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WOLF MOUNTAIN
A Werewolf Novel of Haiti
By JR Pinto
Text copyright © 2015 JR Pinto
All Rights Reserved
To Dominic Di-Natale, aka “Mad Cow,” for scrums, rucks, mauls, and other such tomfoolery.
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Full Moon Over Haiti
Chapter 2
A Charming News Item
Chapter 3
Welcome All Monsters!
Chapter 4
The Tent City
Chapter 5
Full Moon Over Haiti
Chapter 6
Scenes From a Moon-Haunted City
Chapter 7
Investigation
Chapter 8
Travel vs. Tourism
Chapter 9
Cité Soleil
Chapter 10
Back to the Tent City
Chapter 11
The Houngan
Chapter 12
The Hunt Begins
Chapter 13
In The Shelter
Chapter 14
Wolf Mountain
Chapter 15
Emperor Henri Christophe
Chapter 16
Les Loups Sans Cheveux
Chapter 17
The Arcadian Coast
Acknowledgements
About The Author
Chapter 1
Full Moon Over Haiti
Andre kicked an old worn soccer ball against a tree in the tent city of Carrefour as the sun set over the ruin of Port-au-Prince. He was a twelve years old and had been living in the tent city since the earthquake destroyed his house a year ago. Both his parents had been killed, and now his aunt Marie took care of him.
His friend, Pierre, came running. “Guess what?” They spoke Haitian Creole - a mishmash of French, Spanish, and a bunch of African languages. It was one of the two official languages of Haiti — the other being French. French was the language of power and prestige while Creole was the language that everybody actually spoke.
“What?” Andre said. Unlike himself, Pierre was slightly chubby and not very athletic. He was out of breath from the run. He wore a “Beatles” T-shirt; a rock band neither of them had ever heard of. Andre’s own shirt read: “Morris County Jewish Recreational Center.” Much of the country’s clothes had been donated from America.
“Come on.” Pierre wiped the snot from his nose with the back of his hand. “Guess.”
Andre frowned at Pierre. “Your parents had a child who lived?”
“No.” Pierre stared back, oblivious. “Guess again.”
“Oh my God, just tell me.”
“You want to see Grand’Anne naked?”
Pierre was taken aback. Grand’Anne was a great beauty famous for her voluptuous breasts. She lived in the tent city with them and — as such — was in constant danger from rapists. Because of which, her parents and three brothers rarely let her out of their sight.
“What are you talking about?” Andre didn’t really believe his dopey friend had a means of sneaking a peak at what every male in the city coveted.
“She’s sweet on my cousin Jean.” Andre knew Jean: an older boy, muscular, and good-looking. “He told me she’s gonna let him screw her.”
“When?”
“Right now.”
“And they are just going to let us watch?”
“No — but we can spy on them.” Andre had seen other people having sex. There was no privacy in the tent cities—not that there had been much before the earthquake. Couples hid behind bushes or whatever flimsy cover was available. But Grand’Anne….
“Where?”
Pierre pointed up the mountain. “By the pond.”
Andre looked up, his brow furrowed. He turned back to his friend. “I don’t know, brother. It’s getting dark.” There wasn’t enough power to light the entire town so only certain neighborhoods would be lighted at a time. Up here in the mountains however, it would be completely dark.
Except for the full moon.
“Come on.” Pierre flapped his arms. “What could happen?”
Anything could (and did) happen in the tent cities.
“We could run into a gang,” Andre said. One of the many dangers of post-earthquake Port-au-Prince was escaped convicts. The earthquake had destroyed the prison and all the prisoners had simply walked out. Few had been recaptured. Now, the gangs were very powerful. They were a cautionary tale to frighten children: “You stay out after dark and the criminals will get you!” They robbed, beat, murdered, and raped at will. Not only women had been raped in the tent cities.
“That’s why we go together.” Pierre made it sound like the two of them would make an unstoppable fighting force — like the two black police officers from that American movie Andre had seen once on a small television at school.
“I don’t think so.”
“What? Are you scared?”
“Yes, I’m scared. You’d be scared too if you had any sense.”
Pierre grabbed his forehead as though it would explode. “But it’sGrand’Anne.Isn’t that worth the risk?”
Andre thought about this for a moment. He did have a point.
“When are we going to get a chance like this again?”
Andre looked up the hill and back at Pierre. “Okay.” He put down his soccer ball. He was a decent player. One of the things Haitians excelled at was soccer. It was a common dream to become a world-class player, get recruited by an international team, and become rich and famous. Andre hoped to imitate his hero, Jean Sony Aclénat, the handsome footballer who began playing professionally in Haiti before he was eighteen. He’d been recruited by Portugal and moved there before the earthquake. Andre often dreamed about being recruited by a French team and moved to Paris where he could live in a house with air-conditioning and go out with a different model every night.
Andre and Pierre walked through the tent city. The dusk air was cool, tasting slightly of seawater. They slowly worked their way through the labyrinth of dirt, canvas, rope, fire pits, garbage, and the random possessions of an entire city of displaced people. They passed a family cooking a chicken over an open fire not too far from an old woman shitting into a bucket.
