The Wolf's Marine

Epilogue

Grandpa built two wooden crosses and painted them white before he died. He positioned them by the dock, a constant reminder of the two young lives that were lost that day.

Storm didn't have much left to live for when Grandpa died. All she had was Patches and the bait shop. And she was damn determined to keep both of them up and running.

She worked night and day to improve the bait shop. In the course of ten years she had it so well improved that it was the best bait shop in the area. Everyday customers from different counties came in to buy the best to the best baits and tackles. Patches loved getting all of the attention from new people everyday.

Patches died in the bait shop one sunny afternoon. Storm buried him next to Cowboy and swore off ever getting a dog again. After Patches died, Storm went to the bar every Saturday at exactly 6:15 and left at exactly 11:00. She never had more than one alcoholic beverage and always ate a bucket load of popcorn.

As the years went by, the people who knew she was a werewolf died. The doctor, the nurses, Callie, even the sheriff and his deputy. The memory of her being a werewolf faded into the black as each one died.

The only one who lived that knew she was a werewolf was the bartender. Most of the time he forgot she was a werewolf. The only time he would remember would be when she snapped at a rowdy drunk and her fangs would extend.

While Storm worked, a man was going down her driveway to her house. He was shocked to find his car still in the same place he left it. He pulled his house key out and unlocked the door. Going inside not much had changed either.

The only thing that noticeably changed was the amount of pictures that littered the house. Pictures of him, pictures of the kids, pictures of the dogs. He walked through the house and looked at everything.

When he made it to the bedroom, he found a picture of him from the last day he ever saw his family. He took the picture in his hands and looked at it closely. He noticed it was stained with tears and was bent from being held so much.

His eyebrows furrowed, something doesn't seem right. He abandoned the picture and went back to look at the other pictures. In each picture the kids were young, they never aged. A feeling of dread filled his body as he scanned every picture that filled the cabin. His eyes landed on something outside the window and the dread worsened.

He opened the front door and the dread became heartbreak. He slowly walked up to the wooden crosses, there was no need to rush as he was too late to save them. He knelt by the crosses and ran a hand over each one. The paint was chipping and the wood was warping with age. He was too late to save them. He protected his family, but his kids weren't really protected in the end. He failed again.

He walked without thinking to where his kids lay. Had he not been so focused on finding their graves he would've gawked at how many graves filled the once almost empty pack graveyard. When he finally found their graves he sat down between them and wrapped an arm around each headstone. He didn't say a word and held his babies as close as he physically could.

"Go to her." A voice's eerie call floated through the graveyard. "Leave here and go to her." Another voice called out.

He didn't say a word and watched in abject horror as two ghosts made their way to him. "Go. To. Her." The ghost with a gaping hole in his camouflaged chest demanded. "Now!" The ghost with half of his body gone ordered. He scrambled up and kissed each headstone before skeedaddling out of there. The ghosts gave each other a smirk, they'd done good.

He ran from the graveyard into town. He hadn't ran like that since the days of old and running like that had him doubled over and gasping for breath. When he finally regained his ability to breathe easily, he walked down the street.