In the dark of an inn in bumfuck New England, Samuel Burtwhistle lowered his pistol. Behind him, pressed against the front door, Lily and Corn caught their breath. Around them, lit by candlesticks in each of their hands, were the few remaining members of this tiny town.
“Explain yourselves,” Samuel barked. “What happened here?”
The innkeep, Liam, stepped forward from behind the bar. A tattered cloak rested over his shoulders. Shadows danced below his salt and pepper beard. His emerald eyes sent flutters through Samuel’s belly.
“There is a beast beyond our town,” Liam said. “It killed our livestock months ago. Then an elderly man.”
A sniffle echoed from the dark, followed by a whisper, “Poor Josiah.”
Liam solemnly nodded then said, “After his death, half the town left for Boston; both for safety and also to enlist a monster hunter who could help us. But we haven’t heard from them in weeks.”
“Samuel’s a monster hunter!” Corn cried out, stepping forward from behind Samuel’s trousers. Samuel hushed the boy, then shoved him back behind him.
“Is this true?” Liam asked, his green eyes now wide.
“I was,” Samuel replied. “Long ago.”
“But you’re a priest,” a woman hissed from the darkness. “That’s heresy.”
“It’s complicated,” Samuel replied, again forgetting the colorful Easter robes he still wore. “I don’t hunt anymore,” he continued. “I’m sorry for what befell you all here, but we’re only passing through. We just need to stay for one night.”
“Please, sir,” a boy cried from the darkness, “it killed my dog.”
“And my cows,” someone else said.
“And all of our horses,” another huffed.
“Again,” Samuel said, “I’m sorry, but I am a man of the cloth now. I cannot—”
“We have whiskey,” Liam interrupted. “I wish we could pay you properly, but we have plenty of whiskey and ale. It’s all yours.”
Samuel’s ears perked up.
“You have whiskey here?” he asked, looking around in the otherwise empty tavern.
Liam nodded. “It’s in the storehouse behind the building, but we dare not venture out at night. The key is on my person, and when morning comes I only ask that you help us—”
“Where was the monster last seen?” Samuel blurted.
Liam blinked. “There’s, uh, a farmhouse a small ways from town. Josiah’s family home.”
Another sniffle and whisper from the dark, “Poor Josiah.”
Liam continued, “The house is where the beast has taken roost, but it’s also been known to venture down here at night.”
“Maybe that’s what we saw?” Lily said, tugging on Samuel’s trousers.
“You saw the beast?” the innkeep asked.
“Just a flash of something,” Samuel replied. “It fled from us, probably out of town.”
“It was really fast,” Corn added.
“Oh no!” Lily shrieked. “Oats is out there!”
She whipped around and pulled on the doorknob behind them frantically.
“No!” Samuel said, slamming the door shut. “No one goes out there but me. I’ll check on the horse.” He turned to Liam. “Can you take care of the children while I’m gone?”
“You’re going out there tonight?” Liam replied in shock. “Please, just wait until morning.”
“There’s no time,” Samuel said.
Because the truth was he wanted, no needed, that whiskey tonight. He needed its warmth. He needed relief from his headaches, relief from his wobbling knees and the sweat which oozed across his body. He also needed to sleep. A proper, wonderful, drunken sleep.
“We must leave by morning,” Samuel half-lied. “I’ll find the creature tonight and bring you its head. Whatever it might be.”
He shooed Lily and Corn away from the door, toward the dimly lit crowd.
“Look after them,” he said. “They need food and water, anything you might have. We’ve walked all day.”
He stomped to the inn’s bar and set his pistol on the wood. He pulled out a fresh silver bullet and a pouch of gunpowder.
“I’ll need a torch,” Samuel said as he shoved a ramrod down the barrel of the gun, stamping the bullet in place after several shoves. “Something fresh,” he continued. “Wrapped very well and tight and doused in oil.”
Liam snapped his fingers at the darkened faces and a boy rushed away to the inn’s back room. From it something fell unseen, shattered, then little stomps echoed in the black.
Lily tiptoed up to Samuel and tugged on his trousers.
“What if the beast finds the book?” she asked.
Samuel whipped his head down to her and glared as he transferred extra silver bullets into his Easter vestment’s breast pocket.
“Book?” Liam asked.
“Her family bible,” Samuel quickly replied. “It’s in my horse’s satchel. Lily holds it dear to her. It’s all she has left of her family besides her brother there.”
