Housebroken

The Howl is Coming From Inside the House

The Howl is Coming From Inside the House

This family-friendly story contains descriptions of close family members engaged in entirely inappropriate activities that some may find either disturbing or hot. If you find family members taking liberties with each other or otherwise behaving in naughty ways, then you probably should stop reading right about... now.

All characters in this novel are fictional and are eighteen years or older. Any resemblance to any real monster or person, living, dead, undead or under the age of eighteen, is in your own dirty little mind. Sadly, some of the events portrayed in this story are not based on true events. I wish.

If you are still reading and are not offended by MILF, SILF or BILF and believe families behaving in very naughty ways is hot, I hope you enjoy this naughty Halloween horror treat as much as the characters enjoyed themselves.

"I had the strangest dream. Almost a nightmare, but not quite. A real Halloween dream."

Every town has its dark secrets. Some are just darker than others.

Since I was a teenager, a serial killer stalked my town. He only strikes at night, by the light of a full moon. He mutilates his victims in horrible ways, which is why the rumor began circulating that it wasn't a serial killer at all. Everyone convinced themselves that the killer was a werewolf.

That's right, I lived in a town full of idiots.

My father died when he was young, leaving my Mom to raise me and my little sister, Lupe, alone. She did a great job, and the fact that our sleepy little town looked like something from Leave It To Beaver couldn't have hurt any. It's a small town you've never heard of because nothing happens here. Except the odd throat ripped out. That can be easily explained, though, because the bodies were all found outdoors, where they could be scavenged by wild animals.

Mom had taken over running our family's store after father died, and Sis and I helped. Free child labor. Mom was very popular, particularly with the menfolk in town. This all happened decades ago, long before anyone thought of the word MILF. Although she was just Mom to me and Lupe, she was younger than most of the other moms, and hard work at the store kept her fit and trim, but I never gave it much thought. She was just my Mom.

No one paid any attention to serial killers back then because they hadn't yet been given that name. That came later, in the 70s, I reckon. Sometimes one of the newspapers would run a story, and our local paper covered all the killings, but no one else seemed to know or care much about what went on in a little farming town in the middle of nowhere in 1950s America.

After a while, Mom and Lupe became terrified of the killer. We were not allowed outside after dark on nights under a full moon. Mom bolted the door and the two of them sat up half the night.

"I don't know what you're scared of," I said. "The paper says all the victims are killed outside, so as long as we stay inside, we are perfectly safe." Then I went to my room and climbed into bed for a peaceful, dreamless sleep, like I did every full moon. It didn't bother me in the least. Let them worry--nothing gives me a good night's sleep better than a full moon.

Something strange happened around the time I turned 18. The murderer began slacking off. First one full moon, then another without a murder. The killings never stopped, but became so rare, people wondered if the serial killer had gotten a job as a traveling salesman. Maybe he took his dirty deeds farther away to get the heat off him, killing in another county or across state lines. There were several suspects who people kept an eye on every full moon, so he might just have just been spooked about getting fingered.

For the next few years, the murders became so few and far between, it grew into more a local legend than a danger to worry about. Mom wasn't afraid anymore, but Lupe still made sure the doors were bolted and windows shuttered before the sun set on a full moon. She was 18 by then, the spitting image of Mom, like her twin sister born a decade or so apart. Made sense she'd take after her with a shared fear of crazed maniacs, too. But even she didn't seem as worried as when we were kids.

Perhaps she should have been.

Halloween night fell on a full moon that year, so the trick or treaters rushed out right after school to be finished and home long before sundown. No one bothered to light Jack O'Lanterns that year because only the killer would be out to see them. The killings never went away for good, and although he hadn't torn anyone to pieces in months, if there was one night he would, the consensus was it would be on Halloween.

We all kept inside, even though Mom and Sis were strangely calm. I went to sleep early to avoid the nonsense.

All Saints Day, Morning

All Saints Day, Morning

When I woke up the morning after that Halloween night, right away I knew something had gone terribly wrong.

On the floor of my bedroom lay something pale blue, shapeless and shredded. Fabric, but otherwise impossible to recognize in such condition. A rag, but too big for a rag. Held up to inspect, it fell into what once had been its general shape, and only then did I recognize it as one of my sister's nightgowns. Torn to ribbons. And there, on the front, a small crimson stain, the color of blood.

