Six Pack Tales: Four - The Growler LbNA #44307 (ARCHIVED)
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Add Location| Owner: | Riversol  |
|---|---|
| Plant date: | Oct 31, 2008 |
| Location: | |
| City: | Royersford |
| County: | Montgomery |
| State: | Pennsylvania |
| Boxes: | 1 |
| Found by: | PA Dream Cachers |
|---|---|
| Last found: | Nov 10, 2009 |
| Status: | FFFFFFF |
| Last edited: | Oct 31, 2008 |
(The Six Pack Tales Series Has Six Interlocking Stamps, So Plan Ahead!)
There's a Bonus Personal Traveler Box Too!
Inspired by Neil Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book
Saying Nobody “Bod” Owens had quite a history would be an understatement. His birth family had been murdered nearly twenty-one years ago in England. Over the course of sixteen years, Bod had been raised by caring spirits and other nocturnal inhabitants of a graveyard turned nature preserve outside of London. Throughout his childhood he had numerous adventures and accumulated hauntingly unique abilities along the way. At age sixteen, Bod set off on his own, traveling the world to explore life outside the protection of the graveyard. Over the course of the previous five years he had hiked mountainous reaches on four continents, assisted at orphanages in a dozen countries and read many a good book while adventuring on the road.
Most recently Bod had journeyed from the increasingly chilly breezes of Nova Scotia down the North American east coast to search out his next adventure in warmer climes. Having just turned twenty-one on Hallows Eve, Bod decided to celebrate American-style with a bottle of good brew. At the suggestion of some of the locals, he found his way to the Sly Fox brewpub in Royersford which sold him an oversized bottle of the seasonally available Pumpkin Spice Ale. When he asked the bartender about the origin of the brewpub’s name, she said hurriedly that it had something to do with fox hunting done in the area. The incessant chatter of the bar atmosphere led Bod to set out on the road again with bottle in hand. He had no concern of being arrested as a vagrant, as he was still able to “fade” sufficiently into the shadows to avoid the observation of the casual passerby. Fading was the one nocturnal ability Bod retained, at least in part, ever since leaving England,
Walking up Walnut Street beneath darkening skies, he turned into the local cemetery, a dilapidated metal sign at its entrance citing numerous rules outlining the appropriate ways to show respect to those no longer of this world. Bod often sought out the stoic company of grave sites and their haphazard patterns of orderliness. Although his ability to converse with spirits of the dead had vanished five years ago, he could still feel the comfort of their presences, a feeling he could best describe as “home.”
Lifting the half emptied bottle to his mouth, he meandered to the crest of the hill where the tallest tree in the graveyard stood. Usually the highest reaches of graveyards had the oldest graves, and subsequently the most active spirits to put him at ease. Bod settled down with his back against the trunk of the tall, gnarled pine to sip some more from his bottle and contemplate. The fine pungent taste of spiced ale seemed to enhance the intensity of spirits around him. Shimmering patterns of blue and green coursed across the field of his mind’s eye, leaving him in a state of peace.
Bod was startled from his reverie when something brushed past him. The starlight of the moonless sky was bright enough to see a silver form low to the ground stumble and then dart behind the sole mausoleum nearby. Expecting a stray dog which had lost its way, Bod rose to take a look, tiptoeing to a wall of the tomb, Turning the corner, Bod fell on his rear in surprise as a pacing man confronted him. The figure radiated a faint, monochrome blue-gray.
“You’d think they could at least replace the flag once in a while. Damn thing hasn’t been replaced since the bicentennial!” declared the man to the night sky, then taking notice of Bod he added. “Ah, a vagrant, surely come to defile my tomb with rolls of paper.”
“Who are you calling a vagrant?” asked Bod.
“You’re a live one….wait a darn minute… you can see and hear me?”
Bod nodded.
“Abe Walt of Pennsylvania’s 51st Regiment at your service. It’s a rare night that I get a visitor here at Fernwood that I can actually talk to! What’s the rub?”
“No rub.” said Bod standing up. “I grew up seeing ghosts my whole life, um well, that is up until five years ago, when I lost that skill. Hmm, why indeed am I able to see you now?”
“Drinking has been known to cause people to see things…and by the unbalance in your step and the drained aspect of that bottle you have there, I’d say you’ve been drinking quite a bit.” The ghost reflected then added “Ahh, to be alive again and taste a fresh brewed lager; that would be something fine!.”
