Phantomverse Stories

Ghost Wolf - Tape 1

Young man, 20, sits in a stiff wooden chair, at an old, scratched wooden table. The camera is trained on his face, which looks nervous. His eyes are darting around, as if he's searching for an unseen threat. But as far as we know he's the only one present in the room. The walls, which are a faded beige, betray nothing. No windows. No door, but there might be one behind the camera. We can also hear his raspy breathing. Visually, the young man looks like a mess. Long, messy black hair, unshaven, dark circles under his eyes, and even premature wrinkles around his mouth and eyes as if he were constantly scrunching them in stress. His skin is pale, his eyes watery blue, and his head droops in sheer exhaustion, not like the dead feeling after a workout, but out of tiredness from lack of sleep. Utterly defeated looking, actually. Who knows what he's been through.

Young Man: ....

(stares awkwardly at the desk, then adjusts his shirt. A ruffling noise is heard. Also his faded gray sweatshirt, now that it draws our attention, reads: "Trying to find my happy place..." Reportedly it continues on the back with "...and I'm failing.")

Young Man: (looks around quickly one last time before finally speaking) I'm just not really sure what to say. (pause) I guess, thanks? My maybe listeners out there? For the listening to "my side of the story?" If you ever can. One win for modern society there. (squints at screen, addressing it more directly) I'm Daniel- (breaks off). Just call me Daniel. It's more simple that way. Like I'm just a friend, who's talking to you about his life story. Not a complete stranger. (He seems to be telling himself this as much as the audience, in order to reassure himself).

(clears throat, and launches head over heels into his tale)

Young Man: My name is Daniel. And unlike most kids, instead of growing up watching my parents read magazines at the kitchen table or pay bills, I watched them load silver bullets into monstrous guns designed especially for the hunt of one monstrous creature: the werewolf. Of course they were loving parents, I couldn't ask for better ones (that came out weird, heh), especially how much they did after- (falters, then shakes his head) - I'll get to that. In my own time.

My parents weren't revered or respected for their work, they were ridiculed. Werewolves weren't real. Neither were vampires, zombies, mummies, banshees, ghosts, or the tooth fairy. It was a simple fact of life, and my parents refused to accept it. They were the world's unsung heroes: by night, they hunted dangerous werewolves, protecting the populace from the threat of being mauled and eaten, or worse, becoming a werewolf themselves. (scoffs) It's pretty ironic, considering they "saved" everyone except their own son.

(scratches chin as if in contemplation, but is also stalling as he lets listeners take this in). I was maybe, thirteen? Fourteen? (nods) Yeah, I think I was fourteen, when it happened. I was no firm believer in werewolves either, but I never disowned my parents or anything. I tried to support them the best way I knew how: the nod and confirm method. One night I was employing this method when my parents were giving me a valuable warning: being werewolf hunters, they had and made frequently formidable enemies. Recently they had made the acquaintance of a ghostly wolf whose name was merely whispered among other wolves: Wraithrowle. Pretty much the most dangerous man/wolf around: elusive, mysterious, and unable to listen to any form of reason. They had barely escaped their last encounter, they said, and told me to remain in the "safety of home fort" until they returned from finishing the hunt on old Wraithy.

So I was home alone. But I was used to it. My sister, Jasmine, who was two years older than me, wanted nothing more than to pretend the rest of us didn't exist. Her schedule was full of study groups, clubs, volunteer work, and her boyfriend. I can't remember his name. I don't feel guilty, though, because that's as much memory Jasmine devotes to her own family. (red-hot anger flashes in his eyes briefly, then he takes a deep breath to calm down). We don't talk anymore. (laughs bitterly). Even before now, when it's actually impossible to. In college, we never kept in touch. We just moved on with our lives like we were strangers. It's sad.