Moon High: A werewolf drug comedy

By Maxwell Shepherd

In the small California town of Wood, mysterious beast creatures stalk the night. One of them is Eric, a lonely stoner and werewolf. With the help of his new best pal, Terry from across the street, Eric must put a stop to a spate of recent murders while also seeking to control his werewolfian impulses in this gore-soaked buddy comedy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maxwell Shepherd
• Release date: Apr 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224962761

Book preview

The moon shined and glistened in the waters of a brook, which wound its way gracefully through the trees and brush. Birds slept in their nests, and nocturnal foragers scurried in the shadows, looking for meals. Besides the flow of the water and chirps of crickets, nothing broke the night’s silence until the screams of the young men, whose flight through the woods shredded the stillness. Their footfalls snapped branches and sent the small animals back to their trees and burrows. The two fled in terror, neither thinking of anything but the next step away from their unseen pursuer. They ran until one of the two realized he was now running alone. He tried to stop and turn around, but ended up falling into the dirt. Over the sound of his own furious breath, he heard more screams—different from the earlier ones—interrupted by a recognizably human voice, his friend’s voice, which called out for help before it was brutally extinguished. The young man managed to stand and look through the forest. The cry still echoed in his head, but the world was silent, save the rush of the nearby river and the calls of a distant owl. He kept peering through the woods and tried to muster his voice to call out to his friend. Then he heard it: A low growl crawled along the forest floor and up to his ears. It was watching him. He saw it, hunched in the shadows, eyes glowing. As soon as it realized it had been seen, it launched itself with blinding speed toward its target. It took a second before it opened the man’s stomach; first it clamped its jaws on his shoulder and tossed him through the forest like an orca playing with a baby seal. The sound of the river was louder now. The man—or what was left of him—crawled toward it.

Chapter 1: An American Werewolf in America

The howl echoed through the night and rolled over the moonlit hills. A herd of cows, grazing lazily, stopped and cocked their heads at the sound of it. After several moments, their cow brains forgot about the possible danger, and they all turned their attention back to all the delicious grass at their feet.

A dark form slunk through the shadows, hulking but as silent as a demon’s whisper. Predatory eyes burned red in the dark. Its shape was dark; jaws, teeth, claws, tufts of hair stood out in the moonlight. It crawled down the hillside, closer to the herd.

It stopped ten meters from the nearest cow, waited for the perfect moment, and then covered the distance in a single bound, landing directly on its back. It reached down and clasped the head of the cow between its claws, and with a mighty effort, it ripped the head from the shoulders, followed by a trail of spinal column. Blood gushed from the neck stump and the bovine fell with a thud. The beast held the head aloft and let the blood pour into its canid maw before tossing it aside. The cows went into a frenzy of moos and thundering hooves as they fled into the hillside.

The creature gave chase.

The next day, Herbert Willis, cow owner and pickup truck enthusiast, drove through the hills to pay a visit to his beloved cows and refurbish their hay supply.

Herbert reversed the pickup to a double barrier gate, got out, and tossed a couple of bales over it. After some time passed with none of his cows coming for their breakfast, his concern grew.

Hey, cows, where the fuck are you? he inquired to the winds, which shortly thereafter brought to his nose an awful scent. The scent of...

Dead cows.

And quite a lot of them.

Herbert hurriedly unlocked the gate and started through and up the small hill on the other side. Upon reaching the crest, he looked down and saw his cows spread across the ground as though they had popped like balloons. The early morning sun shone down bright on the carnage. The rays shimmered across the pools of blood. Strips of skin, heads, limbs, organs, and licked-clean bones were scattered across the field. A lone tree was draped with innards that had been flung through the air and now hung like macabre meat streamers at the world’s deadest cow party.

Eyes wide with sorrow and horror and overflowing with tears, Herbert dropped to his knees and screamed to the heavens.

Almost one month later.

The town of Wood, Northeast California. Embedded amid the wilderness. Forgotten.

Eric Russell drove through town. It was small but populated by people of varying sizes. The tallest person in town was John Willington at six foot five inches. They called him Six Foot Five Inch John, on account of his height. The townsfolk were not imaginative.

Eric wasn’t a fan of the place or its people. The roads seemed too thin. The people waved. At total strangers. Who the fuck did they think they are? Just waving at anyone? Who does that? He pondered these questions often.

The town was sandwiched between forested hills and chaparral to the north and a large agricultural area (mostly cornfields and walnut orchards) to the south. It rested off a small highway too far from anywhere special for anyone to know about it.

That was one of the things that Eric was attracted to: For California, it was relatively isolated. Also, the housing was incredibly cheap. Now if he could just do something about all the people who lived there, he’d be set. Eric piloted his sensible Prius through the too-thin streets to a local home improvement shop.

Inside the home improvement store. An employee named Neil halfheartedly stocked shelves in the building materials department until he encountered the very rare situation when his deepest fear became a reality and he was approached by a customer. This one wore very old, baggy gym shorts and a plain t-shirt. It was Eric.