“I appreciate your dilemma and I’d love to chat, but did you see an animal dart over this way. It looked like it might be injured.”
“That varmint weren’t injured. That were The Growler, what the locals call ‘the sly fox,’ and it’s not rightly of this here earth. The Growler has been causing some mighty trouble of late, knocking over graves and disturbing the quiet night in general. That fiendish Growler even had the audacity to wreck poor old Emma Kupka’s resting spot.”
“Can I speak to her? Maybe she knows where this sly fox can be found.”
“You can check her grave on the other side of my mausoleum, but ever since the Growler smashed her grave a score of years ago, Emma hasn’t shown her face. I think the loss and pain she felt was more than she could handle. Still, it can’t hurt to check, I warrant. Maybe her husband can clue you in to where that rascal’s hidin’ spot is.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Sure thing, son. In fact, let me give you a few important words of advice about the residents of this here cemetery. First, spoken numbers have special meaning in the graveyard and can lead to the unlocking of many a secret, "like lightning to a rod." Second, any numerical information you obtain from ghosts will have precedence by the date of DEATH on their grave; so order your wisdom well, using the elder spirit’s information first and discarding numbers spoken where a date of death is uncertain. And lastly, good things come to those who upkeep the graves of those who came before them. I mean, how much effort does it take to replace a flag, darn it all?!”
“Thanks again. And I’ll see what I can do to get you a new flag.”
Bod left the soldier’s grumbles behind him as he walked around the soldier’s tomb. He had no problem finding where Emma and Frank Kupka had been laid to rest. Emma’s grave site was significantly damaged. Mysterious powers were indeed in play.
Whether owing to the pumpkin spice or some other factor, Bod’s abilities were indeed returning to him this moonless night. For Bod presently gazed upon a diaphanous, shimmering form perched on Frank Kupka’s sarcophagus, poised as if on midnight lookout.
“Hello, Mr. Kupka? I’m looking for the sly fox?”
“Emma knows where that fox is. I’s waitin’ for her.”
“Abe said you might be able to help me.”
“Abe ain’t know nothin’. Emma is busy, been busy for twenty years, but she’ll return if you want to wait. I will wait here 10 centuries if required.”
“Sir, I’m mortal, I can’t wait that long.”
“Love is patience, I’s always been told. You might talk to the smartass priest. He liked hunting foxes. Find him with the other crosses, you will. Now I’s wait if’n you please.” Mr. Kupka contorted his entire face into a grimace, leaving no doubt that he’d rather be left alone.
“Thank you sir,” Bod replied backing away, leaving Mr. Kupka to his watch.
Bod found the priest’s burial spot among a number of marble cross markers, the only such grouping in the whole of the graveyard. In the starlight, Bod’s night vision made out the “ihs” christogram carved into the largest cross. From his knowledge of graveyards, Bod knew these three initials represented the first three letters of the prophet Jesus in Greek, iota-eta-sigma, a monogram reserved for dedicated clergy. He wondered what clergyman would have a pastime of hunting fox. The night air seemed to reply to his unspoken question with a rolling murmur. In fact, the murmur originated a short distance behind the markers, where Bod now saw several luminescent and translucent figures seated around another standing at their center.
“Looking for me?” the central apparition called to Bod as he approached.
“Are you the priest?”
“In my living days I was. Now I’m a bit more enlightened. Normine Kaltenbach spiritual teacher, at your service. Or rather teacher to the spirits here in the cemetery.“
“Pleased to meet you. I am searching for the sly fox, and Mr. Kupka told me you have experience hunting fox around here.”
“That’s a funny thought, indeed. Ahh, I see. I believe Frank has conveyed a misunderstanding to you. Once a week we have a sky tour, and Vulpecula, the little fox, is one constellation we spot in the Summer sky, specifically within the Summer Triangle. I do believe one night many years past Frank and his wife joined us for a sky tour. Did you know the average distance of the stars in the faint constellation of Vulpecula is 144 light-years?”
“Mr. Kupka does seem to be the type who could easily be confused,” Bod returned.
