Walking the country club golf course near our house as a child in the cold, dark winter afternoons, I would look up at the large houses looming above.
“Where are the people that live there?” I would ask my father. We would all stop walking for a moment and would peer up into the darkened windows, as the sun began to set on the horizon behind us. My sister and I all wondered why there was little to no activity in these large, stately homes that loomed above us. Occasionally a figure would pass through or we would see a light turn on.
“There is someone!” My sister would say, pointing.
“Ah yes. But, those are the wolves,” my dad would say. “Those are the wolves that are wearing people's skins. They are just pretending.” This would always send a shiver down my spine, and we would keep walking, quickening our pace. I would try not to stare into the windows. It felt like they were watching us.
For years, as I grew older, I was terrified of those homes on the golf course. I was scared the wolves would come after me some day, capture me and I would never see my family again. More importantly, though, I think I was terrified of their lies and secrets. The way these things were able to move around in this world pretending to act as one thing but truly deep down be something else. The way they deceived me. Who else was deceiving me?
