acted as a camoflauge against the snow. Its shoulders shaking as it gnaws ferociously on a limb. From his perspective, Stan could tell it was an arm from what appeared to be a small child. It must have discovered another murder victim left in the Barrens before the police did.
Stan clamps his palm to his mouth as he gags, the scent of the fresh blood being carried up to him along the minor breeze. This causes the beast to look up, snout smeared with crimson which trailed up in thin ribbons through striking golden eyes. Stan stays deathly still, heartbeat thumping in his throat, mouth drying, gazing down as he and the beast make eye contact.
Observant child that he is, Stan took a few seconds to note that this coyote was abnormally large, almost wolf-like in its appearance with a short snout and rounded ears.
But there are no wolves in Maine. He was certain of that. This one must have taken a wrong turn.
Just as Stan finds the courage to begin to move backwards, a deep throaty growl emits from the beast, the sheen of the blood stains along its teeth now visible as its steel visage transforms into a more predatory one.
With this clear show of aggression, Stan takes off. Rushing in the direction where he'd left his bird book.
Wolves weren't supposed to attack people. At least, that's what he'd heard. What he'd read.
But this one certainly looks ready to.
He could hear the beast's massive paws climbing up along the rocks, making its way towards him, oddly silent. Grabbing up his beloved bird book-there was no way he could leave it-he suddenly halts, gazing back over this shoulder.
What are you doing? Keep going. Don't stop.
But he stays put, the strange wolf nowhere to be found. He was sure it had started after him. He'd heard its bulking frame breaking through twigs and branches as it was climbing up towards the top of the boulder.
And was it even a wolf?
There are no wolf packs in Maine. That was a fact. This one should not even be here.
But here it was. Right as he arrived.
What was the possibility of that? The lone wolf in Maine showing up here, just as he arrived to just quietly look at his favorite bird?
Sniffling, he heads towards the dirt path that leads from the Barrens, the Kissing Bridge coming into his view, his bike sitting in wait, as he rounds a clump of low-hanging branches, he sees it; the white wolf, standing about fifteen feet away. The sneaky thing had decided to circle him covertly.
And was standing right in front of his bike.
A clear sign of extreme intelligence. Also very jarring.
"Okay buddy, easy now." Stan pants as his breath catches as he holds up his bird book defensively, peering over the cover as they engage in a staring contest. It's here that he sees how enormous the beast is; the size of a cow at least. The unusual pattern of blood coursing along its face was still bright and visible.
Maybe it doesn't want to hurt me. Maybe.
Just as quickly as he ended that optimistic thought, the wolf comes at him, snarling lips curling back, its incisors looking strangely more pointed-more like yellowed quills. Stan lets out a barely-there yelp as he sprinted back along the path, trying not to slip along the sleek ice, sharp rocks and broken branches. His heart is thundering against his chest, and even in this icy weather, sweat was starting to bead along his forehead as he tightens his grip on his book. The soles of his feet were heavy, his knees weakening, growing tired.
He keeps running along the embankment, nearly tripping several times until he reaches an overturned tree, stopping, despite himself, near a web of underbrush. The only sound in the quiet was his labored panting, the coldness of the winter air filling his lungs.
Hand to his chest, he peers around.
The white wolf is gone again.
It was toying with him for certain. But not that he sensed was in any way playful. No, this was like a lion stalking an antelope, just before the big kill. Just like in the nature shows he watched. There was something else going on here. The behavior of this animal was not like a wolf. They weren't supposed to attack people. They were not supposed to even be in Maine.
That coupled with the unexpectedness of this encounter, this interruption of what was supposed to be his quiet solitude, his escape from the consuming stress of school, home and the likes of the Bower's Gang, was enough to cause him to collapse to the ground, near a large rotting hollow log, partly hidden beneath the snow. He leaned his hand on it, his book slipping from his trembling fingers.
As his breathing slows, he gazes over to the bridge, his bike seeming both close and far away all at once.
Then, a crackle of twigs. Soft, but audible.
Stan tenses, sucking in a sharp breath. He gingerly turns his head, brown eyes cast over his shoulder, seeing a clump of white within a a pair of oaks, moving furtively along the tree trunks.