“Sometimes devotion blinds the mind; it took many years of silent critical thinking for me to overcome the dogmatic teachings I once believed. But that is beside the point; you are looking for information to locate the Growler. Well I can tell you a few things that might help. The Growler is pretty secretive. It is actually a hybrid creature, a spirit trying to regain a footing in the real world. It hungers for regaining its material senses. I fear it will hurt someone if it actually completes its transition to the real world. Unfortunately, there is nothing we spirits can do to prevent this. The Growler is already too far gone from our spirit world.”
“Uh, okay. Well I’ll keep that in mind if I find it. Have you any idea where I might be able to find the sly fox, er, the Growler?”
“You might try Otto Amtos or Emil Hafner. They are the two dedicated trappers in the graveyard. They always show up to lecture on evolutionary biology night, though for their own diabolical reasons, I’m afraid. Amtos resides in the far eastern corner of the cemetery and you should see Hafner along the way.”
Bod thanked the priest and then headed east toward Jupiter now rising over the horizon in search of the two trappers. He passed several graves carved in the shapes of logs. Bod knew these markers to belong to children of the Foresters of Philadelphia, a sister organization of the Masons that died out during the Great Depression. The intricately carved Forester gravestones most commonly marked the burial spots for their infants and young children.
Bod located Emil Hafner’s headstone. The red marble was carved and buffed to a shining luster. Bod recognized the stone as one reserved for the wealthy.
Bod called out, “Mr. Hafner?”
No answer.
Bod started to call out the name a second time, when a ghostly face slid a few inches out of the ground like a puddle of mist. A decidedly spooky mutter shushed Bod.
“Mr. Hafner?” Bod whispered.
“You’ll be the expunging of me, kid. Now skat.”
“I’m looking for the sly fox, sir. The priest said you might be able to help.”
The apparition of Emil Hafner’s lower face spoke quickly in a low tone. “Darn priest has a big mouth. If it will get rid of you, listen here quick. That damned Growler is on a rampage. Last year he got my junior, Otto.”
“Otto Amtos? Your junior?”
“Yes, Otto Amtos, the last Junior Chief Ranger of the local order of Foresters. Now shut up and listen. The Growler has been consuming spirits for years now and it has a taste for Forester souls. At dawn betwixt Hallows Eve and Hallowsmas the Growler has hunted down a Forester soul for each of the past twenty years. I am among the last Forester in the cemetery and in a few hours the Growler will hunt again to feed and complete its physical manifestation. According to the old texts, once 20 souls are consumed the creature will have a hold in the real world. Upon which it must consume 20 additional from the ranks of the living to attain human form. Well, I ain’t gonna be spirit-feed for that darn Growler, so I’m laying low. That’s the long ‘n’ short of it. Now vamoose or I’ll be joining poor old Otto in the belly of that demon, and you will be responsible for the unleashing of this creature into the real world.”
With that the face of Mr. Hafner slid down into the gravesite.
Bod shrugged off the contempt he felt for Emil Hafner; this Growler seemed indeed to be a threat the spirits could not defend themselves from. Hiding might not even give them much of a chance. He quickened his pace as he still felt he hadn’t enough information to go on. With the brewpub bottle swinging at his side, Bod scoured the eastern corner of the graveyard hoping to find an additional clue. He found Otto Amtos’s marker looking as if it had been vandalized. Rough numerals were traced on the ground like those left in a B movie scene. Rather than written in blood these digits, specifically the number 179, were scribed with the dim luminescent vapor of the ethereal. To the gifted eye they would stay visible for millennia.
“Mr. Amtos?” Bod called out uncertainly. Bod looked around him but to no avail. There was ample reason to believe Emil Hafner was speaking true about the devouring of Otto Amtos’ spirit.
Bod had hoped to avoid performing his next action, but with the night passing by and the imperative of finding this sly fox ever higher, Bod kneeled, placing both of his hands palm down on the ground and in the most serious tone he could muster appealed “I, Nobody Owens, child of the material world, kin of the spirit world, invoke the memory of the graveyard.”
A vibration rose with a deep bass thrum that resonated to Bod’s very core.
“You push your limits, human child,” it quaked. “The Lady on the Grey will not be pleased.”
“I will answer her objection when my time comes,” Bod managed. “Graveyard, I seek the creature called the Growler amongst your spirits, and known as the sly fox amongst the local living. Tell me what I need to know from the past, so I can save innocents from destruction.”
