Outside, thunder clapped viciously against the rotting wooden exterior of the abandoned home. I could feel with each step, the floor boards beneath my feet threatening to snap, resisting the pulls of mighty winds, while taking on extra weight within. Through a hole in the wall that once served as a window frame, its remnants hanging on by a nail, rain made its way inside, leaving a large portion of the second floor narrow hallway slick with fungi and moss; from the looks of it, I wouldn’t trust even a rat to skitter across. Taking a step back, I brace myself for what looks to be a five foot leap to dry wood. With a controlled breath, I focus and do my best. Launching myself forward, my right knee bends for the jump, while my left extends for the landing, but before my foot could leave the floor, I felt the weak lumber beneath give.

A flash, a half second of nothingness, where the world around neither exists, nor do I. Suddenly, I find myself beneath a wave of pain. Pure agony rips through my being. My foot, not sure if broken of bruised, lies dead beneath a pile of timber. I wish to scream, to cry, to yell, but the howl within the house is death begging me to answer its call.

I refuse.

With every effort to not pass out from the scream I hold within. I find myself reaching out, gripping the broken floor boards; my fingers are swollen, bleeding and bruised, as I struggle to pull myself free from the blanket of timber hat covers my torso. A searing flame shoots through my leg with every piece moved. There’s no need to see where I am, for I’d already bypassed the rotting kitchen, prior to my ascension to the second floor. I twist my head and voila, there’s the front door. But before I can make another move, I hear the trampling of thunderous feet above me, the breaking of more timber above, broken shards of floor cracking tiles near my face. My eyes fly to the left where I know the staircase to be; above my head the ceiling cracks, but the floor never fully snaps.

I know I can’t outrun them, I’d be mad to even try….

Five seconds….

Five seconds is all it takes for their massive, powerful paws to pounce down the hall, jump half the stairs, hell, take out a chunk of wall in the process, and on my ass before I even pulled myself up. So I pull the timber atop of myself. Covering my body in the mayhem and chaos that led to my drop….

24 Hours Prior

          “Dimetri!” I hear my name called.

Looking over my shoulder, I see Sheriff Gerald waving at me three building down, outside the old saloon. Dust from the dry ground picks up from the passing wagon to my right, blinding him from sight before clearing, and there he is, four feet away from me.

“How’s it there sheriff?” I ask, already knowing what it was he wanted to know.

There’d been a string of murders lately and I provided a certain “talent” when it came to special cases.

And this string of seven men, five women, and three babies was considered to be one of those cases; Gruesome, horrible, obscene shit.

“Was wonder’n if ya had found anything,” he took a quick look at the people passing by on our left, then glanced to those across the road, “about that thing,” he leaned closer. Covering a side of his mouth with his hand, he whispered, “don’t wana be freaking out the folk but the murders?”

He looked at me with the eyes of a young boy who’s scared, looking for guidance; a little one who he thinks will kill that monster beneath his bed, but sorry sheriff, I’m not that man.

“No more than you already know Gerald, but I’ve got plans for tonight.”

“Tonight ya say,” The sheriff’s interest seemed peaked, “any chance of letting me in?”

I couldn’t help but let a chuckle slip, “Sorry sir, but the less you about it, the better,” it was my turn to lean closer now, “it’s not that I don’t trust you, but ears are strong.”

His old, tired, sky blue eyes beneath bushy grey brows returned and met mine, “Son, I understand,” he thrust his hand out.

I shook it.

“If there’s anything I can do to help, ya know where to find me.”

Tipping my hat, he turned on the spot, and waiting until he was out of sight, I returned to what I’d been focusing on. In my hands, I slightly unraveled the rough charcoal sketched image the gypsy woman, five miles out of town, drew up for me. Rough was being kind. In her opium induced state, she called for the spirit of the last “special” victim, who, through moans and wailing, sketched out the supposed location of his killer. Holding up the tanned deer skin to the coordinates insisted by the gypsy, despite how, “Ridiculous I might find it,” I find myself tucked between a horse trough, and the corner post of the post office.

