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The house at the end of Elm Street was a ramshackled, two-story affair built in the nineteen fifties. Every neighborhood has one. The house where no kid would dare darken the front porch for fear of never being heard or seen again.
The stuff of urban legend.
The old man who lived there was crazy. Everybody said so.
Rumor had it that the old hermit had imprisoned his friend, tortured her, and drove her insane. They'd locked him up but let him go on some legal loophole or technicality that always let the guilty go scot-free.
But that was long before my time.
I was twelve and lived six houses up from Werewolf Winston.
That wasn't the old man's name, but at the end of the street, there was a long line of mailboxes, the first of which bore the name Winston in faded red letters.
Werewolf came from the fact that someone swore they'd seen a face staring out a dirty window, bearded with long, wiry hair.
Up until then, I never saw a soul at that place, though not for lack of trying. If I grew up to be a cop, I'm sure that my watches on Werewolf's house would have given me more than enough experience to have aced stakeouts.
As for Werewolf, he was scarcer than honest answers at a political rally.
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Love Songs: The Wrong Note - A Collection of Short Stories
General FictionA second volume of short stories in the Love Songs collection. Many of the stories in this collection focus on the theme of love and how it sometimes goes wrong. A large collection of stories that run the gamut from humorous to tragic. 1. Love Songs...
