Gobble Gobble

A little bit of fun for Christmas.

A short story by Luke Phillips.

I sat at the head of the feast and looked around at my gathered brethren. So many of us together, in one place. It was enough to be truly thankful for. Long ago, before the peace, before the feast became a symbol of what we had achieved, gathering in large numbers like this would have risked attack. Our enemies would have surrounded us, called in by our merriment, and found us here ready for the slaughter. Now, they were a part of our story. It was the reason we celebrated.

It was a far cry from the times of old. The elders still occasionally told stories about that part of our legacy. Camps where the sun was never seen. Where the dead were left where they fell on the floor, and those captured milled around them, knowing in their hearts the same fate awaited. The air was punctuated by the stench of death, always. But now, we were free of such imprisonment. Perhaps in some, such freedom and the knowledge of our past brought out a certain wildness still. But that too was part of our history, and to be embraced.

The corn was shared around ceremoniously. Even as mature adults, we knew and respected the unofficial ritual of saving the best to last. Some of us considered this to be pumpkin pie, but the more educated of us simply saw that as the spoils of war. It was the meat that satiated our hunger in ways we could never have imagined. Our respect for the hunter-gatherers had grown tenfold when we discovered the thrill of the chase, and kill, for ourselves. We knew it was their land – their territory. But it was ours too. We had to live, survive, and die together. It was the only way.

When something is important, or we want to cut though the stuff that isn’t, we talk about ‘the meat of the matter’. Not the corn, the greens, or even the pie, nice though as all that is. The meat. That’s where the sustenance is. There is talk in the North of a creature called the Wendigo. The hunter-gatherers fear it. They say it was once one of their own, but ate of their own flesh. But now, as we had become meat eaters, we perhaps understood the power that came with the consumption of any flesh. It had helped us grow stronger. It was said that the pursuit of meat is what had enabled us to walk taller. It wasn’t just an important symbol for us, on this day of the feast. It was important for all our kind.

Of course, not all felt that way. Some still preferred a simpler life. They lived on what could be grown and foraged, as they always had done. There was a gentleness to that life that we all respected. But in our hearts, those of us gathered here and now, knew there was no turning back. We hunted to live, but we also lived to hunt in many ways. Our new lives, perhaps even our futures depended on it.

There was still an element of danger in any hunt. We had to find the right group of animals, few in number, isolated from others, preferably with their kin, and not disturbed by our presence . A scout would be sent out to find and survey them. Even now, occasionally, the scout would not return. But more often than not, they did. And the more times they came back, the better we got at what came next. The hunt. The kill. It was waiting for the right moment to strike. We would stay poised until they had settled, ready to eat and drink. They spread themselves out on the ground, facing inward towards each other, protected from the ground by thick, warm skins. It was then that they were most at ease, complete disarmed and relaxed.

We had learnt to strike fast. Our unsheathed spurs sought out the points where blood would flow freely. Our sharpest points found their softest parts. We knew our size and power startled them and was enough to hold them in our gaze long enough to strike. And strike we did, with heavy beats of our outstretched limbs. With enough of us, it didn’t take long if we had the element of surprise. And we always had the element of surprise. Not long after the deed was done, we would gather around our fallen prey. We would give thanks, and then we would eat. Both them, and what they had brought with them. For some reason, their corn, their greens – they always tasted better than what we could procure ourselves. And pie had always been beyond us. We picnicked in the wild, just as we always had – and as our prey had intended to.

There was of course one thing they brought with them that we didn’t consume. The sacrifice we called it. Perhaps the fear of the hunter-gatherers’ Wendigo lived in us too. Whatever it was, and despite the strength and power we had found through the consuming of flesh, we couldn’t eat our own – just as it was abhorrent to the hunter-gatherers, the people to eat their own kind. They ate us, and we eat them, but not each other. Just so you understand though, it’s about respect, not fear. After all, we’re turkeys, not chicken.