I sprinted to her room without bothering to put anything on other than the pajama pants I woke up in, expecting the worst. What had she worn to bed the night before? Who knew, as I went to bed before they did. Sis was dead--I could feel it in my bones.

Lupe was very much not dead. Instead, she was sound asleep, peaceful in the early light of dawn, still pink and soft. She slept naked??? That was the next thing I noticed. Her shoulders were bare, and her chest rose and fell with her slow, steady breath.

Then I crept around to the other side, where the sheet was pulled down enough to expose one titty to full view. A very pretty titty, pink as the dawn's light, perky as could be! What harm was there to look for a minute or two, right? Last night, I missed Trick or Treat, so this morning I deserved a little Trick and Teat.

When I began to stir, it was time to leave. Not because her titty aroused me, but it wouldn't be a good idea to be caught in my sister's room in my PJs with a woody.

Mom was still asleep, I discovered. It's so nice to wake up refreshed after going to bed early! After a quick breakfast, I left to open up the store.

As I went through the store-opening routine, it all became clear like a light bulb clicked on over my head.What if my sister was the werewolf?Had Lupe crept into my room last night, planning to eat my liver and sundry other parts, only to be disturbed and scared off while I slept through it? It all made sense, her gown ripping from her body as she transformed, although the source of blood was unclear. Had she murdered someone before coming to my room for dessert?

Mom arrived a half-hour later. Right away, I knew something was wrong. She didn't say anything, but I could tell. Sis showed up soon after, wearing one of her poodle skirts that she loved despite it making her look like she was still a sophomore in high school. All her friends were in a hurry to grow up and get married off, but not Lupe. She's likely to still be a teenager for another 20 years. Mom probably would have, too, if she didn't have to get married before she was Lupe's age.

The poodle skirt was a good sign, because she only wore it when she was in a good mood, and that day was no exception. Throughout the day, Lupe kept making furtive glances at me, her face turning the color of beets, often giggling. How many times I caught her staring at me when she thought I wasn't looking. More beet-face every time I nailed her. It made me so self-conscious I checked my fly, making sure it was zipped and even the buttons on my shirt, thinking they might be in the wrong holes.

One thing you could count on is Wilbur Furness would stop by the store for some daily browsing. His daily routine was to divide his attention equally between Mom and Lupe. Either one would do just fine, and until then, the browsing made for excellent entertainment. Since All Saints Day ends with a Y, Wilbur showed up to leer at Lupe's poodle skirt and Mom's sweater, and regaled them with the good news.

"I have it on good authority--straight from the sheriff himself--that there were no attacks anywhere in the county last night. The werewolf killer must have either moved on or is dead. No way to tell which, unless he shows up killing somewhere else."

Other customers gossiped throughout the day. And every time another customer repeated it, my sister's head turned into a beet all over again. The customer chatter that day was of relief. Everyone survived the night. The werewolf had failed to make a Halloween appearance.

Despite the lack of a body ripped to shreds in the woods, something strange was going on. Weirder still, everyone in my family was involved except me, and that piqued my curiosity even more. I was going to get to the bottom of this!

What did Lupe know, and why hadn't she said anything? One thing for sure--I had to find out before Mom got a chance to say anything. After a busy day at work, I waited to catch my sister before she got home. The store was close enough for us to walk each day, so I lay in wait a few blocks from home.

"Did something strange happen last night? Mom seems to be on my case about something, so I really need to know if I missed anything that happened on Halloween night."

For a moment, Lupe hesitated. "No, only that I had the weirdest dream. Almost a nightmare, but not quite. A real Halloween dream."

"That's intriguing. Tell me about it," I said, eager to know what a Halloween almost-nightmare was like. Dreams are always interesting.

"It was about a wolf. Maybe the werewolf, because it was not quite a wolf, almost human-like, the way it stood up on its hind legs. Like a person. He was in the house, but he wasn't scary at all. In fact, he was more like a friendly puppy."

"What does a friendly werewolf do?"