Words bellowed like thunder from the hillside, “You ask of a secret the spirits here are reluctant to admit to themselves under most any circumstance, let alone divulge to outsiders. And yet your request is not one to be denied.”
“Over the last century, the world has become a place where satisfaction rules over acceptance in the physical world. The worldly magic of medicine spoils its makers, and taunts the spirits that have suffered in the past and that continue to linger in this world. Emma Kupka succumbed to a yearning such knowledge brings. She very much desired children in her life. Unfortunately, her husband’s dismissal from the Foresters was accompanied by a banishing ceremony in which a warm, metallic stone was chained between Frank Kupka’s legs for a week to curse his potency. Afterwards, despite a lifetime of trying Emma never bore a single child. “
In life Emma grew sorrowful, but after death Emma overheard women of the world speak of overcoming barrenness. Devoted to the idea of having children, she sought life again. Her studies with the one who calls himself Teacher of Spirits uncovered an ancient rite which would permit her to become corporeal. As you found out from Emil Hafner, the rite requires much vengeance, something Emma lacked. Despondent, Emma sought refuge in seclusion, rather than in the community of spirits, and over many years her desire festered into need, and from that a vengeance against the Foresters that fulfilled the ritual was born. Twenty years ago on this night, Emma Kupka became the Growler after she devoured the first soul.”
At dawn, the Growler will hunt for one final Forester soul completing her transition to the physical form which will allow the Growler to hunt the humans it needs. The only way to locate the Growler is to begin at the marker of her first spirit victim, Linwood Pennypacker. That child’s obelisk is the starting point of your journey. You must then proceed on a bearing of (sound of lightning strike) to the tree of solace. Once beneath its canopy head (sound of lightning strike) to a gravestone bracketed by two bushes. From there, you can sight a tall secluded tree at (sound of lightning strike) which is where the Growler resides.”
The graveyard’s voice fell to a thrumming pause.
“How can I stop this creature?”
“You have heard the memory of the graveyard, Nobody. Now be quiet or your rendezvous with the Lady on the Grey will come sooner than you would wish.”
At which the graveyard fell silent, and a chill breeze coursed through the grass at Bod’s fingertips.
Without delay, Bod rose and hunted down the Pennypacker obelisk the graveyard spoke of. It was not difficult, as there were very few obelisk markers in the cemetery. Immediately, he began to track down the Growler. If only he could determine a method to end this night’s dreadful story before the dawn of Hallowmas arrived.
(the end of the tale awaits discovery)
There's a Bonus Personal Traveler Box Too!
Inspired by Neil Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book
Saying Nobody “Bod” Owens had quite a history would be an understatement. His birth family had been murdered nearly twenty-one years ago in England. Over the course of sixteen years, Bod had been raised by caring spirits and other nocturnal inhabitants of a graveyard turned nature preserve outside of London. Throughout his childhood he had numerous adventures and accumulated hauntingly unique abilities along the way. At age sixteen, Bod set off on his own, traveling the world to explore life outside the protection of the graveyard. Over the course of the previous five years he had hiked mountainous reaches on four continents, assisted at orphanages in a dozen countries and read many a good book while adventuring on the road.
Most recently Bod had journeyed from the increasingly chilly breezes of Nova Scotia down the North American east coast to search out his next adventure in warmer climes. Having just turned twenty-one on Hallows Eve, Bod decided to celebrate American-style with a bottle of good brew. At the suggestion of some of the locals, he found his way to the Sly Fox brewpub in Royersford which sold him an oversized bottle of the seasonally available Pumpkin Spice Ale. When he asked the bartender about the origin of the brewpub’s name, she said hurriedly that it had something to do with fox hunting done in the area. The incessant chatter of the bar atmosphere led Bod to set out on the road again with bottle in hand. He had no concern of being arrested as a vagrant, as he was still able to “fade” sufficiently into the shadows to avoid the observation of the casual passerby. Fading was the one nocturnal ability Bod retained, at least in part, ever since leaving England,
Walking up Walnut Street beneath darkening skies, he turned into the local cemetery, a dilapidated metal sign at its entrance citing numerous rules outlining the appropriate ways to show respect to those no longer of this world. Bod often sought out the stoic company of grave sites and their haphazard patterns of orderliness. Although his ability to converse with spirits of the dead had vanished five years ago, he could still feel the comfort of their presences, a feeling he could best describe as “home.”
