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Michael Ripley

The day has slipped away, a passing without visions of yellow, orange or red, just shades of gray gradually darkening until all light has left the sky. Clouds cover the plantation in thick layers seemingly pulled closer to the ground as the hour deepens into night and the hunters burrow further into the woods.

Torches guide the men toward the swampiest acres, severing the gloom while creating sinister shadows that march along the paths, growing taller with each bouncing step, then shrinking just to stretch again. Their numbers leave no room for escape between their ranks; the menace of the night will be found on this dreary eve.

Young and old alike have been its prey; no apparent deference for type, size or sex. Even the hunters, while the bravest to be found, wish nothing more than to be in their homes, before a fire, doors locked, shutters drawn. Their animated march has tightened its noose around the final expanse of shelter. A rustling in the center, more felt than heard alerts their senses to prickling heights, as time and their advance stand still, boots sunk to their laces in mud, torches forced out to the front, guns held taunt with one arm, eyes blinking against the moist dark air.

Branches snap, water is sloshed, torches are stuck fire end up into the soft ground, guns are lifted to ready position, and to one side of the circle the wolf appears. An ordinary animal had not been expected, but the enormity of this monster surprises even the experienced hunters along the arched line.

The lycanthrope rises up on hind legs, approaching the loaded guns like a man ready to face whatever end may come. Long sharp teeth are slowly revealed, hoisting fear to tremble the gun toting hands, and with a swiftness that belies its size the beast mounts a charge at the random or perhaps well-chosen section of noose. Storming through blasts from the hunter’s barrels it pounces upon a young man, taking his head into its powerful jaws and sinking its teeth into the soft skin that had once been a neck.

More guns, now guided to kill the man or the beast discharge, and the remaining hunters appear, unloading their rounds, dropping the werewolf while taking at least five men to their end with misguided blasts.

The hunters win their battle on this dim lost night. They bury their kill, their victims, and their stories before returning to the plantation homes. The wolf has gotten six more, they tell their wives, but in the end, the men always endure.