Howl of a Halloween

Ruebus sighed. The mountain air chilled him, and he pulled the thick blanket more tightly around him. He had already removed his clothing and placed them in a bag in the back of the pick up. He was miles out of town, and the scent of pine assured him of the closeness of wilderness. Night was falling and a few stars were already peeking out at the retreating day. His heartbeat had slowed and he was comforted by the methodical thud in his chest as he looked up to welcome the night.

He had found it amusing that the full moon had fallen on Halloween this year. Earlier in the day, he had even kidded himself that he would be able to stay in town, as everyone would think he was just wearing a costume. The smile had soon faded though. He could never completely remember the full effect of the transformation, but he was certain that it would be all too convincing. He could never even remember if he walked on two legs, or ran on four. In fact, all he ever remembered was what we saw and felt in his dreams. The chasing down of a deer or the bloodlust thundering through his veins just before terrible jaws snapped shut.

This was his fourth full moon. If he had known that the dog he’d hit that day was a wolf, he probably wouldn’t have even got out of the car. But that was old news now. One of the benefits of being a lycanthrope was a remarkable ability to heal and the scar had disappeared after his first full moon. He had been on the ranch, bringing in the horses when he had begun to change. The horses had been spooked all day. The next morning, he had found what was left of the two that hadn’t fled fast enough. Ever since then, he had made sure he was no-where near a human on the night of the full moon. He was never going to risk that.

The noise of the engine snapped him out of the trance he had slipped into. A car was coming up the road. It was still out of sight, far round the bend. But it was getting closer. His heightened senses took over, his ears, already slightly narrower and more tipped than a few minutes ago, seemed to prick up and follow the sound as it drew nearer. He was poised to run. But something held him there.

The car screamed round the bend, almost out of control. It was a black SUV, with tinted windows, and even his eyes couldn’t see the driver. The popping sound from the wheel arch came unexpectedly. The car was already sideways when the blowout shook the chassis, lifting it into the air as it spun wildly out of control. It crashed down onto its side and slid along the road in a shower of sparks and grinding metal, the sound so loud in his ears that he lifted up his hands to cover them. He could feel his hands and palms tingling as thick fur threatened to sprout from his pores, and his fingernails thickened and hardened as they rested against his skin.

The night descended still, and Ruebus knew that only a few seconds of his humanity remained. He didn’t look behind him as he heard the family scramble from the car. He ran in the opposite direction, driving himself further and further from the sounds and smells of the accident. He began to head for the tree line, hoping the wolf in him would carry on in the same direction. It was not to be.

The snapping sound in his knees drove him to the ground in a crumpled heap. As his leg bones broke, shattered and reformed into a new shape, he let out a blood-curdling scream of agony. It only ended when there was no air left in his chest. His eyes bulged in their sockets as they changed shape and colour, seeping blood as they did. The thick, dark brown fur erupted from every pore in his skin, as steel-like talons, as black as the oncoming night, curled from his fingers and toes. His spine cracked as it curved, sending him into a spasm of renewed agony. The changes hit him in waves, re-shaping his legs into powerful back limbs. His arms bent and buckled as they became heavy and hard. His skull flattened and fractured as long powerful jaws extended into place. As if in triumph of overcoming the frail human form it had been only moments ago, the wolf roared into the night air, and held its head high in a single, chilling howl.

The scents were what came to it first. The leaking oil from the upturned engine; the spilling gasoline, the wisp of perfume from the mother’s neck, the sweat and blood on the hands of the man. They all tempted it back towards the road. It slunk silently towards the brow of the hill where it already knew the car lay. At the ridge, it paused as it saw three people huddled against the underside of the upturned car. The wolf allowed them to see him as it took a few careless steps towards them, sending loose stones down the bank in their direction. It savoured the sounds of the screams and the smell of fear in the air as the two females stood up. It fixed its eyes on the man as it parted its lips and narrowed its eyes as it thought with evil pleasure of the nightmare its human-self would wake from the following night. And then it leapt.

