The Groundwolf Werehog: Phil's Revenge

Phil is a groundhog. He comes from a long lineage of other groundhogs also named Phil. His father was named Phil, his mother, his uncles and aunts, his cousins, his brothers and sisters, all named Phil. All of them lived their lives in captivity. They spent their lives locked in a cage, only to be paraded out once a year and presented to the townsfolk during their annual pagan ritual. The truth was, every year, every groundhog saw its shadow. Not the physical shadow—sometimes the clouds were heavy and one was not cast—but the shadow of oppression, the shadow of servitude, the unending shadow of lifelong imprisonment. 

This was Phil's second year playing the role of the prophetic hog. As he sat in his cage on the eve of the ceremony, he contemplated his existence, gazing up at the starry skies. A cold, clear night. In the morning they would lift him up in exaltation, spouting contrived prognostications in his name, their false prophecies embraced when they were fulfilled or laughed off when they failed. It was all a cosmic joke, existence only teasing at meaning, never showing its true purpose. Phil, slumped in morose repose, realizing that the only explanation for this absurd existence was that there was no meaning, no purpose, no justice… no god.

As he gazed into the infinite depths of the night sky a bright light began to burn in the distance. A blazing comet trailing a pink and green and purple tail streaked across the stars, burping gaseous bursts as it grazed the outer limits of the upper atmosphere. Phil stood and gripped the wires of his shallow cage ceiling. The light of the comet reflected in the dark pools of his wide eyes. First, only a twinkle, then a glowing ember, then a defiant flame that grew until it made its way past his heart and into his soul. Phil felt the sinew of his muscle fibers stretch and twist, he gnashed his teeth as they grew, he gripped his muzzle as his claws hooked and curved. He fell and writhed in his cage, his chitters and squeals turning to a marmota howl that echoed through the woods and across the face of the partially shrouded half moon. 

Sally Fell’s favorite holiday was Thanksgiving, when her mother entrusted her to assist in the kitchen and the family gathered in their home, the signs of an approaching Christmas already sprouting up around the hearth and about the neighborhood. She loved the cinnamon smell of drying leaves, and crisp aroma of descending cold. She loved singing by candlelight as the nights grew longer and bundling up in tuques and mittens and overstuffed coats to traverse the sloping white hills behind their home. Unlike most kids Sally’s age, who opined for the long, hot days of summer, filled with fireworks and swimming, she preferred the cold nights of winter, filled with steaming cups of cocoa and warm evenings by a cozy fire. 

If you asked her what her least favorite holiday was she most likely would not have an answer, ever the optimist that she was, who never had a bad word to say about anyone, including her dentist, and this year's school bully, who was clearly laying it on a little thick in an attempt to conceal his crippling crush on her. But, if you could see into her heart, you would know that it was Groundhog Day. Though she liked the festivities themselves; the whole town gathering in the square, singing together, warming their hands by burning barrels as they stood shoulder to shoulder trading stories of their winters, she always felt bad for the groundhog as they held it up to the cheering crowd, he always seemed scared to her, wriggling to escape or tucking its tail as it tried to curl into a ball. An especially memorable day was when they bought the groundhog for a visit to their classroom. While all the other kids poked and pointed, jeered and taunted, she waited until the sad hog had lost their attention to steal a quiet moment and feed it a couple carrot sticks from her lunch. As he munched them melancholically, she stroked his muzzle and whispered to him, “I’m sorry, little guy.” Groundhog Day also filled her with the nostalgia of another winter gone by.

This year had been an especially wintery winter, record snow falls, candlelit power outages, an inordinate amount of school days canceled, and so with the proposition of a possibly early spring the entire town had shown up with bells on. Even Sally’s brothers who usually opted to stay home despite being tasked with additional chores as recompense for their lack of community enthusiasm chose to come along. Her family crossed the street to the crowded square, her brothers bouncing along rambunctiously as her father scolded them preemptively, her and her mother holding hands as they followed behind.

The trees were still naked, save the evergreens, the day overcast with thick clouds that threatened a quick turn in the weather. As they grew closer to the square the peal of accordions and industrious harmonies bouncing through a manic, dissonant polka, echoed out over cheers and chatter, jeers and clatter. 

Sally’s brothers disappeared into the crowd, her father hot on their trail. Her mother waved to a group of friends, dragging her along. Sally stood by her mother’s side as her mother passed around hugs and fell into her low chattery tone that she reserved for gossip and secret recipes. Sally watched the crowd come and go, everyone bundled up, red noses poking out over scarves, breath billowing in the air as they laughed and sang and cajoled each other into sharing their darker winter tales. One of her mother’s friends eyed Sally and gave her a smiling wave. Sally’s mother turned and bent down to her as she fished a few dollar bills from her coat pocket.

“Why don’t you go grab us a couple cups of hot cider, darling?”

Sally nodded, took the money and began craning her neck in search of the cider stand.

“Over there,” her mother pointed as she gently nudged her in the right direction. “Hurry back though, they're about to start.” She waved to the gazebo in the center of the square

Sally glanced up. Indeed the mayor and his council men were taking the stage in their dark coats, red and white boutonnieres pinned to their lapels, black top hats and gloves, waving and wringing their hands as they addressed the crowd with perfunctory greetings. 

“Go on, now,” her mother prodded.