"He licks. A lot. All over. My eyes, nose, mouth, ears--everything. It felt kind of good, like a giant dog tongue, but not when you are trying to sleep. And a lot of slobber. A lot!"

"I told him to leave me alone and rolled over, but he wouldn't. He came around to the other side, front paws on the bed, licking my eyes and mouth. Over and over. So obnoxious. Finally, I got up and tried to shoo him out the door, but he wouldn't go. That's when he started sniffing my butt."

"He what?"

"You know, like dogs sniff butts. People, other dogs--doesn't matter. To them, a butt's a butt. Well, suddenly my butt has his full attention. This was no casual interest, but sticking his nose right up into my crack. I don't care if it's a wolf or werewolf, that was just weird."

"Eww!"

"Then he licked me."

"Where, your butt?"

"My butt and everywhere else. Everywhere. Ev-er-y-where!"

"Oh, wow!"

"The Big Bad Wolf was very bad. I didn't mind it, though," she said with a smirk that meant something. "It felt nice."

"And then what?"

"What do you mean, what? He licked me from head to toe. Literally, and in between each toe."

"That must have been terrifying!"

"Why? He didn't bite, just licked, and licked and licked."

"What were you wearing?"

"My little blue nightie."

"Can I see it?"

"Oh, you want to see what makes a werewolf drool?" Another smirk. "Maybe I'll let you see it when we get home."

I came away from our meeting convinced of one thing--my sister wasn't telling me the truth. She dreamed a werewolf licked her, and that was A-OK with her? No, something was off. That dream explained nothing about how her nightie got from her body while the dream werewolf was licking her and onto my bedroom floor.

Only one thing made sense. Who said a werewolf must be male? That's a totally sexist stereotype. It could be a she-wolf. She-werewolf. The dream was how Lupe's brain processed the memory, her way of dealing with her duality, to make it make sense. Perhaps she ripped the gown off her body when she transformed, or maybe it tore away on its own from the body morphing inside?

But what was it doing in my bedroom? Had she crept in there to transform? Had she come to attack me as I slept, only to somehow remember I was her brother and something deep inside prevented her from ripping my liver out with her teeth? There was only one thing to do.

"Mom, I need to talk to you."

"Good, because I need to speak to you." Her tone was angry, so it had been a good idea to wait until we got home. She closed the door to her bedroom and motioned me to her bed, but I remained standing. She held up my sister's nightgown. "What is this doing in your room?" I should have hidden it better.

"I don't know. In the morning, there it was, lying on the floor of my room, just like that, all torn up and... stuff."

"Do you expect me to believe you have no idea how your sister's nightgown got into your room," she held it up, "in this condition?"

"Honest, Mom, I don't have any idea. That's what I need to talk to you about."

Sometimes it's beneficial to be a bookish, quiet lad. Nowadays, they'd call me a nerd, but back then, that word hadn't been invented yet. My mom knew my word could be trusted with her life.

"What if Lupe is a werewolf?"

Shock swept over her face. "What?"

It burst out in a flurry, and my theory made complete sense and yet sounded crazy AF as the words spilled out of my mouth. The only parts I left out were some of the licking, to keep some details of her perverted werewolf sex dream between us, protected by brother-sister confidentiality. Mom sat there the who time stifling a grin--I must truly have sounded like a lunatic.

"Sit down." Still seated on the edge of the bed, she patted beside her. "This will be difficult to hear, but you need to know." She held my hand. It was terrifying. "What I'm going to tell you will sound fantastic--insane, even--but every word of it is true. So please listen before you... react. Okay?"

Once I agreed, she told me a story so bizarre, so ridiculous that it could only be true. I've known Mom for a long time, and she doesn't have the imagination to come up with that. She's practical, down-to-earth, and even more honest than me. So, as she spun this fantastical tale, I let my jaw drop and the words sink in.

"The truth is, there is no serial killer. This I know for a fact. The scary stories about a werewolf? Those are true, and I know this first-hand, but your sister is not a werewolf. Honey, this will be hard, but brace yourself. Remember around the time you turned 18, those killings got fewer and fewer? That's because someone identified the werewolf."

She ran her fingers through my hair. "My darling boy, I was the person to discover the werewolf, and that werewolf is you..."

