A Summer Adventure

a Siskiyou Writers Club — Chain Story.
Eight writers participated in the challenge, and the final result was read at the club’s September
meeting. The title is A Summer Adventure, and the story is published below.

At its August meeting, the Siskiyou Writers Club embarked on a challenging but fun exercise:

a chain story
The rules are as follows:
The first person begins the story and then passes it on to the next,
who adds to it, then passes it on, with each contribution to be approximately 300 words.
The first writer in the chain gives the story a title and sets the scene.
The last writer has the daunting task of pulling the whole thing together
and giving the story some closure.
Each link of the chain must be completed on schedule, generally about two days.

The Siskiyou Writers Club is open to folks with a passion for creative writing of all genres. We
generally meet the last Thursday of the month in various locations throughout Siskiyou County.
You are welcome to join us. Because the last Thursday of October will be Halloween, our next
meeting will be Thursday, October 24, 2024, 5:00 PM, at the YMCA in Yreka. For more
information about the club, contact Bob Kaster, 530-598-5204, email [email protected], or
Mike Grifantini, 530-710-4882, email [email protected].

---

A Summer Adventure

Steve Amaral

While the boys went over the checklist in preparation to hit the road, Jan and I checked the brake and turn signals on the Jeep we are towing behind our motorhome. Everyone is anxious to start our family adventure; we are all making sure the “little” items are not overlooked. Our two teenage sons are looking forward to documenting and filming the events of the days ahead.

We are driving across America to get a firsthand realization of the uniqueness of this great land. However, our route will not be on the Nation’s Interstates. We intend to follow the paths taken by such adventurers as Lewis and Clark, John C. Fremont, Jedediah Smith, Zebulon Pike, and a host of other greats in American history and folklore.

So outfitted with the necessities and spirit of adventure, we climbed aboard our new motor home and set out to travel the lesser-known back roads. 

Ted and Fred, our two sons, are anxious to get off the pavement. “This first day will be a final shakedown so to speak” as I explain to them as soon as we cross the Sierras, we will take a short jaunt north off of I80, find a suitable camp site and make plans for the next day’s travels. 

As we move north on a gravel road we stop at a wide spot near a small creek adjacent to a grove of trees. My wife Jan and I get out of the RV, stretch our legs and get the propane stove set up to cook dinner. “Where is champ?” I ask Ted.

Champ, our Golden Retriever has taken off down the road. “I see him Dad. I’ll go get him and put his leash on.” 

I can see now it is going to be a training session for the dog. Just about then we heard the local chorus of coyotes and Champ began barking his stay-away bark.

“Keep a tight hold of that leash, we can’t be sure of what else might be out there causing all that commotion! And where is Fred?” I ask. 

“I saw him head into that grove of trees” answered Jan, “a few minutes ago. I saw him carrying his flashlight and small backpack”. 

 As all this transpired, there was the sound of something or someone crashing through the brush under the trees and heading in our direction. Ted and I started calling for Fred and Champ was lunging at his leash as the sun no longer shown bright and dusk quickly came over us. 

Robin Roberts 

What crashes through the brush isn’t human. The beast’s hair is thick and oily and hangs in snarled strands from at least a seven-foot humanoid frame. He wears no clothes that I can see in all that twisted mop. His eyes are bloodshot red and bright with what could only be insanity or panic. His smell, the musky animal odor of a dog that’s sweated too long in the sun hits me, strong enough my gorge rises. He pauses, as if surprised to see Jan, Ted and me and for long enough, if we had a camera, we’d get to snap a shot. 

    No one moves. 

    Then Jan screams and points, because hanging from the hairy monster’s shoulder is Fred’s red and white backpack. 

   “Oh my God!” I step forward. “What have you done with my son?” In my mind I see my oldest child, a baby giggling, a kindergartener, boarding the school bus, then this morning in the car, his fourteen-year-old head buried in The Lord of the Rings while his twelve-year-old brother played games on his phone. 

     My heart squeezes. I have to save my boy—because dripping down the shoulder strap of Fred’s backpack is a fresh trail of bright red blood. 

     “What have you done with my baby.” Jan screams from behind me and charges. What she expects to do against one so large I can’t imagine. 

      I catch her wrist as she passes. The force of her assault near tears off my arm.