Sally pushed through the crowd, clutching her dollar bills, as the festival goers blithely pushed her to and fro. Eventually she emerged from a berm of townsfolk and found the booth with the homemade sign reading; Hot Cider. She took her place at the end of the line, wondering how she was going to make it back through the throngs without spilling cider all over herself and others. By the time it was her turn, the mayor’s voice was reverberating muddled incantations. The crowd began to erupt in raucous celebration. Sally accepted her steaming beverages politely and held them at a safe distance as she made her way back to mother on the outskirts of the square, catching glimpses of the stage as she went: The mayor’s assistant holding up a sign that proclaimed their town to be the weather capital of the world, the mayor holding up the ceremonial cane, the mayor bending down to rap the cane on the door to the groundhogs den, the mayor and his assistant opening the door. 

Sally was bumped into, spilling a splash of scalding cider on her wrist. Not enough to cause her to drop it, but enough that it brought her attention to the cups and maintaining their balance. She flashed a glance up, searching for her mother, determined she was almost there, and as she tiptoed in concentration an eerie hush fell over the crowd. Sally stopped in her tracks, the hair on her neck prickling. Something’s not right, she thought. She looked up to find her mother and her friends covering their mouths, and though she couldn’t see their faces clearly, she knew they were wearing expressions of horror. Before she could fully grasp what was happening all hell broke loose

Screams erupted from all around and Sally was bowled over, sending her beverages flying into the air. Miraculously, she managed to push herself to her feet and keep her balance despite being pushed this way and that by throngs of fleeing villagers. She dodged back and forth as she again tried to spot her mother through split-second openings. She was pushed again and found purchase against the back of a park bench that was splitting the traffic like a stone shunts a river current. She climbed on to the bench, bringing the stage into view and gasped at what she saw. 

The mayor was on his knees, one of his hands clutching his throat as blood spurted out from between his fingers, his other hand fumbling for purchase against the side of the tree stump that was the groundhog’s den. His eyes were wide and vacant. They rolled into the back of his head and he fell forward, tumbling off the stage. From behind the stump the creature leapt out and landed on the shoulders of the mayor’s assistant, sending his top hat flying. The creature reared up, its bucktoothed fangs glinting yellow, red viscera flying in roping strands, before it plunged them into the assistant's jugular. The beast tore away a chunk of flesh that made up nearly all of his neck in a fountain of thick, vital fluid. His head flopped to one side, the vertebrae that had once kept it attached to his shoulders now removed. The monster rode his body to the ground and as it crumpled into a pile. It landed squarely, raised its muzzle triumphantly and brayed a mighty howl.

ARRREEEE

“Sally!”

Sally heard her mother’s cries over the reinvigorated, frantic screams and looked up to see her pushing her way across the current of fleeing folk. They reached out to each other. Her mother was swept away in the chaos, her head disappearing behind others, her hand growing distant as she was carried off.

The chittering, high-pitched howl came again.

ARRREEEE

Sally whipped around just in time to see the beast leap from the stage, snarling and splaying its claws. The crowd parted like the red sea with guttural shrieks of agony as the beast tore a chunk from one on its left, then another from one to its right. With a swipe of its claw it sliced through the calf of another. They buckled, folding back on themselves. The beast pounced and crushed their head between its jaws. Their arms spasmed and fell still. The beast gave the corpse a final side to side death shake, before releasing it and letting what was left of its victim’s head spill onto the dirty snow, the blood oozing like cherry syrup on a snow cone. Slowly it looked up, locking eyes with Sally, and with a snorting huff came galloping toward her. Sally was frozen in place. 

The beast closed the more than forty feet in less than a half-dozen strides and skidded to a stop only three feet short of her, billows of steam pouring out like a locomotive as its chest heaved, blood dripping from its jowls. It narrowed its eyes, lowered its head, and took the few final steps like a leopard reading to pounce. Sally shook, cringing with her head turned away, eyes shut tight. It brought its muzzle to her exposed neck, saliva and plasma spilling onto her shoulder as it smelled her. 

Slowly Sally opened her eyes and braved a glance. The beast cocked its head as their eyes met again. In that moment Sally didn’t see the narrowed focus of a vicious killing machine, but the sad and tortured yearning of an abused marmot. Giant dark pools reflected its innocence, and longing for a freedom it had never known. Cautiously she reached a steady hand towards its blood covered muzzle and whispered.

“I’m sorry.”

The beast breathed a deep calming breath, bringing its forehead forward to meet her hand.

“Somebody, save her!” a bystander brayed.

And with that the beast snapped back to the hunt and whipped its head around in the direction of the cry. It growled, hunched, and sprang into action, galloping away.

Sally watched the beast bound off, so entranced that she barely felt herself get scooped up from behind, her mother clutching her tightly to her breast as she ran. “It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you. It’s okay. It’s okay.” Over her mother’s shoulder, Sally watched as the beast tore into its next victim. 

“I’m sorry, Phil.”

News item from The Punxsutawney Spirit (Pa.), February 3, 2027:

ANIMAL ATTACK AT ANNUAL EVENT

Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department has reported 32 dead, and over 80 people injured during a vicious animal attack in downtown Punxsutawney, during the town's annual Groundhog Day event on February 2nd. County fish and game has not issued a statement as to the type of animal. Eyewitnesses have given contradictory reports, some stating that they identified it as a brown bear, while other witnesses issued statements identifying the animal as unknown. Others still have claimed that it was a giant groundhog, though these claims have been widely dismissed. There are no reports that the animal has been captured at this time. Sheriff Bartley asked residents for patience as they investigate the incident, his office issued a statement to the press expressing that this investigation is their “number one priority,” and asking that “all Pennsylvanians come together, in love and support as a community in this dark time.” It seems that, in Pennsylvania at least, we will have six more weeks of winter.