Some of the next part of her explanation got lost when my brain turned to mush, along with my body. I got the gist of it, though. Mom thought my sleepiness on full moons was odd, and sometimes she heard some things. And sometimes my PJs were ruined--torn, muddy, oftentimes covered with red stains that sure looked like blood to her. Like Lupe's nightgown.

"I couldn't let them find out. They'd throw you in jail--or worse! So, I made the decision to try to tame you..."

"You what?"

"I checked out some books from the library about wolves and about dog training. Devoured them cover to cover. Dogs are just tamed wolves, and dogs are easy enough to train, so I figured maybe werewolves are just wolves, which means they are big, wild dogs, and if you show one enough love and attention, they might just respond to training."

"By the next full moon, I was ready with some rolled up newspaper and some dog treats."

Incredulous, I asked, "And that worked?"

"Well, a few smacks on the nose with the rolled-up newspaper taught you who was boss, and you ate the treats. Started off well enough, but I must have smacked your snout one time too many, and you jumped out the window. That was the night that little old lady out by the lake had her throat ripped out, and that really upset me. So, the next month, I was ready."

"What the books all said about obedience training is you must punish destructive behavior and reward positive behavior, so the key lay in finding something that you enjoyed more than massacring random strangers."

"Such as?"

"Well, you like your belly scratched, and scratching behind the ears, that sort of thing. And peanut butter. You know how you love peanut butter? Well, same goes when you are a wolf. Boy, you can really put the stuff away when you are in wolf-form. You really don't remember any of that?"

"Not ringing any bells."

"Well, we went out back--turns out you love to fetch. And you can't get enough scratching. You started licking my face like a big puppy dog. You'd just lick me and lick me and I'd scratch your belly. In about 3 months, you were quite tame. Once or twice you got out, the way dogs do, and a couple more people got killed, but with proper training and love, you really are getting to be a good boy."

The whole thing sounded like an elaborate gag, but tears were streaming down Mom's cheeks as she told the tale, and there is no way she's a good enough actress to fake that.

"Does Lupe know?"

"Yes, she found out a few months ago. She heard us when we were playing fetch out back. I got a little carried away and threw the stick into the bushes near her window. You know how she loves dogs! Both of you were a bit timid at first, and I was scared you might grab her and shake her like a rag doll, but I told her to scratch you behind the ears, then your belly. You must have sensed some family bond; they say dogs are very good at sensing things."

None of this made any sense. The more she told me, the more questions it raised. "And the two of you are fine with having a werewolf in the house?"

"What else are we going to do?" Mom chuckled. "Your sister's first reaction was to shoot you with a silver bullet."

"Sounds like her," I said.

"Quite. The neighbors would have thought the same way. But once she saw that you were tame, she got used to your turning into a creature of the night each month. You are a good boy! She loves you in her own way, you know, and as long as you aren't killing anyone--not regularly, in any event--she kind of enjoys having a dark family secret."

My mind went to the shreds of clothing she had been wearing last night, and whether something may have happened which might change her opinion. Finding silver bullets might not be easy, but in a small town, there are plenty of people who pack their own bullets she knows. Heck, with all the werewolf talk around town, I wondered why we didn't carry them in the store. Now I understood.

I needed to clear my head, so I went for a walk in the fresh air. My sister held the key. She could confirm if Mom was delusional, pulling the world's worst practical joke--or telling the truth. She had gone for her daily exercise, cycling. As I walked on our street, there she came riding, her poodle skirt catching the wind and puffing up around her. She wore pastel blue panties, which was nice. Just the distraction I needed. As she slowed to a stop, the skirt fell down to conceal her modesty.

"Mom just told me the craziest story..."

"Oh, no! She didn't! She said we were to keep it from you, to protect you. That's why I made up that story about a nightmare."

To get the straight story without me cluing her in, I just left it to her. "Tell me what you know."

The story she told was the same. I was a stinking werewolf. Mom had housebroken me by the time my sister first saw me. I was like a giant, two-legged puppy running around the house. Recovered somewhat from the shock by then, I peppered her with questions unable to form while Mom was melting my brain. What do I look like? Sound like? Did I smell?