Page 4 of Taken Home By the Grizzly

Vehicles, driving through the middle of the damn forest. Fancy trucks, with off-road tires, tearing through the snow. I hauled myself up to the window and watched as they pulled up in front of the house opposite. Some human dude got out of the first truck and fitted a key into the padlocked gate. Took him a while to drag the rusty old chain off and haul the gates open, then they were through, heading up the driveway and parking in the yard.

What the hell are they doing here? No one’s been up to this old house before. I thought it was abandoned. From the outside, it’s a nice, fancy log cabin, but inside it’s all run down, everything trashed and neglected. I know this because when I first arrived, I climbed over the fence and peered through all the windows. I make it my business to know what’s going on in my territory. There were no signs that anyone had been living there for a long, long time. And as the months passed, and no one arrived to claim it, I started to relax. To forget it was even there.

But now, a woman is climbing out of the other truck and stretching. She’s a small human, also wearing fancy city clothes. And… what’s that? She opens the rear door and three rugrats spill out. Even worse.

Immediately, they start running around, chasing each other and screaming their little heads off. This is a lot more than I can stand right now.

When they all go toward the house, I lose sight of them. I shove open the front door of my cabin and step outside for the first time in three days. My muscles ache from underuse as I hurry along the boundary fence of their property, seeking out a better vantage point. There, I see the human man—a weedy-looking guy, as most humans are—opening up the front door.

The female wrinkles her nose. “Smells musty,” she says.

“Well, no one’s been in here for a long time,” the guy replies. “But we’ll start up the furnace, make a fire in the den.”

“We should’ve gotten someone to deal with this before we arrived!” she snaps.

“Well, we’re here now. We’ll settle in soon.” The man calls the rugrats to him and they step inside the house, shutting the front door behind them.

I stand there watching, wondering what the hell they’re up to. Surely they’re not planning to stay in this rundown place? Can’t imagine any humans staying there, let alone people who look like they’re used to a whole lot of comfort and fancy things. Maybe they’re just checking it out? Maybe one of them inherited it, and they’re planning to sell it? I wait a while, expecting them to leave at some point. But after a couple of hours, they haven’t come out.

And, as dusk falls, the lights in the house click on. They’re going to stay here overnight.

I swear every follicle of my beast’s shaggy fur stands on end.

You know how long it’s been since another two-legged being slept within a hundred yards of me? No, I don’t either. I’ve gotten used to being the only human-slash-shifter around here, and that’s the way I like it.

All night long, I toss and turn on my mattress, feeling like I’m lying on a nest of goddamn fire ants. Wondering what they want with the house next door. Wondering if there’s anything I can do to get rid of them. My instincts are telling me to get the hell out of this place. To seek out somewhere more secluded. Build another cabin with my bare hands, far, far away from any kind of civilization.

The next morning, I hear the sound of a vehicle pulling out of the yard. But it’s only one of the trucks. And it’s back an hour later. The man and woman unload a bunch of stuff from the truck and carry it into the house. Then, later that afternoon they bring out a stepladder and a bunch of wires and start fussing around the big ol’ fir tree that sits in the yard. Soon, it’s all lit up with colored lights. And I figure it out—must be that time of year. Holidays. The season when humans eat like there’s a famine coming, and decorate their homes with brightly-colored crap.

The thought barrels at me: they’re not leaving. They’re settling in, and they’re going to be here for the duration. I can’t stand it, can’t stand being so close to them. I pace up and down my cabin, snarling and fretting. Trying to gather my thoughts. But my head aches like hell.

Yup, I’m the archetypal bear with a sore head. I’m not supposed to be awake at this time of year. Not all shifters hibernate, but I figure I’m more than half beast. More like seventy-five percent. Most of the time I feel like I’m hanging on to my human side by a thread. Unfortunately, there’s no one left in my family to ask about my DNA.

I need to go find a cave or something—somewhere where I can stay while I gather enough wood to build a new cabin. But I don’t want to leave. I like it here. It took me months of searching to find it. I was hoping I’d find some kind of rough shelter, but there it was—a perfect little wood cabin, deep in the forest, with no sign that humans had been there for years. The only negative was the big house next door. But that also seemed abandoned?—

What’s that?

Something appears at my window. A human face. I dart behind the couch. I can’t let them see me. If they know there’s a bear in here, they’ll probably hire someone to come take me out with a rifle.

Just like what happened before.

I hunker down and watch a snot-nosed little kid peering through my goddamn window. Cupping his hands around his eyes, his breath misting the glass. He’ll go back and tell his parents there’s a cabin here. Will they give a shit?

Of course, they will. Humans always want to stick their noses where they don’t belong. Live and let live is not a human philosophy.

But if they see me as a man? Well, that’s different. I’ve got as much right to be here as any other man.

Keeping my body low to the ground, I push my beast deep down inside me and let my human come out. It’s a hell of a tussle. My bear doesn’t like going back inside. And my human hasn’t been out for months. Bones crunch, tendons snap, and I bite back a bellow. But at last, there I am, crouching down on all fours, flexing my muscles, checking everything’s still in working order.

The little boy has moved on to another window. He’s rubbing at the grime on the glass, like he owns the damn place. I stride to the door and yank it open. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I holler.

“Whoa!” he exclaims, eyes just about bulging out of his head.

“I said, what are you doing trespassing on my property?” My voice comes out as my beast’s roar. He looks terrified, but I don’t give a crap. I need to make sure this never happens again.

“Answer me!”

“I-I didn’t mean to,” he stutters, and runs.

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