“What befell them?” the innkeep said.
“Our town was burned by Redcoats a few weeks back,” Samuel lied as both Lily and Corn raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, Heavens,” Liam said as gasps echoed throughout the tavern. “But we haven’t seen any other survivors?”
“It was one of those raider bands who kill all in sight,” Samuel said. “We’re the only ones who remain.” He paused for dramatic effect, then quickly added, “But they went north, so you shouldn’t worry.”
Samuel glanced at the children and nodded, hoping they would stay quiet. This was the story they had to tell. They were refugees now, which wasn’t entirely wrong.
Liam set his candle on the bar, sighed, then set his gaze on the children.
“It’s wonderful that your priest took you to safety,” he said. “What were your names again?”
“That’s Lily,” Samuel said, not allowing the kids to answer. “And that’s Recorn.”
Recorn opened his mouth, but then closed it as Samuel shot the boy a sharp glare.
“Recorn?” Liam asked. “Never heard of such a name before.”
Samuel shrugged. “It’s Irish.” He cocked his pistol and slipped it into his holster.
Suddenly, the boy from the backroom rushed up to Samuel with a torch dripping with oil. He nodded at the boy and snatched the stick from him. Then he turned from the bar and quickly marched to the front door.
“Food and water for the children,” Samuel said, pointing at Lily and Corn. “I’ll be back by sunrise. Don’t come after me. You’ll only endanger yourselves.” He opened the front door and took a step forward before stopping and turning again to Liam. “Which way was the farmhouse?”
“Oh,” Liam said, “Abigail? Where is Josiah’s farm?”
An old woman stepped forward, softly lit by candlelight.
“Two miles by road,” she said. “But I know a shortcut. If you cut through the alleyway across from the inn you’ll find a hill, and atop that hill you’ll find a dense growth of woods.”
Samuel nodded and took a step through the door, but then stopped as the woman continued.
“But it’s a tricky wood,” she said. “So you must follow my directions precisely. Only travel one-thousand paces once you enter — no more, no less. After one-thousand paces you’ll come upon the largest maple tree you’ve ever seen. It towers above the woodland canopy and is the darling of our hamlet. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you,” Samuel said, “One-thousand paces.” He turned, but then stopped again as the woman continued.
“At the maple tree, turn left,” she said. “Then, after another one-thousand one-hundred fifteen paces — nothing more, nothing less lest you find yourself miserably lost — you will find a silken-white birch tree with rubbings across its bark from bears.”
“A silken birch tree?” Samuel asked, his eyebrow raised.
“Yes, silken white,” the woman repeated with a nod. “At the birch tree make a right and walk another one-thousand two-hundred twelve paces.”
“Great,” Samuel said, “I’ll be on my way—”
“I’m not finished yet,” the old woman said, holding up her finger as if shushing him. “After one-thousand two-hundred twelve paces you’ll find a large rock in the shape of a dragon. Some say it’s the skull of a dragon, but I’ve never believed—”
“Perfect,” Samuel said with a hurried huff, “And then I’ll see the farm, thank you—”
But he stopped when he noticed the woman glaring at him like a teacher interrupted mid-lesson.
“At the dragon rock,” she said, “You will continue straight for another eight hundred forty-one paces—”
“It’s more like nine-hundred thirty-three paces,” a man beside her interjected.
“No, no,” the woman said. “I distinctly remember: eight hundred forty-one paces: to the step.”
“Eight hundred, nine hundred, a thousand, whatever,” Samuel said, exasperated now. “And then what? Turn left at the goblin cave? Or is it a witch’s hut?”
“There’s no need to be rude,” the woman hissed. “Anyway, after eight hundred thirty-three paces, you’ll find yourself out of the woods and Josiah’s farm will be a simple one-thousand seven hundred seventy-nine paces—”
“Thank you!” Samuel cried, then hurried away, slamming the door behind him.
In the cool night air he shook his head and struck a match against the inn’s door. He pressed the little flame to his torch so that it roared to life with light. Beside him, still tied to the inn’s post, Oats grunted.
“I hear ya,” Samuel said to the horse. “You’ll be fine out here. Just don’t make a fuss.” Then, without checking his surroundings for danger, marched toward the alley.
Strewn across the alley’s dirt were moldy carrots, mud-caked linens, and loose potatoes with roots snaking from shriveled bodies. Carefully, he stepped over broken baskets and waterlogged diaries.
