Wolf Woman

Kathryn Engelmann

t I n the sleepy mountain community of Ridgway, Colorado, there are no secrets. There are roughly eight people per square mile, and most people have a half-hour commute minimum to get to work. In a town like Ridgway, where the days coast by like ships on glassy water, people stir the stillness with the salacious juices of rumors and whispers. “Did you hear that so-and-so got pregnant? She’s only sixteen–I wonder who the father is. I bet we won’t see her in church for a while.” “Oh, I hear the dad is some druggie from Montrose. Not surprising, really. Her poor parents never could keep her in check.” “What about that new family that just moved into Solar Ranch? What do you think of them? They’re from Chicago, if you can believe it! What on Earth are they doing out here?” “Witness Protection, I bet. They don’t have any family nearby.” And so on. There are, of course, rumors that are universally accepted to be true. For example, Log Hill is haunted. Nearly all of the residents in that area of town have experienced some kind of paranormal phenomena. It could be the loneliness of the place playing tricks on the mind. Log Hill is a heavily wooded mesa looming over Ridgway Valley. The only way into Log Hill from the town below is County Road 24, an ill-maintained, winding mountain road, many of its guardrails rusted to oblivion or taken out entirely by an unlucky driver. No one is entirely sure why Log Hill is haunted, but as you might imagine, the citizens of Ridgway have concocted a long and muddled history for the place, ranging from the tragic to the absurd to the horrifying. There are some who believe Log Hill Mesa was not a natural formation, but a burial mound constructed by the true citizens of the land thousands of years ago. Others believe there are monsters–Bigfoot-esque to shadow beast-y–that call amongst themselves at night, rustle garbage cans and open windows, and generally create a spooky nuisance for those who reside there. And there are some true stories of unfortunate accidental deaths that contribute to the lore of ghost hauntings: a boy, inexplicably flung from his car and run over; a young man who, while riding in the back of a pickup truck, fell to his death into the ravine along County Road 24 after the truck hit a pothole. It takes a special kind of no-nonsense person to live in Log Hill. There’s no time

tto worry about ghost stories when you’re trying to stay on the icy road right at the place where three people slid into the ravine the night before, or think twice

about the not-human, but also distinctly not-animal sounds comi tng from the forest when you’re chopping wood to keep the stove burning.

My Aunt Kathy was one such no-nonsense person. She would watch an episode of the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice miniseries, enraptured in Colin Firth’s tortured longing, and in the next instant, shoot and kill a family of rabbits perusing her garden. She was always direct, stern, and at times, more blunt than a situation called for, but her eyes and voice betrayed a calming kindness.

Aunt Kathy’s house was far from the main road into Log Hill. First, there was a dirt path hidden in a thicket of scrub oak and overhanging tree branches. If your car managed to brave its way through the mess, you would then have to identify the proper hole in the fence. We were warned that one of the neighbors was trigger-happy, and if you strayed past his hole in the fence, he’d only give you one warning shot. After identifying the proper fencehole, you’d make your way from clay and dirt onto gravel and wind your way through a series of towering ponderosas before reaching a long, straight stretch. At this point, the log cabin-style house came into full view, its splendorous gardens cheerfully defying the rocky, unforgiving soil behind tall deer fences. It was a difficult place to find, even if you had been before. As such, Aunt Kathy never had an uninvited human visitor. Given the difficult terrain, hidden pathways, and the potential of being shot by the hermit neighbor, it was nearly impossible to find her house by accident. ***

In the summer of 2008, Aunt Kathy found herself saddled with the task she hated most in the world: watching her grandchildren’s pet dog, Sophie. Aunt Kathy never particularly liked any animal, except perhaps for an outdoor cat or two, and Sophie was a uniquely infuriating dog. She was a lab mix who had spent more time at the vet clinic than in her own backyard because of her penchant for eating things that were not meant to be eaten. Rocks. Paint chips. Whole, unopened tin cans. Fencing, both wire and wood. Recently, Sophie had developed a taste for the fertilizer Kathy used for her gardens, and had managed to dig, tear, and eat her way past the deer fencing and into the many beds of delicate, fickle plants that Kathy had spent years tending. Kathy had contemplated, many times, getting rid of Sophie. There were only two things preventing her from doing so: 1. Her grandchildren adored Sophie. They had called Kathy every evening that summer to ask how Sophie was doing while their family renovated their house. 2. Sophie, despite her evolutionary shortcomings, was a bit charming. Kathy would never openly admit it, but she had appreciated the friendliness and clumsy affection the dog had shown her over the past few weeks. That summer had been an unusually hot one. Even the wild horned toads hid

tthemselves from the sun, coming out only in the evenings and early mornings to bask. Kathy had worried for the safety of her garden, and, to a lesser extent, for

tSophie, who would have happily burned the pads of her feet off if it meant getting to dig at the gardens again.

