Chapter 3: Old Man Peterson
The store was not large but every inch of it was filled with items, from food to potion ingredients to books to magical objects. A burly man with a thick moustache appeared from a backroom, wiping his hands on a hand towel.
"Ow can I 'elp you, missy?" he asked with a broad grin. "I've just got a few bottles o' perfume in yesterday—Poison and Lotus, both French, eh?"
"No, thank you," Colette refused as courteously as she could. "I am here just to ask you a few questions, if I may be so bold."
"Go right a'ead," the man said with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders.
"Over the passed few weeks, have you noticed anything strange here in Lachlan?" Colette asked. "An increase in visitors? Suspicious strangers? Disappearances?"
"O, you are one o' them reporters 'ere about the wolf thing," the storeowner said. "Nah, there 'aven't been nothing strange 'appening 'ere. If I might say so, I don't believe any o' the wild stories any'ow. A bunch o' crazy old folks reliving their child'ood memories."
"Sorry to bother you, then. Oh, one more thing. Could you tell me where I might find Mr. Gerald Peterson?"
"Old man Peterson? Yah, 'e's got 'imself a right purty 'ouse on the other side o' town," answered Cornwallis. "You cain't miss 'im since 'e sets out on 'is front porch all day long."
"Thank you, Mr. Cornwallis, for your time," she said with a nod of her head.
"Stop by anytime, young missy."
It was still raining hard outside, and so Colette replaced the notebook inside her cloak and pulled up the hood. She removed her wand from inside her cloak and muttered a quick water repellant charm before stepping out into the downpour. Raindrops pummeled her head and shoulders but bounced right off her cloak. She strolled quickly down the now muddy street, head down to keep the rain from her eyes. It was not until she was near the area where the Knight Bus had dropped her off the night before when she looked up and saw an old man sitting in a rocking chair, sheltered from the storm by the roof of his patio.
"Mighty fine weather we are havin'," called out the old man after taking a long suck on a wooden pipe and blowing a smoke ring into the air. "I haven't see you 'fore now. Visitin'?"
"You could say that," Colette replied with a grin. "May I come join you where it is dry?"
"If'n you want to, but that is a mighty fine charm you've used there. You'll have to tell me how to do that one." He gave a deep chuckle as she climbed the steps. "So what's your name, girl?"
"Colette Moon," she replied. "I am a journalist."
"Ah," the old man said as he gave a half-smile and nodded his head. "I knew that it won't be long 'fore all you reporters came a'visitin', sniffin' around. Not with somethin' as big as this sucker, just a'waitin' for someone to pluck it."
"You could say that, Mr. Peterson," Colette agreed. She was already reaching for her notebook. "But as far as I know, I am the only journalist in Lachlan. I came to find out if there is any truth behind the werewolf rumors."
"Rumors." He took another puff of his pipe. "Heh. That nosy witch at the Inn must have told you about me, eh? Bloody lass. Yeah, I've seen it. Thrice now."
"You have seen a werewolf three times?" repeated Colette, eyebrows raised with curiosity.
"In the last two weeks," answered Peterson stiffly. "And don't give me none of that 'werewolves only transform at the full moon' stuff; I know all about these blighters. I was around these parts back in 1902 durin' the werewolf hunt. Lost my brother to it, in fact, bitten by one of the bloody things. Then the aurors came, and he was one of them that they killed."
"Oh, I am terribly sorry," sympathized Colette sincerely.
"Don't be, girl. There was nothin' you could have done for him," commented the old man dryly.
"Since you do know so much about werewolves," Colette inquired curiously, "do you know how one could be seen on a night other than the full moon?"
"Yes," stated Peterson. He blew out smoke and puffed again on his pipe. "We Scotsmen have many folktales; some of them false but others true. One says that when two werewolves mate, the offsprin' are born with different characteristics than regular werewolves. It is said by some that these offsprin' transform with any moonlight, not just the full moon."
There was an awkward moment of silence where the only sound was the rain splattered the roof above them and the creaking of Peterson's rocking chair. She decided to change the subject.
"Besides the werewolf, has there been anything strange happening here in Lachlan?"
"Strange, yah. Mighty strange things happenin' here, believe you me," the old man continued. "I have lived here all of my life, grown up here, raised my son here. Anyhow, thirteen years ago that bloody witch came and things haven't been the same since."
Colette felt a pit beginning to form in her stomach while listening to the old man. "Who?"
"Hugh's wife," answered Peterson. "Hugh was a mighty good man. I was good friends with his father and later with him. I don't think it was right for him to remarry; his wife was a right sweet girl and their boy grew up mighty fine. Course, that was 'fore that witch came into the picture. I'm not blaming nobody, just sayin' that things are different now."
Colette scribbled his words as quickly as she could. "Different how, Mr. Peterson?"
"Well, my grandson—Kenny is his name—went a'missin' five and a half years back, gone for nearly six months. I thought for certain that he was dead, but one day he showed up again like nothin' had happened. He was different, though. More quiet than 'fore and not as friendly, but I said nothin' about it. I thought maybe he had changed because I was spendin' most of my time at the store, so when Cornwallis made an offer, I sold. Then three years ago Kenny disappeared again. Haven't seen him since."
"You have no idea where he is?" Colette asked in shock. "You haven't contacted anyone? The Ministry has a missing persons department—"
"There isn't no reason to search for him, girl," the old man interrupted her. "He'll be back in a little while, just like 'fore. It is one of those things I am a'tellin' you about, how things have changed around here. Many of the wizardin' folk have left or gone a'missin', and it is the same with the muggles."
"And when did this begin?"
"About ten years ago, not that it matters much. Nothin' I've told you will ever get published," commented Peterson dryly, and Colette looked up at him with narrowed eyes.
"Why do you say that?"
"They didn't let it happen 'fore, six years ago, and they won't let it happen now."
"Who is they?" Colette demanded, but Peterson remained silent, rocking back and forth in his chair. "What happened six years ago?"
"A young dandy of a reporter came around sniffin' for a story, found one too, but he disappeared the night 'fore he was goin' to leave," chuckled the old man as if the story amused him. Then he suddenly become serious. "Whatever he had prepared for the big paper he worked for disappeared along with him. You better be careful, girl, if'n you want to stay alive."
A sudden loud clap of thunder roared above them, causing Colette to jump. She put her notebook back in her cloak and stood up, having suddenly realized that it was late in the afternoon. She had spent the entire day out interviewing people and had forgotten to eat. The old man blew another smoke ring into the air.
"Thanks for your time, Mr. Peterson," she said slowly.
"You're a nice girl, so I hope you smart enough to leave 'fore you stir up any trouble," the old man warned her.
She noted his warning, having realized that this man was, perhaps, the most reliable source of information she had come across. With a loud pop she Disapparated from the damp, smoking porch and Apparated in the hall just outside her hotel room.