Lifting the half emptied bottle to his mouth, he meandered to the crest of the hill where the tallest tree in the graveyard stood. Usually the highest reaches of graveyards had the oldest graves, and subsequently the most active spirits to put him at ease. Bod settled down with his back against the trunk of the tall, gnarled pine to sip some more from his bottle and contemplate. The fine pungent taste of spiced ale seemed to enhance the intensity of spirits around him. Shimmering patterns of blue and green coursed across the field of his mind’s eye, leaving him in a state of peace.
Bod was startled from his reverie when something brushed past him. The starlight of the moonless sky was bright enough to see a silver form low to the ground stumble and then dart behind the sole mausoleum nearby. Expecting a stray dog which had lost its way, Bod rose to take a look, tiptoeing to a wall of the tomb, Turning the corner, Bod fell on his rear in surprise as a pacing man confronted him. The figure radiated a faint, monochrome blue-gray.
“You’d think they could at least replace the flag once in a while. Damn thing hasn’t been replaced since the bicentennial!” declared the man to the night sky, then taking notice of Bod he added. “Ah, a vagrant, surely come to defile my tomb with rolls of paper.”
“Who are you calling a vagrant?” asked Bod.
“You’re a live one….wait a darn minute… you can see and hear me?”
Bod nodded.
“Abe Walt of Pennsylvania’s 51st Regiment at your service. It’s a rare night that I get a visitor here at Fernwood that I can actually talk to! What’s the rub?”
“No rub.” said Bod standing up. “I grew up seeing ghosts my whole life, um well, that is up until five years ago, when I lost that skill. Hmm, why indeed am I able to see you now?”
“Drinking has been known to cause people to see things…and by the unbalance in your step and the drained aspect of that bottle you have there, I’d say you’ve been drinking quite a bit.” The ghost reflected then added “Ahh, to be alive again and taste a fresh brewed lager; that would be something fine!.”
“I appreciate your dilemma and I’d love to chat, but did you see an animal dart over this way. It looked like it might be injured.”
“That varmint weren’t injured. That were The Growler, what the locals call ‘the sly fox,’ and it’s not rightly of this here earth. The Growler has been causing some mighty trouble of late, knocking over graves and disturbing the quiet night in general. That fiendish Growler even had the audacity to wreck poor old Emma Kupka’s resting spot.”
“Can I speak to her? Maybe she knows where this sly fox can be found.”
“You can check her grave on the other side of my mausoleum, but ever since the Growler smashed her grave a score of years ago, Emma hasn’t shown her face. I think the loss and pain she felt was more than she could handle. Still, it can’t hurt to check, I warrant. Maybe her husband can clue you in to where that rascal’s hidin’ spot is.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Sure thing, son. In fact, let me give you a few important words of advice about the residents of this here cemetery. First, spoken numbers have special meaning in the graveyard and can lead to the unlocking of many a secret, "like lightning to a rod." Second, any numerical information you obtain from ghosts will have precedence by the date of DEATH on their grave; so order your wisdom well, using the elder spirit’s information first and discarding numbers spoken where a date of death is uncertain. And lastly, good things come to those who upkeep the graves of those who came before them. I mean, how much effort does it take to replace a flag, darn it all?!”
“Thanks again. And I’ll see what I can do to get you a new flag.”
Bod left the soldier’s grumbles behind him as he walked around the soldier’s tomb. He had no problem finding where Emma and Frank Kupka had been laid to rest. Emma’s grave site was significantly damaged. Mysterious powers were indeed in play.
Whether owing to the pumpkin spice or some other factor, Bod’s abilities were indeed returning to him this moonless night. For Bod presently gazed upon a diaphanous, shimmering form perched on Frank Kupka’s sarcophagus, poised as if on midnight lookout.
“Hello, Mr. Kupka? I’m looking for the sly fox?”
“Emma knows where that fox is. I’s waitin’ for her.”
“Abe said you might be able to help me.”
“Abe ain’t know nothin’. Emma is busy, been busy for twenty years, but she’ll return if you want to wait. I will wait here 10 centuries if required.”
“Sir, I’m mortal, I can’t wait that long.”