Studying a bunch of squiggly lines trying to make sense of the damn thing, I pick up on what sounds like a shouting match between a young girl and an older man. Turning towards the commotion, the left front door of the post office burst open with a young missy backing up slowly.

“…be so cruel then!” she shouted, “He needs help, I can hear it!”

But the balding man with spectacles, simply shook his head in disapproval, “and I’ve told you ten times already, hollering ain’t gonna get me to change my mind.” He replied with a calm, but stern voice.

Bingo.

48 Hours Prior

“You’re telling me that their connected?” I asked the gypsy woman, trying to feign my surprise, but failing miserably. The small woman dressed hand to toe in silks and scarves, waved her hands over the blank deer skin, “Father….Daughter…” a voice, deep in baritone, unlike the woman’s, cried out from her throat. Only minutes ago she’d been speaking in her own, to which I admit was as silky smooth as the clothe she wore.

“Protects,”

“Who?”

Desperate for all I could get, I waited with baited breath. Leaning on the edge of my seat, I dug my nails into the wooden stool I’d been sitting on. Her jaw moves but nothing comes out. Wildly waving her hands, a sudden look of shock comes to her face. Without looking down, she slams her palms down onto the buck skin, and the pieces of charcoal she’d been holding go to work.

A few lines, a couple crosses, an x, and what looks like half a square; the gypsy woman goes still. Before I can ask what the markings mean, her head drops to the table. Unsure of what to do, I sit in silence for what feels like eternity…did the opium kill her, I think, just before I hear the slightest of moans. Suddenly I realize the room is no longer dim, all of the candles flames having returned to their normal length.

Long.

Glancing back to the gypsy woman, who begins to stir, she slowly lifts her head, looks me dead in the eyes and says, “it’s gonna sound weird, but you have to trust me…”

72 Hours Prior

                “The Gypsy woman?” I asked incredulously.

The Cherokee Chieftain nodded.

High upon the mountains ridge, a strip of town far below did its best to illuminate itself against the unyielding darkness of the mountains valley. Despite the bright full moon’s essence, the thick tree cover prevented any moon light from penetrating through. It wasn’t the strip of land the man had been pointing at however, but rather the slightest pin prick of orange glow, roughly three to five miles away east of it

“She’ll provide you with the answers you seek,” the Chieftain said through Latin so broken, my mind had to fill in the unrecognizable words in his speech. Before us, laid out beside the tribes’ fire, but not too close as to burn, were three strips of buck skin, each graffitied with depictions of a strange creature. A figure whose head was of a wolfs, from its skull however, protruded the antlers of an elk, beneath was a body similar to a bear, and from its backside, a tail equal in length to that of a puma, extended. I looked to the Chieftain with a question in my mind, but from the look on his face, I knew to save my tongue.

“We have no name in our speech for the beast,” he, more or less, said, having read my mind.

“Than that is what I will call it,” I said, “the Beast.”

Nods broke out all around us, as those in the tribe who chose to listen in, stood in solidarity.

“How many were-” It was my turn to read his thoughts.

“Fifteen,”

“I see…it’s growing stronger,”

“Wha-”

“To grow, it must feast,”

“Is that when it’s in its true-”

The Chieftain nodded to me.

84 Hours Prior

                Mountains.

That’s all that surrounds me. From high up in the tallest oak tree, standing on a branch sturdy enough for my weight, I find myself at the top of one of the multiple peaks of green, a sea if you will. For days I’ve traversed these forests, faced its creatures, wolves, venomous snakes, birds so large they could lift half a man if wanting to. I encountered a bear not too long ago, would’ve died had it not been for the massive buck it startled, catching that instead of I… I could hear the poor creatures cry for hours as it was slowly consumed. Better he, than I though. I reckon there won’t be much needed sleep for some time. Being a lone traveler, I’m left to my own vices.

With the thoughts of descending passing through my mind, I make way to begin the climb, when…wait…I think I saw movement far below. Chancing another glance downwards, there! I did! There’s something near the base of my tree. Not sure what it is though…thinking it’s better to not move just yet…

Suddenly there’s a loud whistling near my head

THUD, followed by the cracking of a small branch beside me, the top of the tree top begins to sway from the impact. Frantically turning my head, I see the tattered remains of an eagle’s feather.