The majority of the tents were of good quality. Reconstruction was going painfully slow but — in the year following the quake — there was abundant time to ship in first-class tents from all over the world. Most of the tent cities (and there were many) were densely-packed seas of neck-high gray canvas domes that bore the imprint of whatever country had donated them: America, China, Britain, etc.
Remarkably, many of the tents were decorated for Christmas. One of them had a little cheap plastic tree out front. The date was December 21st — Christmas was only four days away.
As Andre and Pierre made their way up the hill, the tents at last began to thin out. The sounds of people talking and the smell of fire and rot receded behind them. Andre looked over his shoulder and had a lovely view of Port-au-Prince and the bay in the twilight.
At the top of the hill, they entered a small wooded area. Trees blotted out the bright Caribbean evening and they were soon engulfed in shadows. Andre kept his eyes on the ground to make sure he did not step on any snakes. “I’m not going to like coming back through here in the dark, man.”
“Grow a set.” Pierre said, huffing and puffing as Andre’s long legs carried him easily.
“Do you even know what that means?”
“Sure.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, it means...you know...” Pierre shook his head: “Grow a set.”
“A set of what?”
“A...set.”
Andre snorted in disgust.
&nb
sp; They traversed the summit of the hill, left the wooded area and emerged into the clearing. It was a downhill hike from here. In the distance, the pond illuminated in the evening light. They had to walk downhill, cross a small ravine, and then they would be there.
They were in a different universe on this side of the hill. On the tent city side, they were in a sea of humanity. Here, they could’ve been the only people in the world. From this vantage point, the emptiness of the rolling desert mountains stretched out for miles. Dark green shrubs dotted the pale brown landscape like flies feeding on a rotting corpse.
“What do you think they look like?” Pierre said.
“What?” The going was smooth now. There was nothing on the walk down this side of the hill but the occasional shrub. The two boys were as exposed as two peas on a dinner plate.
“Grand’Anne’s tits.”
Andre shot a glance back over his shoulder at Pierre. “Haven’t you ever seen a girl’s tits before?”
“Sure I have. Plenty of times. But Grand’Anne’s? What do you think they look like?”
Andre shrugged. “I don’t know. How do you describe tits? What doyou think they look like?”
Pierre thought for a moment. “Two big pineapples!”
“What?” They’d been walking at a pretty good clip down the mountain but, at that last remark, Andre stopped short. Pierre barreled into him and the two of them almost lost their balance. Andre did his best impression of an exasperated parent. “When did you ever see tits that look like pineapples?”
“Well...” Pierre couldn’t meet his gaze. “They have the same shape.”
“The same shape? When was the last time you saw a tit with leaves sticking out of it?”
Pierre put his hands on his chubby hips. “Hey, what do you know? You never even screwed a girl.”
“Neither have you.”
“Sure I have. Plenty of times.”
Andre folded his arms and cocked his head. “Who?”
Pierre thought for a moment. “Oulare.”
“Oulare? She’s four hundred and fifty years old.”
“No, she’s not.”
“Yes she—”
The night was cut by a loud, guttural howl. It seemed to go on forever.
Their two heads snapped up at the sound. They stared mutely at each other in terror. “What was that?” The howl was unlike anything they’d ever heard before. It did not sound like a dog. It was a scream filled with pain, rage, and death.
It sounded distant...but not distant enough.
Pierre looked up at the the sky. “Full moon.”
Andre looked at him. “Jé-rouge.”
Jé-rouge—“red eyes”—the Haitian werewolf. Every child in Haiti knew that theJé-rougecame out at night looking for young children to devour.
Andre looked around. He didn’t see anything. But he also didn’t see anywhere to go. He felt absurdly naked on this barren hill—as though he were on an immense dinner table.
The howl came again. It was closer this time. The sound echoed through the mountains. It came from everywhere and nowhere.
The boys glanced at each other and took off at a run. They headed back up toward the little copse at the summit of the hill and the tent city on the other side.
Andre ran with the agility of a cat, leaping between rocks, never taking his eyes off the woods at the top of the hill. He heard a thud behind him and Pierre cried out. He stopped in mid-stride.
Pierre lay, face-down, in the dirt some distance behind him. The evening was still bright and the place was still just an empty, shrub-dotted hill. There was no way to tell where the howl had come from and no wolf-man came loping toward them.
Without thinking of his own safety, Andre ran back to help his friend. Covered in sweat and out of breath, Pierre was already trying to get to his feet. “Come on.” Andre grabbed Pierre’s wrist, almost dragging him along behind him.
Soon, Pierre’s breathing became thunderous. It was difficult to keep a grip on his sweat-slicked wrist but Andre held on and kept pulling. “Come on! Run faster!”
At last they reached the copse at the top of the hill. It was darker—amongst the trees now. “Wait.” Pierre panted, took a deep breath. “Wait.”
Andre stopped. The wooded area would make for slower going. Pierre dropped into a crouch, his hands on his knees, and gasped for air. Andre felt a shaky sense of relief. Only bushes and trees were visible in the moonlight. They hadn’t heard the howling again. Andre began to feel silly.