Excuse me, do you guys have cages? Eric asked.

Cages? Neil repeated slowly.

Like for large, unusually strong animals?

We have kennels for dogs, but we don’t have cages, no.

No? Really?

I don’t think so, man. Try Amazon.

Eric stopped to think for a moment. What kind of hardware store didn’t sell cages? It was ridiculous.

So, that’s it? Eric pressed. You can’t go to your little computer and type in—

What, ‘Super strong cages for big animals?’

A little effort would be nice.

Sorry, I don’t know what to tell you.

Well, I’ll take my business elsewhere.

Neil shrugged; he was happy for it to be Amazon’s problem. Eric started to walk out and, on the way, accidentally / on purpose brushed into a box of trinkets sitting on the front counter and knocked them to the ground. Neil shook his head and went back to his shelving until Eric turned around and walked back over.

So, do you guys have chains? he asked.

Terry sat on an old couch on the front porch of his house. Parents gone, he smoked weed right out in the open with impunity, like a total G. He was clad in a strange mishmash of clothing, including a tie-dye shirt, a green St. Paddy’s Day fedora, a ragged thrift store suit jacket, green sweatpants, and a white bathrobe that had been stolen from a hotel. He sipped a cup of coffee in between hits from his blunt and conceptualized a new art form he was calling narrative smell art. The sound of a bicycle bell caught his attention, and he looked up to see childhood best friend and current weed dealer, Emily, laying her bike down on his front lawn.   

What up? You’re just in time—I’m almost out.

Emily walked up the narrow, concrete path and cut across the dirt lawn to the front porch to seat herself next to Terry and prop her feet against the porch rails. She was short at 5’2" and clad in ripped jeans, an Arthur the Aardvark t-shirt, and a yellow zip-up hoodie. She adjusted her black rimmed spectacles and offered a greeting.

’Sup?

They did a personalized fist bump. One vertical bump, one horizontal bump, and one direct knuckle-to-knuckle bump followed by an explosion and capped off with a jellyfish.

So, what are you up to? she asked.

Working on my smell art. Researching Hollow Earth Theory.

What are both of those things?

Smell art is a new art form geared toward the olfactory sense, and Hollow Earth Theory is like... He took a long drag from his bong before continuing on his exhale. You remember that Brendan Fraser movie?

Oh, you’re getting your conspiracy theories from Brendan Fraser movies now?

Look, it might sound crazy, but, like, every culture has its own—

Stop.

Its own, like—

No, just...just stop.

...legends and... he started torching his dab rig. 

Just... she sighed. Just tell me how much weed you want.

Uh, I just have enough for a gram.

Emily took Terry’s ten dollars and gave him way more than a gram. With a parting fist bump, she departed the porch, hopped back on her bike, and onto the street, cutting off a silver Prius as it turned from the intersection. The driver slammed his brakes to avoid hitting her and screeched to a halt.

Suck a dick! she shouted as she waved her middle finger at him.

It was Eric. He cringed at her rude gesture.

What the fuck did I do? he asked of himself as he pulled into the driveway of the house across the street from Terry, who watched with a stoned intrigue as his new neighbor, Eric, exited his  car.

How am I the asshole in that situation? Eric muttered to himself as he opened his back door and lifted out two huge rolls of thick rope and a length of chain. He looked up in time to see Terry, dab rig still in hand, staring at him from across the street.

Eric thought Terry was looking at him like he was some kind of a weirdo. He turned and took his armful of binding tools into his home.

That night, Terry sat alone in his room. His surroundings were dominated by a sort of new-age nerd aesthetic. He dropped a nickel into an Rx bottle and shook it vigorously. Clad in PJs, he sat at his desk in his bedroom. He opened the bottle and poured out the coin along with a small amount of white powder. He cut the powder into a line with his debit card and snorted it with a dollar bill before leaning back into his chair and raising an unlit cigarette to his mouth.

He snuck past his parents, who were now sitting in the living room and watching a TV show where either Nathan Fillion or David Boreanez played a cop, or a cop-adjacent person, who used unorthodox investigatory methods. Terry stealthily exited through the front door and walked down to the sidewalk while sparking his cigarette. He reached the street and began puffing while idly walking to and fro on unsteady legs. After a minute, something caught his attention. A sound coming from across the street. From his new neighbor’s garage. A low, bassy rumbling. Hairs all over his body stood on edge, and his fight or flight reflex instantly cut through the haze of substances in his system. He stood stock-still and listened. It was faint but unmistakable: the growl of a large dog, amplified to the point that it could project through the garage door and over the low winds. He thought, or hoped, that it might be a motorcycle engine.