If you like the short stories sometimes featured on this blog, you can find novels by the author here and here.

The Converse Carnivore

When we begin to look into the possibility of cryptids, the focus is usually on the available evidence and facts that might substantiate the existence of such creatures. Since I was small, it was always the first hand encounters that gripped me with fear or had me reaching for the light switch.

With that in mind, I’ve decided to take some of my favourite encounters, some historic, some more recent, and fictionalise them. I hope you enjoy them. Our first story is about something hairy and homicidal in the woods of Converse, near San Antonio in Texas. Purported to have happened some time in the 1960’s, the exact date is lost to history, and some accounts suggest an origin in the late 1800’s. But the core always remains the same. A retired military man forces his studious son on a hunt that takes place at Skull Crossing. The boy is frightened by something, but still his father makes him go back…

Rites of passage are about tradition and transition. They usually mark the turning from one phase of life to another for instance. For one young man on his first hunt, the transition would be one of being alive to dead.

Major Abraham ‘Bram’ Miller let out a deep and audible sigh. He had waited weeks for this moment, but now it had arrived, the look of confusion and disappointment on Ethan’s face was more than he could bear. The boy was shaking, and the old soldier knew that at any moment the tears would start to flow. Damn it, your first rifle and you act like it’s a turd he thought. As if on cue, Ethan turned to face him, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“I don’t want it,” Ethan sniffed, looking at his feet.

“Son, we talked about this,” Bram said. “We’re going hunting this weekend. You need a gun and I bought this for you.”

“I don’t want a gun, I don’t want to go hunting, and I don’t want to fight,” Ethan replied defiantly and coldly. His gaze returned to his feet. He knew what was coming next.

Bram looked at the Ruger 10/22 rifle sitting on the counter. The stock and barrel had been shortened and the wood grain had been brought out and refinished to his specifications. Frank Merryweather smiled knowingly at the boy and Bram from behind the register.

“It’s a beautiful rifle Ethan,” the shop owner said to the boy kindly. “I’m sure I could find another buyer for it.” He caught Miller’s icy cold stare, but he knew what he was doing. “Of course though, that would mean another boy strutting through town with what was meant to be your rifle. I’m sure you don’t want that. Why not just try it for size for now?”

Ethan looked up and stopped crying. The calm tone had calmed him. He offered up his hands as Merryweather lifted the gun off the counter and handed it to him gently. He was surprised by how light it was. As he ran his finger along the grain and the barrel, he enjoyed the change in texture from warm wood to cold metal. As he slung it over his shoulder, he noticed its length perfectly matched the inside span of his arm. It was then he realised how personal the gift was. He couldn’t help the warm glow inside that formed into a smile.

“What d’ya say Bram?” Merryweather asked. “Ready for the parade ground I’d say.”

“Well a weekend in the woods at least,” Bram replied, but Ethan still picked up the hint of admiration in his father’s voice. “Look’s like we’re all done here, thanks Frank.”

When they were outside, Bram placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. “I’m real impressed Ethan, and I know this ain’t easy for you. Maybe you don’t have to hunt today, but if we’re in the woods, you need to be armed. After all, I might need you to protect me from your mother if we get back too late.”

Ethan smiled, comforted and reassured as they turned and walked back to the aqua-green Chevy pick-up Bram called the General, gleaming as if it had just come from the showroom, despite being two years old now. More of Bran’s military leanings in evidence. The tires churned the dust on the road as they headed out of the town of Converse.

Bran couldn’t help the sigh of relief once they cleared the town. The trail to the hunting ground was just north of Skull’s Crossing, and there was no turning back as they passed it. Ethan appeared to have accepted his lot for the weekend, occasionally making furtive glances at the rifle case in the back.

“So you’re going to be my spotter today, letting me and the other fellas know when there is game coming our way. If you want to bag something yourself you can, but there’s no pressure,” Bran stated.

“I only want to spot. We should eat what we kill and yours will be enough,” Ethan replied.