     “Wait.” I whisper, and lay a staying hand across her shoulder. For comfort yes, but more to keep her from attacking the complete unknown. “Maybe he’s trying to help.” 

     I turn to the beast and lift a palm. “Hello.”  

Carol Amaral

With that, the beast’s face relaxes, and pats Fred on the back. Jan looks at Ned (the father) and says: “she must be a mother, look! She has boobs! Very gently the Beast sets Fred on the ground, and Jan takes Fred to the motorhome to care for his wounds. Ned gestures to the Beast (who he now calls Stella.) to join him for lunch, After all, she did save his son from harm’s way. Ned fixes Stella a Dagwood sandwich and a regular one for himself. Fred came out of the motorhome with his wounds bandaged, he saw Stella and started running away, Ned called to Fred, don’t run away, she’s friendly, Fred came back and shook her hand, a thank you for saving him. No hugs today, after all she was still oily and stinky. Fred never told his mother what happened to him, he saw Stella and was so scared he passed out. That’s when Stella picked him up and tried to comfort him. Ned and Stella were finishing eating their sandwich, when off in the distance, they heard snarling and growling. Ned yelled at Jan to get the boys and get in the motorhome quickly! Ned barely made it into the motorhome when a pack of werewolves started attacking Stella, Ned knew she could hold her own, so he started the engine and was driving down the road when Jan realized Champ was not with them. Where was Champ?

Mike Grifantini

Ned slammed on the brakes, the motorhome skidding to a stop along the narrow, dusty road.  Pots and pans fell from their not-so-well positioned resting places and clanged to the walkway of the RV.  A pile of board games flew forward and whacked Jan on the back of the head, with Yahtzee cubes shooting ahead toward the windshield, like a load of buckshot after a flock of geese.  

Champ was part of the family, since he was just a pup.  How could they just leave him!  “Ted, help me get turned around!”  Ted opened the side door and bailed out, using his long-learned skills of helping his dad back the motorhome.  Back and forth, back and forth, Ned cranked the steering wheel, using a narrow path perpendicular to the road to make the 180 degree change in direction, so as to head back where they had last seen their faithful friend.  Faithful, yes he had been and faithful, yes, they must all be.

Ted, jumped back in the RV, Ned spinning the tires in his get off before the door had even been securely closed.  The motorhome zoomed back to the beautiful spot along the creek where the unexpected adventure had begun.  No one, none of the naïve participants of this peacefully-conceived campout, knew what they had waiting for them!

Jess Ward

Ned was thinking to himself how do I fight a Werewolf? He hadn’t brought any firearms along. His only real weapons were his axe and his son’s baseball bat. Prety feeble weapons for taking on Werewolves. He would have preferred a shotgun loaded with silver buckshot.

He didn’t know anything about Werewolves other than what he had read in books. They were mythical beings that were men that would be possessed and turned into a wolf under a full moon. It only lasted until daylight then they would return to normal. He recalled nothing about how to fight, hurt, or kill one. He had to decide soon because they would be back at their camp shortly.

They arrived at camp and found Stella in full combat mode. She had turned a picknick table over and had a Champ behind her in between her and the table. There were three Werewolves attacking her.

Stella was immensely powerful. She would slap or backhand a Werewolf and knock it ten feet. She could grab and fling one thirty feet.

Champ was behind her trying his hardest to get into the fight, but in addition to fighting Werewolves, Stella kept pushing him back keeping him safe.

I grabbed my trusty axe and charged into the fray. A Werewolf Stella had body slammed hard into the ground lay stunned before me. I swung my axe looking to cleave his head. I missed hitting it on the shoulder. It spun knocking me down. The momentum of the swing combined with the force of the blow caused me to lose my axe.

The beast crouched snarling before me. Drooling in anticipation of his next meal. Me. A huge bolder about a yard in circumference smashed the Werewolves head and front torso into jelly. I knew now how to kill a werewolf.

Bob Kaster

I turned toward Stella, behind me.  That big boulder must have weighed at least a ton, yet she had picked it up and thrown it six feet before it crashed into the werewolf’s head and torso.  But the effort had taken its toll, and Stella was slumping forward, arms around her chest, desperately gasping for breath.  Then she slammed, face first, onto the dirt when the two remaining werewolves launched themselves onto her back, their long, sharp fangs seeking blood.