Driven by curiosity (and drugs), he implored his foot to step off the sidewalk and onto the roadway. Once the first step came, the others followed more easily, and soon enough, he was almost across the street. The growling grew clearer as he walked closer to the source. He arrived at the other sidewalk. Then onto the property line. He stood and listened again while staring at the closed garage door. It was not an engine, and no standard, run-of-the-mill dog could produce a growl so low and alarming. He looked toward the house: The lights were off and there was no sign of life. His hand rested at his side where the forgotten cigarette burned down to his fingers. He didn’t notice for a moment before he finally startled at the pain and flicked the cigarette away.

Fuck! he shout-whispered.

Something heard him. The growling stopped. Terry slowly raised his gaze from where it had landed on his burnt fingertips. For several moments, there was nothing but dead silence until a tremendous roar rang out, cutting through the walls of the garage. His eyes widened in horror. He turned and ran back to his house, scrambled up the porch steps, and quickly darted inside as the animalistic cry echoed after him, chasing him all the way back into his bedroom.

Safely back there, he did frightened dabs in a blanket fort until he fell asleep.

Chapter 2: The Company of Humans

Emily laid in bed with her phone held over her face. She browsed Facebook marketplace, longingly perusing the used vans and dreaming of leading a Scooby-Doo-esque life on the road, selling trees and solving mysteries. Only fifteen bars left to complete the rap she was writing. But the toaster’s pastries beckoned from the kitchen, so she arose.

Emily entered the cramped kitchen promptly at 11:30 a.m. for breakfast before her traditional post breakfast nap. Usually, Katharine would be gone by now, but instead she was sitting at the kitchen table, tapping away on her phone, with an empty bowl of cereal in front of her.

Katharine greeted her. You’re up early.

Emily walked over to the pantry and seized a box of Pop Tarts.

Not really. Don’t you have class? Emily asked.

My morning class was canceled.

Is Mom still here?

No.

Her car’s here, Emily said as she slid two popping tarts into the toaster.

She told me I could take it to school today. She carpooled with her friend.

Emily sat down in a huff. She never lets me drive her car, she lamented.

I’m just taking it to school—it’s not going to be any fun. Katharine slid her phone into her pocket, placed her dishes in the sink, and gave Emily a hug before departing.

Emily steered her bike up a back road lined with trees to one side and a barren field of dirt on the other. She pulled to a stop outside of a rundown, three-story farmhouse and dismounted.

Backpack full of weed in tow, she walked up the creaky wooden steps to the front porch and knocked on the torn screen door. The door was opened by Benny Willis: 19, short, and lanky.

Emily greeted him, and he invited her in by pushing the screen door fully open. The inside of the house was just as dilapidated as its exterior. The kitchen counters were cluttered and covered loosely by peeling linoleum. Benny’s father, Herbert, former cow owner, sat at the kitchen table, slumped over a glass of whiskey. His head bowed in mourning.

How are you, Mr. Willis? Emily inquired.

Well...cows are still dead.

Benny turned to Emily and lowered his voice. I swear to god that’s all he’ll fucking talk about.

Those cows were my livelihood, boy!

No, they weren’t—you’re a hydroelectric engineer, and you haven’t been to work at the dam in weeks! Benny shouted back.

Herbert downed his glass of whiskey, I’m on bereavement leave.

Benny turned to Emily and lowered his voice once more. This is why I need to get high.

Herbert began digging through his pocket. Son! Take my car to the store and grab your old man another bottle of Jimerton Bean.

Herbert threw his car keys toward Benny, who ignored them and allowed them to sail over his shoulder and into the wall behind him.

Benny shook his head. I’m only nineteen.

Herbert sighed, Fine. I think I’ll...take a warm bath. He stood up and stumbled past them out of the room. His clumsy footfalls echoed as he ascended the stairs.

Emily waited until he was out of earshot. Wow. So, he’s still broken up about that cow massacre, huh?

Yeah, I think he might kill himself, Benny responded.

Why?

’Cause the other day he was like: ‘My cows dying makes me feel so sad that I think I might kill myself.’

Oh wow, yeah. That’s a red flag all right, Emily nodded.

They don’t even know what it was that did it. Wagner was here the other day and asking my dad questions, like if he had any enemies and shit. I think they might think it was a person.

Really?

There aren’t any animals that would dismember a herd of cows for no reason. Only a person could be that fucked up.

I guess that’s true. Fuck, Man.

It’s a mystery, all right.

Emily sighed, Yeah. Jesus. Wow...Well...here’s your pot.

Terry lay propped up against the wall of his bed while watching cable television while also furiously surfing the web on his laptop. His room was a mess; it smelled of burnt weed and was littered with the wrappers of devoured fruit snacks.

A narrator’s inappropriately intense voice blared from the TV set. This is American Monsters and Mysteries. In this episode, we explore myths of the mysterious dog-man, the Beast of Bray Road, and the legend of the Cajun Werewolf.

The narrator’s voice echoed from the speakers. "Is Southern Wisconsin host to a population of dangerous