Moving quickly, Stan makes a play for the end of the hollowed out log, stuffing his book in first, before managing to squeeze the rest of his small frame inside, made thicker by his warm clothing, the printed ducks along his coat smearing with a combination of snow and damp dirt.
Dirty. He was dirty. Relegated to crawling inside a filthy log, his new coat stained, pants soiled with the wet of the snow. His mother would be irate. And for the first time, since this encounter began, he felt irritation. Irritation tinged with the fear still present.
This was offensive. How dare this beast that's not supposed to be even be here force him into this situation.
The fear was nothing compared to the offensiveness.
He swiftly reaches his hand out the other end of the log, unearthing a large pointy stick embedded in the snow. He waits as he hears the offensive wolf creature circle the log, listening as it loudly sniffs the air. It appears at the end where Stan's feet are only inches from the splintered entrance.
Without warning, it begins trying to shove its snout in, making attempts to nip at Stan's shoes.
"Hey! Stop it!" Stan shouts, barely able to even move in the cramped space, unable to turn his head to see what the creature's next move will be. "Stop it!"
The log jerks violently as the wolf tries to shove its enormous head inside.
"No!" Stan bellows. "Don't! Stop!"
The jerking movements abruptly cease as the wolf finds its fruitless to enter. Growling quietly, it slinks to the other end, where Stan can see it more clearly.
They are now vis-à-vis, and Stan feels a stark chill pulsate along his spine as he looks into the wolf's irises.
They were almost glowing. Like two luminous golden moons against the snowy backdrop. The dark red stripes along its mouth he could now see more clearly; not blood, but deep red fur. Its teeth resembled that of a shark than a common wolf. Almost hypnotized, Stan's wide eyes keep fixed on the beast's strange characteristics, his tiny hands still grasping the pointed stick.
And then it lunges, the golden lights of its pupils blurring as its shark-teeth come for him, trying to once again squeeze inside. In that second, Stan's trance is broken, and he thrusts the stick forward, powerfully, with as much force as he could muster with the little energy he had left.
The pointed end meets the wolf. It yelps, shrinking back. The beast continues its pained whimpering as it violently shakes its head, and that's when Stan realizes the stick is no longer in his hand, but lodged in the roof of the wolf's mouth. Blood peppers along the snow as it paws at its teeth, spinning, attempting to remove it.
After a few moments of this tortured dance, it gives Stan one final glare coupled with a roar as it sprints along the shadowy oaks, vanishing along the thick brush. A quiet then falls over Stan, he rests his head along the bottom of the dirty log, not daring to move. His raspy breaths become serene and relieved, his body now frozen, as he slips into a brief slumber, one filled with images of roses with glowing centers that almost resemble the wolf's mesmerizing eyes, a night sky sparkling with stars in the pattern of a large buffalo. A cool breeze touching the delicate petals of the roses as they begin an angelic crooning. And for a split second, he glimpses a tower black against the sky.
And with that, he suddenly awakens. His body doing the jerking motion one does when you are between sleep and awake. Hypnagogic jerk it was called. Just outside a small crack in the wood of the log, he sees movement. But this is something much tinier and less threatening.
Squeezing out the log, he sees a Black-capped Chickadee, hopping along the wood. He regards it a moment with a small weak smile, before he quickly makes his way to the bridge where his bike is parked and swiftly heads home. The sunlight now almost completely diminished, save for a soft orange tinting the clouds beyond the distant mountains.
That night, he's berated and grounded by his parents for soiling his new clothes and for staying out past curfew.
"You could have been killed," Andrea had said, nostrils flared, evidence she was especially incensed. "Do you know how much distress you caused?" His father merely stood by, a somber disappointment resting upon his features.
Stan's thoughts are drowning out her harangue, her voice becoming muffled, like his ears were submerged in water. His encounter with the large wolf with the red striped fur and radiant eyes still lingering. But had it been real? Or was it simply a dream? He had, after all, briefly dozed off in that disgusting log, so maybe it had been. The other things he'd seen in his dream; the roses, the stars, the tower. Yes, the wolf had to be a part of that.
By the following morning, he's convinced himself that it was maybe just some sleep-related hallucination. He'd read about that. That massive hulking beast could not have been. It simply couldn't have been real.
After all, there are no wolves in Maine.