There was a growl from somewhere nearby—a low, malevolent sound. It’s here,Andre thought. The whole time it was up here waiting for us.
He turned to face Pierre. In the darkness of the woods, two glowing red eyes peered over his friend’s shoulder. Andre stared into those eyes, paralyzed, mouth agape. The growling rose in volume.
“Pierre?”
Pierre didn’t have time to respond. He didn’t even have time to turn around. There was an unnatural cry—something between a bark and a roar, deafeningly loud. The thing leapt on top of the weaker boy. Pierre screamed as the snarling thing buried its teeth in his shoulder and shook its head side-to-side.
Andre fell backwards. For an instant, he saw his friend’s arm in the thing’s mouth. It flailed right in front of him so he reached out and grabbed Pierre’s wrist. He pulled as hard as he could. For a moment, he thought he had him then he fell back again, still grasping Pierre’s arm.
In an instant that stretched into eternity, he found himself looking into the glowing red eyes of the shaggy-haired thing, its claw still pinning Pierre to the ground. Then, it lost interest in Andre and turned back to Pierre. As the thing sank its fangs into Pierre’s neck, his scream turned into the tortured gurgle of a drowning man, blood exploding from his mouth and nose. The beast tore the flesh away completely. Hot urine poured down Andre’s legs. He ran. Several yards ahead he realized he was still holding Pierre’s arm.
Andre threw the arm down in horror. The sounds of carnage had stopped behind him. He ran and wept simultaneously, barely able to see where he was going. In the blurry haze of his tears, Andre smacked into a tree. He fell down, bloodied his nose, and was up again before he even realized what happened.
The trees fell away and he burst into the clearing. He ran down the slope of the hill. The only sounds to be heard were the crash of his footsteps, the gasping of his lungs, and the thunder of his beating heart. In front of him lay the tent city. He could see makeshift fires and people moving between them. Life was going on as usual. Soon he would be away from the horror. Soon he would be safe.
And then it was upon him.
Everyone had heard the howling. Jean and Grand’Anne—who were indeed making love over by the pond—had heard it. Grand’Anne was terrified. She pushed Jean off her and begged him to take her home.
The people in the tent city had also heard it. And then they’d heard the screams of a child. The men grabbed whatever they could use as a weapon—pieces of wood, anything—and ran to help.
It didn't take long for them to find what was left of Andre’s body. Even after living in one of the most misery-stricken countries in the world—even after seeing the devastation of the earthquake—they weren’t prepared. The body in pieces, partially eaten. The ribcage exposed. Blood everywhere.
An old man turned away and vomited. Someone shone a flashlight on the ground. “Look.” A trail of blood led away from the body. There were also prints—animal prints.
They followed the slick shiny trail in the moonlight. The beast’s tracks went on quite a ways and ended at a small tent, set off by itself. The tent was dark. They shone their flashlights on it. Blood soaked the entrance flap.
Inside lay Seydou Marchand, a loader down at the docks. Some people knew him but no one was his friend.
They found him asleep, lying naked on a blanket. He was covered in blood. In the tent with him were several clay jars, chicken feathers, a human skull, and a small wooden figure of a wolf.
Th
e men looked at each other. “Jé-rouge,” they murmured.
Seydou Marchand began to awaken. “Quick,” one of them said. “Get him now! Before he can change.”
They dragged him from the tent toward a nearby tree, screaming and flailing as they beat him. Several of the men held him as another man placed a noose around his neck. They pulled him up high into the tree and tied the other end of the noose to a sturdy branch then pushed him off to die—his neck broke from the force almost instantly. The body dangled from the rope, lifeless and unmoving.
Chapter 2
A Charming News Item
Asher Greene turned off Route 4 and headed for his old house in Teaneck, New Jersey. He hated coming here now. The place seemed to mock him.
The sun was beginning to set, casting long melancholy shadows. Leafless trees poked up through the snow like skeletal fingers clawing out from a grave. So far, it had been one of the worst winters on record—bone-achingly cold. It had snowed for the past couple of weeks and there appeared to be no relief in sight.
Notwithstanding the trauma of his recent divorce, Asher always got depressed in the winter. Seasonal Anxiety Disorder, they called it.Bullshit, Asher thought. It sounded like one of those made-up conditions invented by drug companies. As a journalist, Asher knew that pharmaceutical companies had discovered the cure first—some drug that has a peculiar effect—invent the disease to go with it. Restless Leg Disorder! And yet, Asher couldn’t deny that he always felt deeply unhappy in the cold. The darkness and the snow made him want to crawl in bed and sleep until spring.
He turned down his old street and there it was—his former house. A charming old white colonial. The entire neighborhood was charming actually—wide avenues and houses set just far enough apart. It seemed the perfect place to raise his kids. Now, someone else got to raise his kids here.
Although he didn’t want to, he was forced to park in the driveway; the snow piled too high to make street parking convenient. He stepped outside. It was like diving into the Arctic. He zipped up his ski jacket and put his hands in the pockets. The setting sun shone through the naked trees, casting the scene in a desolate, eerie light. He turned back to the house and, for a moment, saw movement behind one of the upstairs windows. He was being watched. Otherwise, the house seemed deserted—not a good sign.