I couldn’t allow that.  My mind was clearing, and I was remembering what happens when a werewolf’s fangs draw blood from a human; but what would happen to Stella?  Was she human, or some other species?  Drawing blood transforms a human into the eternal hell of becoming a werewolf.  Would that happen to Stella?  I didn’t know, but couldn’t take the chance.  Stella had saved my life and my son’s life.

Fred was yelling from the direction of the motor home, and I turned to see him approaching quickly, clutching a rolled-up newspaper that was on fire.  “Werewolves are afraid of fire!” he shouted, as he handed me the burning newspaper.

Holding the burning paper out in front of me I approached the two werewolves trying to get their fangs into Stella.  Seeing the fire, they quickly climbed off of her and started moving toward the forest, with me chasing behind.  Ted came out of the motor home, and the two boys coaxed and dragged Stella into the motor home, whose engine had been started by Jan.  I followed them in, noticing as I passed that the head and torso of the third werewolf was no longer gelatinous.  The beast was coming alive, even uglier than before.

Now we were headed down the highway, with Jan at the wheel.  When we started the day, there were four of us.  Now, there were five.

Alan Eddy

As the motorhome rattled down the highway, tension still crackled in the air. Stella, now on the fold-out couch, was breathing shallowly, and Jan drove with steely resolve. Suddenly, a chilling howl pierced the night, echoing over the barren landscape. 

“Did you hear that?” Jan’s voice trembled.

“Yes,” I replied, my mind racing. “It’s a call.”

The howl was followed by rhythmic thuds, like distant drums. I glanced at Stella, who was waking, her eyes filled with pain and concern. 

“They’re calling a pack,” Stella whispered. “They know you have me.”

Fear gripped me. The werewolves were mobilizing, and more were coming. We needed to find shelter quickly.

“There’s a cabin ahead,” Jan said, pointing to a flickering light in the distance. It was our only option. 

We pulled up to the small, seemingly abandoned cabin. The boys helped Stella inside while Jan and I quickly barricaded the windows and door. 

“Stella, how do we stop them?” I asked, urgency in my voice.

Stella struggled to speak. “There’s a ritual. But we need a sacred ingredient—a piece of silver from an old church bell.”

Just then, a deafening howl echoed, and the heavy thuds grew louder. The werewolves were closing in.

“We need to find that silver,” I said. “It’s our only chance.”

As the first werewolf clawed at the door, our defenses strained. The cabin was our last hope, and we had no time to lose. With the werewolves almost upon us, finding the silver—and surviving the night—was our only chance.

Ursula Bendix

Jan, who as a teenager had been captivated by the werewolf, Frankenstein, Dracula, and Egyptian mummy stories, remembered a scene from an old movie she had recently watched on TV during one of her periodic insomnia episodes.

“Stella, I think the silver “ritual” is impossible. We’re locked in a cabin, not a chapel. There is no bell in sight, least of all a silver bell. There’s another way out of this. Let’s look around for some pieces of wood we can tie together to make a cross. Werewolves are deadly afraid of this Christian emblem of protection.”

“What choice do we have?” I ask. “Boys, Stella, let’s look around.”

Jan, in her very methodical fashion walked slowly around the main cabin room, letting her eyes wander up and down the smoke stained walls. She stopped in front of a decrepit, ash-filled fireplace hoping to find one or two whole pieces of charred wood. We hear her cry out, “Everyone, come here, look at this!”

We all rush to her side. “Jan, what’s wrong?”

Our mouths drop open when we see what she is pointing out. There above the fireplace, attached to the inside of a small alcove is a beautifully, handcrafted, silver crucifix.

I reach for it, handle it carefully and try to read the inscription on the back “Serra.” Could this crucifix have possibly belonged to Padre Junipero Serra, the Franciscan friar who had established eight of the 21 Catholic missions in California?

The din of the howling creatures grows stronger by the minute. Soon the pack will be large enough and strong enough to break down the door. “One of us has to hold up the cross when they enter. This will cause them to back away in fear,” explains the werewolf expert, Jan.

Brave, brave Stella offers to hold the cross then opens the cabin door and lures the pack away, giving us time to get into the motorhome and drive off.

Our last look—Stella holding the cross high, calmly leading the subdued creatures into the trees.