The first and only time I met Micah, she was probably 70 years old, a quirky squirrel of a lady. She peered at me through oversized glasses and wore a dirty tie-dyed sundress. Her dark wrinkled fingers gripped the rifle expertly as she stood on the rickety old porch. Gladly, the barrel was not pointed at me, but rather at the seven foot werewolf chasing me. One extremely well placed shot with a silver bullet was all it took to bring him down.  

No matter how many horror movies you watch, there is no way to prepare yourself for the terror of encountering such a beast. I mean, basically you think they all look the same, a quasi man-wolf sort of creature. But it's their most pungent smell hits you first. The odor could be described as a sickening mixture of blood, urine, and bile with a musky tinge. It was that distinct smell that radiates a mile or so that brought Micah to her porch that night. The stench accompanied by my blood-curdling screams was enough to alarm anyone. I was just glad it was Micah who came to my rescue.  

"I'm Micah. Whatcha doin' in the woods so late, mista?" 

Her Creole accent was thick like the long silver braid hanging down her back. Still stunned, it was hard for me to piece together what she was saying. Sometimes accents and life-harrowing experiences don't mix well.

"Aye, cantcha speak? You bobalee?"

The words tumbled from her mouth too fast for any true comprehension on my part. And as hard as I tried, there was no way to figure out what that last word she said could possibly mean.

"What?"

I really put my doctorate to the test with that response. The audible click of the tongue and shake of her head let me know that my answer was not to her liking. I guess encountering monsters in the middle of the night is not a good enough reason to lose your senses.

"My car, um, it died on the road. I saw a light down a path, figured maybe the house may have a phone. That's when I smelled something strange; I thought maybe it was a dead animal."

"Yuh was right 'bout da animal part, just wasn't dead yet."

Finally, she lowered the rifle. I guess my answer gave me the right to live. Glancing back, the furry corpse laid about five feet from me. If it hadn't been for Micah, I would have been a goner. That’s another misconception about movie werewolves; they usually turn back into men when they die. This thing hung on to its hairy coat longer than I would have expected.

"It is dead, right?"

I figured she'd be the expert on this since none of this seemed to faze her at all. It was just another leisurely night on the porch for her, it seemed. Her nonchalance was unnerving to say the least.

"I'd still be grabbin’ the gun if it wasn't ready to be laid out."

Truthfully, I had no idea what she was talking about, so I did what I usually do when I pretend to understand, I nodded like a dope.  

"Do you have a phone?" The odds were slim, but I had to ask.

"Don't need no phone, mista. Ev'yone I be knowin' is long passed."

That was that.

Walking back to Route 43 through a darkened forest inhabited with things like the fur-ball at my feet was not exactly something I wanted to do. Bending over, she picked up a blue plastic fuel container filled with kerosene. This was not my detective skills at work, the jug actually had the word "KEROSENE" printed on the side. Teetering down the stairs barefooted, Micah walked past me to the carcass and dumped some of the pink-tinged liquid over it. From her filthy dress pocket, she produced a book of matches. Tossing a lighted match to the heap, it exploded into orange flames. The acrid odor violated every olfactory sense my body possessed.

"Da fire keep 'em away. Once it burn down, they can't smell 'em no mo." I wasn't exactly sure who she meant by "they", but something told me I didn't want to know.

"Do you think I'll be able to make it to the main road without coming across something like this again?"

It was a logical question. I may be six-one and two hundred pounds, but even my weight-trained physique would be no match for another one of these things.

"Sure ting, yuh won't be seein' no more these fellas this night. They done heard da shot. Even them know to stay clear, mista."

I guess she was implying I was more of an idiot than the werewolves for not knowing that. Brushing her tiny body past me, she shuffled her calloused feet back up the stairs.

Well, since she seemed to be the resident authority on all things furry, I figured my trek back to the main road would be safe. "Um, thank you. You saved my life." Now that the initial shock had worn off, it sounded odd that it took me that long to finally show my gratitude.

"Don't be tanking me just yet, mista. You still need to get by 'em vampers."

A deep throaty sound exuded from her small body as she literally bent over laughing. I'm not sure if she was kidding about the vampires or not. But I can tell you that mile walk back to the main road was one maybe more terrifying than the previous one being chased by the werewolf. The sound of Micah's hilarity echoed in the trees the entire trip, my fear being her main source of amusement. You can understand now why I never went back to visit.