“Love is patience, I’s always been told. You might talk to the smartass priest. He liked hunting foxes. Find him with the other crosses, you will. Now I’s wait if’n you please.” Mr. Kupka contorted his entire face into a grimace, leaving no doubt that he’d rather be left alone.
“Thank you sir,” Bod replied backing away, leaving Mr. Kupka to his watch.
Bod found the priest’s burial spot among a number of marble cross markers, the only such grouping in the whole of the graveyard. In the starlight, Bod’s night vision made out the “ihs” christogram carved into the largest cross. From his knowledge of graveyards, Bod knew these three initials represented the first three letters of the prophet Jesus in Greek, iota-eta-sigma, a monogram reserved for dedicated clergy. He wondered what clergyman would have a pastime of hunting fox. The night air seemed to reply to his unspoken question with a rolling murmur. In fact, the murmur originated a short distance behind the markers, where Bod now saw several luminescent and translucent figures seated around another standing at their center.
“Looking for me?” the central apparition called to Bod as he approached.
“Are you the priest?”
“In my living days I was. Now I’m a bit more enlightened. Normine Kaltenbach spiritual teacher, at your service. Or rather teacher to the spirits here in the cemetery.“
“Pleased to meet you. I am searching for the sly fox, and Mr. Kupka told me you have experience hunting fox around here.”
“That’s a funny thought, indeed. Ahh, I see. I believe Frank has conveyed a misunderstanding to you. Once a week we have a sky tour, and Vulpecula, the little fox, is one constellation we spot in the Summer sky, specifically within the Summer Triangle. I do believe one night many years past Frank and his wife joined us for a sky tour. Did you know the average distance of the stars in the faint constellation of Vulpecula is 144 light-years?”
“Mr. Kupka does seem to be the type who could easily be confused,” Bod returned.
“Sometimes devotion blinds the mind; it took many years of silent critical thinking for me to overcome the dogmatic teachings I once believed. But that is beside the point; you are looking for information to locate the Growler. Well I can tell you a few things that might help. The Growler is pretty secretive. It is actually a hybrid creature, a spirit trying to regain a footing in the real world. It hungers for regaining its material senses. I fear it will hurt someone if it actually completes its transition to the real world. Unfortunately, there is nothing we spirits can do to prevent this. The Growler is already too far gone from our spirit world.”
“Uh, okay. Well I’ll keep that in mind if I find it. Have you any idea where I might be able to find the sly fox, er, the Growler?”
“You might try Otto Amtos or Emil Hafner. They are the two dedicated trappers in the graveyard. They always show up to lecture on evolutionary biology night, though for their own diabolical reasons, I’m afraid. Amtos resides in the far eastern corner of the cemetery and you should see Hafner along the way.”
Bod thanked the priest and then headed east toward Jupiter now rising over the horizon in search of the two trappers. He passed several graves carved in the shapes of logs. Bod knew these markers to belong to children of the Foresters of Philadelphia, a sister organization of the Masons that died out during the Great Depression. The intricately carved Forester gravestones most commonly marked the burial spots for their infants and young children.
Bod located Emil Hafner’s headstone. The red marble was carved and buffed to a shining luster. Bod recognized the stone as one reserved for the wealthy.
Bod called out, “Mr. Hafner?”
No answer.
Bod started to call out the name a second time, when a ghostly face slid a few inches out of the ground like a puddle of mist. A decidedly spooky mutter shushed Bod.
“Mr. Hafner?” Bod whispered.
“You’ll be the expunging of me, kid. Now skat.”
“I’m looking for the sly fox, sir. The priest said you might be able to help.”
The apparition of Emil Hafner’s lower face spoke quickly in a low tone. “Darn priest has a big mouth. If it will get rid of you, listen here quick. That damned Growler is on a rampage. Last year he got my junior, Otto.”
“Otto Amtos? Your junior?”
“Yes, Otto Amtos, the last Junior Chief Ranger of the local order of Foresters. Now shut up and listen. The Growler has been consuming spirits for years now and it has a taste for Forester souls. At dawn betwixt Hallows Eve and Hallowsmas the Growler has hunted down a Forester soul for each of the past twenty years. I am among the last Forester in the cemetery and in a few hours the Growler will hunt again to feed and complete its physical manifestation. According to the old texts, once 20 souls are consumed the creature will have a hold in the real world. Upon which it must consume 20 additional from the ranks of the living to attain human form. Well, I ain’t gonna be spirit-feed for that darn Growler, so I’m laying low. That’s the long ‘n’ short of it. Now vamoose or I’ll be joining poor old Otto in the belly of that demon, and you will be responsible for the unleashing of this creature into the real world.”