My blood runs cold…

Locals.

My head begins to fill with thoughts, was that a warning? A miss?

My mind is brought to a still as another arrow lodges itself a foot below.

The message rings clear.

96 Hours Prior

The smell of the sea and rotting fish was so strong; it has yet to dispel my senses, despite the massive oaks that surround us. The man who operates this wagon claims he can’t smell it, but I believe his senses are dull to it, or he’s lying, either way, what choice do I have. We’ve been traveling for about a day; already we’ve covered many miles from the coast. Unfortunately, he won’t be going all the way to where I must go, but that’s not a problem. I’d already accepted the unknown distance I’ll be traveling come sunrise. I’m just glad to get as far as I can, before my feet finally touch land.

I’d come off the boat only two days prior, the journey across the great division being a bit more than originally hoped for, but was instantly amazed by the sophistication I’ve encountered thus far. With so much to say, I’d be writing a book rather than a journal, so to keep things short, Rumors back home seem to be just that, rumors. Then again, I’ve yet to reach my final destination. Who’s to say what will come of me from here, till then. I am but a hunter answering a call from another, deep in the Shaconage.

120 Hours Prior

There was one on the ship…

I’d caught the fucker feasting on another young one, I’d been too slow to prevent.

Unfortunate for the lost soul but fortune for me, it had been so focused on its feast; it never heard me snuck up. By the time it caught on, I’d already had the noose over its snout.

Let loose. Tighten.

I dodged the animal’s attack and give a hard kick to its back, sending it spiraling overboard.

It managed half a howl, before a loud snap silenced it for good.

Before anyone is aware of what’s taken place, the rope has been cut, and the victim’s body tossed overboard; I must inform the captain immediately that his men are not at fault, and to release the one currently in captivity.

Here’s to hoping they hadn’t killed him yet…

144 Hours Prior

There’s a murderer loose upon the dock of the Queen Mary ship.

Their victim, an eleven year old boy named ‘Tom Smit’.

The mother of the boy had been crying his name all afternoon when he didn’t return to the service the Captain holds below deck ever Sunday. When he’d finally been found, it was a gruesome scene.

Head practically torn free from the neck, ‘cept a fist sized chunk that held on tight. The crew spent a good half-hour scrubbing before the populace was let to walk top deck once more. You can still see the places the blood ran deep into the floorboards. Someone cried out, “it must’ve been one of the sailors,” but I don’t agree. Having snuck a look at the body myself, before being tossed overboard, as was custom, I’d noticed the marks left.

They hadn’t been left by nails…but rather claws…

The Captain is the only one aboard who knows what, or should I say rather, who, I am.

He’s asked me to have a look around, with his luck it’ll only be a deranged man; with mine…

168 Hours Prior

Two weeks…Captain says, at least give or take, all depending on the sea’s weather, and “how she takes us”. Another two weeks stuck on this three floored floating piece of timber. A week ‘as already passed and I’ve about lost it with half the people on board. Their either distracted by the changes in weather, what cloud shape means what, or the different house dealings between rats and mice….it doesn’t matter which is ‘best’ both get the job done!

Already I miss the solitude of my study, the silent whispers of the dead telling me their secrets as I comb the local cemeteries, and the occasional ancient that happens to find itself into town in search of hunt or family….Usually one of the two.

Despite the simple company, I must find the good in the bad.

It’s not every day you receive a letter calling one to the New World…

192 Hours Prior

I’d awoken to the sound of rapid tapping on my front door. A carrier had come in the dead of night, “per instruction, my good sir,” had been his reasoning. I sensed it was merely remarked in hopes of not being cut from a tipping. Seeing the urgency message stamped upon the envelope, I knew it to be true, and tipped the young lad a silver p. Watching him astonish over the silv’ p, I slowly shut the door, and turn my attention to the urgency that awoken me from the only decent sleep I’ve had in days. Grabbing ahold of the knife I keep beside the door, and with a quick swipe at the side of the envelope, I wiggled free some of the contents from within, immediately indulging in the information scribbled upon each marked page.