One July day, an early afternoon thunderstorm cooled Log Hill enough for Kathy and Sophie to venture outside. Kathy placed her cellphone in the side pocket of her cargo shorts, knowing that her grandchildren would call soon to inquire about Sophie’s dietary decisions of the day. She eyed Sophie sprinting gleefully into the miles of forest behind the house. Maybe today would be the day Sophie’s complete lack of instinct would get her lost. With a shrug, Kathy made her way into the gardens, listening for Sophie as she tended to her poor, bedraggled flowers. She faced the house as she worked, listening to the familiar sounds of Sophie artlessly navigating her way past low brush, small cactuses, and loose rocks. Kathy could almost hear the cars from the road. Wait–car, singular. It must be someone visiting the neighbor. Wait–the neighbor doesn’t have visitors. Kathy stood up and turned to face the long stretch of driveway. The sound of the car came closer, and then the unmistakable sound of tires crunching through gravel. The gravel on her own driveway. Kathy paused for a moment. Did she invite anyone over that day? Was her husband coming home early from work? It couldn’t be him–it didn’t sound like his truck. It was a small car, by the sound of it. And by the look of it. A small, beat-up coup slowly came into view and made its way all the way down the long driveway. Aunt Kathy described it to me as a car she had never seen in the States before–it reminded her of the tiny, boxy European cars she had seen when she visited Ireland. Cautiously, Kathy pushed past the deer fence and out of the gardens. She could see the driver now. Kathy had lived in Ridgway for over twenty years and knew everyone in town, and most everyone’s extended family who had come to visit over the years. The old woman who sat behind the wheel, squinting at Kathy through thick glasses, was a complete stranger. Her greasy grey hair fell in loose coils around her thin, wrinkled face. As Kathy approached the car, she felt a deep shiver run from her heart all the way through her spine. Instinctively, she took a small step back. The woman laboriously opened the door, cracking it just wide enough for Kathy to see that her body was contorted into the entire space of the front two seats of the car. Suddenly, Sophie charged from the woods behind the house, barking ferociously, murderous eyes fixated on the strange woman. byline 100 Kathy leapt to intercept Sophie and just grabbed her collar bef woman slammed the car door shut. t tore the strange

“I’m so sorry about the dog. She’s never been like this before– tlet me just put her inside.” The strange woman’s gaze fell on Sophie, who responded by yanking, snarling, and barking with all her might. It took Kathy a good several minutes to wrestle the dog into the house. When she returned, the woman smiled, unperturbed, and cranked down her window. “That happens to me a lot. Are you the one selling wolf pups?” Kathy did not immediately know how to answer. The woman’s unexpected statements and demeanor sprung multitudes of new questions in her mind. Keeping a healthy distance from the car, Kathy asked: “I’m sorry, wolf pups? Is that what you said? No, I don’t have those.” “Oh, that’s odd. I found this flyer here–” The strange woman leaned all the way to the passenger side window to reach into her pocket, where she fished out a crumpled piece of paper. “Yes, here it is. See this flyer? It appears to have your address listed.” Kathy surveyed the flyer. It did, in fact, list her address. And it promised a healthy 90% wolf pup to anyone with $1500. Kathy told me that she had never heard of anyone in Ridgway raising and selling wolf pups. To her knowledge, a wolf dog of that strain was illegal in the county, and it’s unlikely that someone would have advertised an illegal wolf-selling business with a flyer. “That is my address. I think whoever made this flyer must have made a mistake, but I don’t know of anyone in this area selling wolf pups. I think your best bet is to call the number on the flyer. Do you have a cellphone?” “No, I don’t, actually–silly things don’t work for me.” “Oh.” Kathy chalked it up to the woman’s age. “Would you like to use mine?” Kathy pulled her phone from her pocket, noted that it had three out of five bars of coverage, and was fully charged. She handed the phone to the strange woman, who stretched out an unusually long, thin arm to grab it. As she dialed the number, Kathy surveyed more of the woman’s features. Her fingers were long and thin, and her nails, which appeared to be natural, were nearly an inch long, and roughly filed into points. She wasn’t wearing any jewelry. No wristwatch. No makeup. She looked as if she had just come from a funeral, or maybe (as Kathy put it) she was a Goth–she was dressed in black, wearing an old-fashioned long-sleeve dress with black lace ruffles at the wrists and throat. The strange woman was also wearing an absurdly ornate hat–its wide brim curled against the frame of the car door, and black feathers spilled from every possible surface, as if an entire murder of crows got caught in her hair. Holding the phone at the very ends of her fingertips, she put it up to her ear. “Oh, sorry dear. It looks like your phone is dead.”