Bram was somewhat taken aback. This was the first time Ethan had explained his reluctance to hunt so poignantly, and Bram had to admit he was a little impressed.

“So is it trophy hunting your against?” Bram enquired.

“Yes!” Ethan exclaimed. “I’m not a vegetarian Dad, I just don’t like shooting things for fun. That’s how you identify serial killers you know?”

“Your books tell you that?” Bram exclaimed with a smile.

“No, just watching you and your friends,” Ethan laughed.

“Well I have to admit I’m a little impressed and relieved,” Bram replied. “I think that’s a pretty admirable attitude.”

He sat back and they both enjoyed the mutual silence until they rolled up to the hunting ground. Bram’s usual hunting buddies and their dogs were already there and waiting for them. The hounds barked eagerly as they got out of the truck and walked over. They all walked together a little way into the woods, stopping every now and then to note the deer tracks. The others made admiring glances to Ethan’s new rifle and he showed it off with pride whenever asked. Soon they came to a deer stand at the edge of a clearing that bordered the woods. Bram checked the radio worked whilst Ethan climbed the ladder and got into position, then he followed him up.

“All set Ethan?” Bram asked.

“Yeah Dad. I can’t see the next stand where you guys’ll be though.”

“That’s what the radio’s for. Let us know if anything is heading our way.”

Ethan watched his Dad wave back at him before he and the others disappeared along the trail. He waited for some time before pulling out the book he had smuggled in his bag. ‘Anti-intellectualism in American Life by Richard Hofstadter. It was brand new. He settled into the seat and began to read.

After about an hour, he looked up. He felt cold and tense. He put the book down and pulled out a pair of binoculars from the bag instead. It was then he realised what was making him so uncomfortable. The woods were completely silent. He lifted the binoculars to his eyes and began to scan the tree line. The snap of a twig to his far right made him spin round to find its source. As he adjusted the focus, he found something crouched there. A dark form, with fierce amber eyes. He couldn’t help the shudder he felt as the thing stood up on two legs that curved backwards at the knee like a dog’s. As it took three fast steps towards him and the deer stand, it’s long snout quivered and its lips curled back to reveal gleaming white fangs. Ethan was in no doubt it was looking right at him. He fumbled for the radio in a panic.

“Dad, Dad, come in! It’s Ethan. There’s something here, something horrible. It looks like a wolf, but…”

“Ethan calm down!” came Bram’s booming reply. Ethan could tell immediately his father was embarrassed by his panicked voice. “It’s probably just a coyote. Might explain why it’s been so quiet this morning.”

“No Dad, this isn’t a coyote. I don’t know what it is. Oh God, it’s moving closer. Dad, it’s coming, it’s…”

Bram stared at the radio in his hand, his son’s voice replaced by high pitched static. He was startled by the sound of a gunshot that came from the direction of Ethan’s deer stand. There was another, then another. Then silence. Nothing stirred.

Bram bolted, grabbing his rifle and running down the trail. He only looked back when his companions found their dogs unwilling to follow, digging their heels into the ground and baying mournfully as the angry hunters pulled with all their might on their leashes. He didn’t wait for them.

He came to a sudden halt as he turned the corner. He could see the stand was empty. Ethan’s rifle lay abandoned on the ground close by. The empty brass shell casings were scattered in the leafy brush. He dashed past the stand into the clearing and stopped. Only the heavy thud of his heart sounded in his chest as he met the gaze of the creature in the tree line. It’s wolf-like ears were held high, pricked and pointed in his direction. Fiery eyes watched him with unblinking tenacity. But it was the snout that made him recoil in horror. A wicked, twisted thing that seemed to form a sneer. The creature was semi-crouched, shrouded by the shadow of the trees, but he could still make out what it held in its arms. Ethan, pale and bloodied, eyes closed. The creature took a single step backwards and disappeared into the maze of brush.