After a few minutes of scowling, making sense of weathered words, I gradually begin to understand the urgency in my dear cousin’s letter.

A creature, unlike any other, has been terrifying a small town secluded in a place called ‘The Shaconage.” He’d help himself, but he’d attempted already all that he could for those folks, and other causes, more suited to his talents, call him to be elsewhere.

“My dear Jacob,” the final line of the second page starts, “may this letter not find you, blessed be the light that guides those in that fallen town.”

Letting the rest of the contents fall into my hand, I can’t help but let out a chuckle as the amount of gold sent, is just enough for a ticket on the cheapest water craft to bound the great divide, the Queen Mary.

The Present

I could hear the creaking from the wooden steps beyond sight, cracking and crunching before breaking beneath the Beasts weight. Its growl reverberated off the kitchens tiled flooring, causing the echo to sound as though she were right on top of me.

‘Steady’, I heard a voice within say, ‘control your breathing, she can’t see you,’

Which is true, I know it to be true, for I’d blinded her at first chance with a splash of the sacred Cherokee Chieftain blessed water I’d been given, right in her eyes. It was just before the sheriff’s little girl, the young missy from the post office, transformed.

Her horrendous shrilly scream had turned to that of a horrifying angry growl.

She’d clawed at me during her morphing but I’d miraculously avoided being gorged to death.

How I even managed to avoid her leaps and make it into this shabby old home in the first place still baffles me. It all happened so quickly I’d never be able to properly justify it enough in words.

Now blinded, I forced her into having to hunt by sound and scent alone.

Forcing myself to remain as calm as humanly possible. I fought with all my might to withstand the pain from the crushing weight of timber that still lay atop of me. Realizing I was slowly drifting out of consciousness, I force myself to take a deep breath. Delirious on where I was at the moment, for I’d been lost in my memories, my heart skipped a beat at the realization of having just given myself away.

Bracing myself for the violent death to come my way any second, I slowly grabbed hold of a piece of nearby timber, If I’m to die, I’m not going out alone…

But no strike came my way…

Listening closer….

Nothing….

I strained my ears.

There it ….what in the hells am I hearing…it can’t…but it is …Someone’s singing from outside.

 The voice sounds famil-fuck me….

I open my eyes and look to the front door that now swung ajar. Worming myself slowly out from under the broken lumber, I keep my ears focused for any changes in pitch, but the singing only continues,

                “Hush my child,

                                Don’t weep for a while,

                The moon’s not so bright and big,

                Hush my child.

                                                I’ll stay awhile,

                       Don’t mind the noise it’s just the wind…

“Oh?” I hear sticking my ear to the door.

“It seems our friend is awake,”

Dread makes its way into my heart.

“Should we give him a start?” the sheriff taunted.

The Beast growled her reply.

“He’s a what?”

Bursting forth from the front door, I launch myself on all fours, heading no mind to the pain in my right leg. Claws extended, fangs protruded, I see my true form for a fleeting second, reflecting in the terror filled eyes that only moments ago held pity, I tore free flesh from  muscles, snapped bones, and tasted blood, hearing the yelps and silencing of life’s cruel game of strength and wit. Without her father, the Beast knew not how to hunt. It would have been cruel to not only her, but to those she came across when the hunger became intolerable. At least now he won’t be alone; according to the mystics that is.

Free of their beast, I collected my earnings from the deputy who’d been up to his neck in reports, searching around frantically for the Sheriff all morning long, and set forth for a place somewhere west, particularly away from the mountains. When asked had I seen him, for he’d rather the man heard it from my lips rather than his, I looked that young man in the eyes, turned toward the rising sun, and laughed, “I ain’t got time son.”

When will I get to where I’m going, that’s anyone’s say.

Besides, if I ever swing back this way, there’ll more likely be another Beast to slay.

Here’s to a brighter day though…possibly on the other side of this grey plastered hill.

                                                                                                                                                -947 NWJ