t“What? That can’t be right–are you sure you know how to use it?” “Quite sure.” Kathy took back her cell phone, dumbfounded, and held it to her ear. No ring

ttone. She flipped it shut and then opened it again. The screen was completely black–the low battery icon didn’t even appear–and after several attempts to turn the phone on, Kathy concluded that the batteries must have been completely drained. “Well, sorry about that. That’s weird–I could have sworn it was fully charged before I gave it to you.” The woman’s eyes shifted behind her glasses. Kathy hadn’t had the chance yet to get a good, close look at the woman’s eyes, which had almost no whites, except at the very corners. “Hmm. That’s exactly what I was talking about. Cell phones just don’t work for me. Could I use your landline?” Kathy walked back toward the house, where the sound of Sophie’s barking rang more frantically through the walls. With concerted effort, she edged her way past Sophie, who had tried to dig and eat through the door to get back outside. Large pieces of wood lay scattered in the entryway. This fucking dog, Kathy thought. She’d figure out what to do about the door (and, likely, Sophie’s stomach) later–the longer that strange woman stayed in her driveway, the more her nerves felt like exposed piano wires. She quickly scaled the steps up to the living room, where the home phone was docked in its base. She grabbed the phone, ran down the stairs, and shoved her way past Sophie, who leveraged all of her weight to block Kathy from using the door. Once Kathy maneuvered past Sophie and closed the front door behind her, she walked back toward the strange woman’s car. “Could you dial the number for me, darling? I imagine that will help. I have the flyer here.” Kathy punched in the number, dialed, and listened to confirm that the phone was ringing. Then, she handed the phone back to the strange woman. The woman held the phone against her ear using her fingertips, cocked her head, and then closed her eyes. “This one’s dead, too.” “No way, that’s impossible! I just dialed the number and I heard ringing myself. We never leave the home phone out of its base, so it’s fully charged–” The strange woman twisted herself halfway out of the driver’s side window to hand the phone back to Kathy. For a brief moment, Kathy felt the woman’s icy fingertips against her hand during the transfer. She listened to the phone again, and this time, there was no sound. The faint green light behind the buttons had disappeared completely. The home phone, too, was dead. “Well.” That was all Kathy could say for a moment. She shook her head and met byline tthe strange woman’s gaze. An instinctual, icy fear darted through her heart. She imagined this was how it felt to be stalked by a wild animal. 102

t“Look. Neither phone seems to be working, and I don’t have any wolf pups here, as you can see. I don’t really think I can help you out here.”

The strange woman’s gaze lingered on Kathy for what felt like ages. Finally, she spoke. “Alright, I’ll leave. I’ll see if I can find the place on my own. Thank you for your help so far–I’m sorry to have been a burden to you.” The small car sputtered back to life, and the strange woman drove back down the driveway. Kathy listened as the tires moved from gravel to dirt. In the very instant those tires turned back down the path to the main road, the phone in Kathy’s hands began blaring a busy signal. She looked down to see the familiar green glow of the buttons, and the battery power restored to full. Shaken, she fished into the side pocket of her cargo shorts for her cellphone. She flipped the phone open and searched for the battery icon. Fully charged. Kathy took a steadying breath, walked back to the house, and let Sophie out. Initially, Sophie searched and smelled every square inch of the driveway, gardens, and the area round the hole in the fence. Once she was content that the intruder was gone, she leaned heavily against Kathy’s legs, shaking and licking her lips. When Aunt Kathy told people about the Wolf Woman, she was surprised to learn that she was the only person in Ridgway who had seen her. Some people questioned if she was telling the truth–it can get lonely on Log Hill, after all, and it’s nice to have a story someone’s never heard before. But Kathy wasn’t a liar. Nor was she prone to believing ghost stories, or any of the monster stories folks would sometimes tell around their firepits. When Kathy told me about the Wolf Woman, it always struck me as unusual that a woman with such a strange car would not have been noticed by anyone else in town. Furthermore, how could she have been comfortable in such heavy, dark clothing on an eighty-degree day? Why were her irises so strangely large? Was she wearing contacts? But if so, why would she need glasses? It’s a memory that haunted me in the years that I lived in Ridgway, and even more so when I eventually lived in my Aunt Kathy’s house. Sometimes in the early morning hours, when I couldn’t fall asleep, I would hear–or, maybe more accurately, imagine that I heard–a sound deep in the woods, almost like a wolf, and nearly human, piercing the cool stillness of the dark.

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