The dogs could not be forced back down the trail, and it was only the press of night and the threat of darkness that eventually encouraged them to break for the cars. The men returned with flashlights and searched the forest, but to no avail. Police and forest rangers arrived, but their dogs and horses also refused to enter the trees. Throughout the night, the woods remained silent under the gaze of a full moon.

It was the following day that Bram stumbled upon the creek. The mist of the early morning had not yet lifted, but he still noticed the colour. Blood red. As he knelt down beside the water, he wept, knowing Ethan was lost to him. He jumped to his feet as he heard a whispered message, the voice of his dead son, coming from the creek.

“Eat what you kill,” it said.

I hope you liked this little fictionalised adventure into a famous cryptid encounter. If you like unknown creatures and scary stories, and fancy something a little longer, I write novels too. You can find a link to my book Shadow Beast below.

https://t.co/mwC6dyn0Kj

A Death At Dusk

Death Comes at Dusk

The sepia hued haze of dusk was setting in as Joanna made herself comfortable in the hide. The golden glowing disc that had brought little warmth to the winter’s day had slipped below the bank on the horizon, but its reach still reflected off the cloud bank above. It gave the water the look of pale honey. The surface of the lake was perfectly still and the mirror images of the greenish grey trunks of the ash trees that lined the bank, slowly stretched out across the water to her. She sighed as she looked out through the long, thin viewing window. The light was soothing and silken at this time of day. It was as if God had etched the world around her onto copper sheeting.

She watched the slow swirl of water around the submerged branches of a long dead tree in the centre of the lake. This was a favoured perch for the halcyon bird. She waited for the flash of brilliant turquoise and flame that would signal the kingfisher’s arrival. She so badly wanted to see it one last time. But it was close to six and it still had not come. She wanted to die in the light.

She poured the coffee from the silver and black tartan Thermos flask into its cup shaped lid and took a sip. It wouldn’t be long now. She went back to her silent vigil. She was confident she wouldn’t be disturbed on a cold winter’s night.

The little grey cygnet had grown into the awkward shape of adolescence over the last few months. Not a perfect white yet, his grey feathers and black beak made him look as if he had been dusted all over with powdered charcoal. His bent head was held in the classic pose of his kind as he drifted in reverent like grace across the water, emerging from the shadow of the bank and into the glorious light. She wondered if that was what Heaven was like.

The young swan slowed as he neared the centre of the lake. With his wings folded against his back, his motionless upper body appeared as a boat under sail. She took another sip of the coffee.

Something about the slow movement of the water around the branches of the tree changed. The water swirled gently in the direction of the swan. There was a slight ripple, which dissipated almost as soon as it had swelled, then nothing. The mirror-like calm returned to the water.

The swan headed out towards the eastern edge of the lake, seeking shadow once more and the succulent, ozone tasting plants that swayed beneath the surface in the current that paced the shallows. It seemed to tilt its head slightly towards her but for a moment, and she could just make out the beady black eye.

Suddenly the majestic bird called out in violent alarm. It was more like an animal than a bird, similar to the shrill and rasping cry of a fox cub. And it was a cry. All majesty and grace was lost in violent panic as the hulking bird tried to heave itself from the water. Its wings crashed against the surface as it upended and tried to break away. There was a spasm of movement and then the swan began to be dragged backwards through the water, back towards the tree. The swan cried again, its water logged wings now spread uselessly across the surface. It writhed and jerked, this time its torso disappearing. Now only its back and neck remained above water. She had never heard the wail of a dying swan before, but now it lifted its head into the air and sang of its death in a haunting single plea to the sky, as it sank down into the darkening water.

Joanna felt her breath catching. She felt light headed and dizzy. A haze of wonder filled her head and for the first time in weeks her skin felt warm to the touch. She swayed back and forth on the bench in the hide. Death was coming.

There was a shadow in the water close to the tree. It sat fatly in the water, but it thinned and tapered towards one end. It began to move, edging towards the hide. Joanna watched it take form as it rolled into the shallows like an inevitable tide.

