Act like you don't believe him

This is all too much.  Now you're sure he's toying with you.  For a moment you try and catch his gaze, looking for a betraying smile.  But he doesn't give it up.  Suddenly you become acutely annoyed.  A gentleman of Cal's caliber wouldn't try and pass off a story like this unless he took you for a complete fool.  "Cal, I did not come up here to have you waste my time."  "You may think you have the upper hand, but I promise you this is no game."  You can't see his eyes behind his drooping hair, but his jaw is firm, and somber as ever. 

This was insane.  Every school child in the parish knew stories about the monster; the loup-garou as they called it in the French creole language the ex-slaves spoke.  Occasionally on slow news days the local paper, The New Orleans Picayune, even published sensational descriptions of attacks.  In fact, there was one just last week.  Supposedly, a catholic priest had been mutilated by the beast last full moon.  As a police officer, you knew that it was rubbish, of course.  There was no evidence of any such death occurring.  You realize that Cal hasn't spoken a word or looked up from the floor in several minutes.  "Cal.  What in the world are you saying?"

Slowly, and without moving his gaze, Cal reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a long ornate string of ivory and silver rosary beads.  They are covered in a dark red paste of dried blood.

The End

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