With that the face of Mr. Hafner slid down into the gravesite.
Bod shrugged off the contempt he felt for Emil Hafner; this Growler seemed indeed to be a threat the spirits could not defend themselves from. Hiding might not even give them much of a chance. He quickened his pace as he still felt he hadn’t enough information to go on. With the brewpub bottle swinging at his side, Bod scoured the eastern corner of the graveyard hoping to find an additional clue. He found Otto Amtos’s marker looking as if it had been vandalized. Rough numerals were traced on the ground like those left in a B movie scene. Rather than written in blood these digits, specifically the number 179, were scribed with the dim luminescent vapor of the ethereal. To the gifted eye they would stay visible for millennia.
“Mr. Amtos?” Bod called out uncertainly. Bod looked around him but to no avail. There was ample reason to believe Emil Hafner was speaking true about the devouring of Otto Amtos’ spirit.
Bod had hoped to avoid performing his next action, but with the night passing by and the imperative of finding this sly fox ever higher, Bod kneeled, placing both of his hands palm down on the ground and in the most serious tone he could muster appealed “I, Nobody Owens, child of the material world, kin of the spirit world, invoke the memory of the graveyard.”
A vibration rose with a deep bass thrum that resonated to Bod’s very core.
“You push your limits, human child,” it quaked. “The Lady on the Grey will not be pleased.”
“I will answer her objection when my time comes,” Bod managed. “Graveyard, I seek the creature called the Growler amongst your spirits, and known as the sly fox amongst the local living. Tell me what I need to know from the past, so I can save innocents from destruction.”
Words bellowed like thunder from the hillside, “You ask of a secret the spirits here are reluctant to admit to themselves under most any circumstance, let alone divulge to outsiders. And yet your request is not one to be denied.”
“Over the last century, the world has become a place where satisfaction rules over acceptance in the physical world. The worldly magic of medicine spoils its makers, and taunts the spirits that have suffered in the past and that continue to linger in this world. Emma Kupka succumbed to a yearning such knowledge brings. She very much desired children in her life. Unfortunately, her husband’s dismissal from the Foresters was accompanied by a banishing ceremony in which a warm, metallic stone was chained between Frank Kupka’s legs for a week to curse his potency. Afterwards, despite a lifetime of trying Emma never bore a single child. “
In life Emma grew sorrowful, but after death Emma overheard women of the world speak of overcoming barrenness. Devoted to the idea of having children, she sought life again. Her studies with the one who calls himself Teacher of Spirits uncovered an ancient rite which would permit her to become corporeal. As you found out from Emil Hafner, the rite requires much vengeance, something Emma lacked. Despondent, Emma sought refuge in seclusion, rather than in the community of spirits, and over many years her desire festered into need, and from that a vengeance against the Foresters that fulfilled the ritual was born. Twenty years ago on this night, Emma Kupka became the Growler after she devoured the first soul.”
At dawn, the Growler will hunt for one final Forester soul completing her transition to the physical form which will allow the Growler to hunt the humans it needs. The only way to locate the Growler is to begin at the marker of her first spirit victim, Linwood Pennypacker. That child’s obelisk is the starting point of your journey. You must then proceed on a bearing of (sound of lightning strike) to the tree of solace. Once beneath its canopy head (sound of lightning strike) to a gravestone bracketed by two bushes. From there, you can sight a tall secluded tree at (sound of lightning strike) which is where the Growler resides.”
The graveyard’s voice fell to a thrumming pause.
“How can I stop this creature?”
“You have heard the memory of the graveyard, Nobody. Now be quiet or your rendezvous with the Lady on the Grey will come sooner than you would wish.”
At which the graveyard fell silent, and a chill breeze coursed through the grass at Bod’s fingertips.
Without delay, Bod rose and hunted down the Pennypacker obelisk the graveyard spoke of. It was not difficult, as there were very few obelisk markers in the cemetery. Immediately, he began to track down the Growler. If only he could determine a method to end this night’s dreadful story before the dawn of Hallowmas arrived.
(the end of the tale awaits discovery)