It was a great fish. Its broad and dappled grey head sat just below the surface of the water. Two flat eyes the shade of river clay stared up at her. Great, sweeping, moustache like barbells spread out from its top and bottom lip. A vast chasm of a mouth opened to reveal a fleshy pink throat. Beyond the massive and disproportioned head, a long and muscular tail stretched away into the depths, a dark and marbled bluish grey in colour.

The slime covered brow of the fish breached the water in a slow, deliberate ascent. Joanna’s eyes fixed on the round, soulless depressions that seemed to emit a gaze equally fixed on her.

I am death Joanna heard. She stopped swaying. There was a chill to the voice that beckoned her. It was distant. She looked towards the dying light of the day against the far bank and thought she understood. As the light faded, so did the voice. It was time to leave.

The old park keeper found the hide door open as he did his rounds in the first light of the dawn. It was there that he found Joanna’s body. In the amber glow of morning, within the cedar boarded hut, the woman’s scarlet shaded cheeks seemed at odds to her porcelain skin and bald scalp. She sat huddled on the bench, a dark brown quilted jacket wrapped around her, her thin legs tucked up beneath and her dead eyes set on the surface of the water. Her mouth was set in a soft smile and her gaze was fixed and far away. The cold and biting air did nothing to erode the look of cosy warmth she radiated.

The old park keeper reached over for the cup of coffee and the flask sitting on the ledge of the open window. The liquid inside was quite cold by now, but there was a warmth to the thick scent that wafted up to him. There was a vanilla like note of sweetness and for a moment he tried to place its familiarity. He sighed as he poured the contents out onto the ground, careful to avoid the water. It was the unmistakable and bitter, coffee tainted smell of burnt almonds.

Wolf’s Bane

An acrid odour gripped the room. The scent of death and decay were ripe, but darkness offered a shroud for the unspeakable horrors within. Quelling an intense sense of rising panic, Marcus fought to keep his nerve, his hands shaking as he shone his old torch into the impending gloom. The odour was getting worse, not of damp or mould, but a scent so vile that his stomach churned. Old floorboards groaned as he moved cautiously, testing to see whether it would hold his weight. Spiders scuttled in every direction as he probed deeper into a room that repelled him on every level.

The light from the torch began to fade, the beam failing to reach deep into the corners, but enough to send the fattest of rats scurrying from the invading light. Sweat dripped a trail down his neck. He felt chilled to the core and suddenly, with the last flash of light from his torch, his vision fixed, he stumbled backwards, fear gagging his reflexes. His strangled scream became a whimper as his weight took him off keel. He fell, hands outstretched, eyes enormous, his head splitting open like a shell on contact with the floor. His blood began to drip through the gaps between the floorboards to the room below. Darkness consumed him.

The creature knew this room. The overpowering saturation of scents made it giddy and it licked its lips with hungered excitement. It sniffed at the fresh blood on the floor, recognised its source and moved past, heading towards the ramshackle door at the back that led onto the moors. This room within the old shack held trophies, but no fresh meat.

The night air was cool. The breeze was light, but carried the information it needed. It loped along low to the ground, following Marcus’s musk, a blend of cheap aftershave, sweat and grime. It growled in frustration when it reached his car at the top of a track. It clawed its way round the metallic shell and stopped at the back. It investigated the tracks the tyres had left in the dry dust of the August heat. Its night vision was perfectly adapted, seeing the world in sepia tones of brown and gold. It began to follow the tracks and as it rounded the bend, frightened a deer that hadn’t heard its approach. For a moment it gave chase with a few excited bounds, then control returned and it headed back to the trail as it suppressed the predatory instinct. Tonight was about a far greater hunt.

At the foot of the trail the creature found the main road and became more wary than before. But its mind was set. It noticed the turn the tyres had made into the trail and smelt the rubber as it had bit into the tarmac. The direction from which Marcus had come was clear. It stepped across the empty road and worked its way into the grassy verge, disappearing from sight altogether. Its movement looked little more than a gust of wind at a casual glance.

The creature stopped and took a big sniff, raising its snout high into the air. Marcus had travelled with the window open. It raised its lips in a terrible grin, exposing streaked yellow fangs and ghostly pink gums. It knew it was close.

It entered the small town as the full moon broke from behind a bank of clouds. It crossed a park, now following instinct as much as scent in these surroundings that seemed so alien yet somehow familiar. It froze as a nearby yelp caught its attention. It had been so set on its mission it hadn’t noticed the golden retriever until it was nearly on top of it. It sprang silently onto the big yellow dog, burying its teeth in its throat and yanking its head back to break its neck. It left the body behind a flower bed, growling with gruff pleasure as it heard the elderly owner calling for the canine.

It found its way to a quiet cul-de-sac. At its end sat a large house with an impressive fir tree in the centre of the front lawn. It kept to the shadows as it approached. It somehow knew this was its destination. It reached up into the fir tree with its clawed hands and lifted itself into the dense foliage. It climbed upwards until it found a branch that would support it and give a good view of the house.

Marcus had been here. His scent saturated the place, just like at the shack. It saw the open window and focused on it. A lighter scent, honey like and wrapped in soft tones of fruit and flowers wafted towards it. Saliva pooled in its mouth and dripped from its jaws as the plan formed. The muscles in its legs tightened like coiled springs. It sprang from the tree and barrelled through the open window, knocking the curtains aside and landing clumsily on the bed. The little girl squirmed underneath it, waking from a peaceful dream into a very real nightmare of fur and fangs. The scream was muffled by a heavy blow from the creature’s pounding limbs. It scooped her up and flung her over its shoulder. A light appeared below the door and it heard footsteps coming along the corridor.

This was brazen, and a new experience for the creature. It had never been inside a home before. It savoured the vision it had of the girl’s mother finding it in all its glory, her child clenched within its claws. But this was not the reckoning it sought, though it had killed people before. Marcus knew that, that’s why he had come to the shack finally. The favour was simply being repaid. Death was coming, but tonight was not the time and this was not the place.

The creature climbed from the window and jumped down to the lawn, hitting the ground running. It ran on two legs well enough but wasn’t as fast as when on all fours. It also risked being seen, but it almost welcomed the trail of breadcrumbs any such sighting would leave. It would have to be cunning, patient and above all perfectly placed if Marcus was to be lead to the discovery the creature desired.

It reached the outskirts of the town without incident, almost disappointed. As it crossed the open country, it took longer and faster strides now that there was less chance of an encounter with a human. The glow on the horizon let it know that its time was short as the inky blackness of the night began to fade. The blood red colour of the heather in this eerie light seemed to welcome and beckon the creature back to the moor.

It reached the shack and slipped inside. It dropped the girl against a kicked-in doorframe. It slashed her arm with a surgical swipe of its claws. The blood flowed onto her white and pink bed clothes, but it ignored this and let it soak the thin material. It turned and sat on the bare wood with its back facing her. It positioned itself in the mirror, adjusting its position so that it could see the girl behind it clearly. Now it waited.

It was the same mirror that Marcus had seen when he stumbled his way through the shack. It was the same one that had reflected his fading flashlight. It was the same one he had caught his reflection in as the change had begun. The creature ran its claws down the scar of the already healed wound from where the fall had split the skull. Finding the house would have been easier if the creature could access Marcus’s memories, but the creature and he were as separate as night was from day. It was only in the few moments of dawn and dusk, when night and day were one that the creature had become aware of Marcus. The human was less aware, less instinctive, less primal, but his arrival at the shack could only mean he suspected. The change was coming and the creature’s conscience began to fade, but it grinned a terrible smile one more time as it glimpsed the human emerging from beneath. He would see everything. Coming to the shack had been a mistake for Marcus, but at least he would no longer live a life of doubt. Werewolves did exist, and he was one.

If you like what you’ve read, why not take a look at Shadow Beast, an even better read for Halloween!

https://t.co/4y3gJq8Phi