“They left in a hurry,” Samuel mumbled as he kicked a bushel of old onions.
He exited the alleyway and trudged up a small hill, stopping at the mouth of a dark wood.
“Now,” he said to himself, “It’s a thousand paces and then a maple tree? Or was it the birch?” He shrugged and entered.
Without his torch, the woods would have cloaked him in darkness. The whole of it was dense and prickly. Thick tree trunks forced him to slide between their bark, turning sideways and sometimes even squeezing through narrow gaps. Above him, bats fluttered overhead. Below, little mice and beetles skittered. Somewhere in the distance, a hungry owl hooted unseen.
“Two-hundred fifteen paces…” Samuel mumbled to himself. “Two-hundred twenty-one...”
He crashed through brush, kicked rocks and tripped over roots. Several times he nearly fell and dropped his torch.
“Hell of a short cut,” Samuel groaned.
He stepped through a spiderweb and spit and cried out. He waved his torch in the direction of its remnants, cursed its maker and brushed himself off. For what felt like eternity, he stumbled and tripped along until a terrible smell filled his nostrils. He stopped, sniffed the air and grimaced. It was an odor of death, no doubt, but in the dark he couldn’t find the stench’s source. Whatever had died it had been dead for a long, long while.
Further ahead, he could make out a faint outline of a thick tree trunk, a massive thing which seemed to have weathered centuries of strife. He grumbled and approached it, wary of more spiders.
Beneath the behemoth tree he found hundreds of thick, snaking roots covering the earth. Curiously, the stench of death was almost unbearable now, yet he still couldn’t find where it emanated. He stopped and craned his neck upward as he pressed a handkerchief to his mouth and nose.
“Guess it’s a maple,” he said, muffled through the linen. But then he looked around. “Oh, God, was it left?” He pivoted left and was met with dark, dense nothingness. He pivoted right and was met with more dark, dense nothingness. He sighed, then turned left, crashing through more brush.
“One-thousand what, now?” he asked himself as thorn and thistle tugged at his trousers.
But after counting two-thousand paces, he stopped and found only brush surrounding him.
“Dammit…” he mumbled.
He turned round and round, swinging his torch and casting menacing shadows behind tightly packed trees.
“How big are these damn woods?” he said.
He turned in a new direction and continued through the thicket. But after another thousand paces he stopped, pivoted again, cursed, then marched in a new direction. This time he didn’t count his footfalls. He just walked and mumbled, walked and mumbled. A half hour passed, then another half.
“Where the hell is this birch tree?” he said. “Or that goddamned dragon rock?”
Suddenly, he tripped on a root and fell, hurling his torch which crashed into a pile of wet leaves and immediately extinguished.
“No!” he cried. “Damn these damn woods!”
Around him little woodland creatures barked and chirped in the miserable dark, aware of his presence but uncaring. He shook his head and slammed his fist into the forest floor.
“You’re such an idiot,” he groaned. “The hell are you doing?”
He glanced around him, having no idea where his torch had landed. He reached along the detritus, but was only met with twigs. He couldn’t see a thing — hardly even his hand in front of him. It was then he realized he was lost, completely and utterly.
“You damned fool,” he continued, punching the earth. “The Hell are you doing here? Benny’s dead. Everyone in that town is dead. Now you’re lost in the woods?” He felt a lump in his throat. His head pounded. Bile rumbled in his belly. “God,” he said. “The Hell have you done, Sam?”
He didn’t want to get up. He wanted to just lie there now and become one with the ground and dark.
“Just kill me,” he said to nothing. “Just fucking kill me.”
His mind fell to the pistol in his holster.
No doubt he was useless, he thought, imagining himself returning to that tiny town empty handed. He then considered that nothing he’d done was of any use, all of it so damaging and terrible — across a lifetime, let alone the last year. And who knew what added misery he’d bring to people? He was just a drunk — and not even a good one since he didn’t even have the miserable sauce on him. Now he was just a bad drunk lost in the woods.
His fingers traced the edge of his weapon’s stock. Save the shame of returning defeated, he figured. No one would look for him. No one cared enough. The kids would stay in that tiny dumb town. They’d be fine. And eventually, someone would find a hunter to rid this miserable hamlet of their beast and all would go back to normal. They didn’t need him. No one did. Then his thoughts fell on his nephew again.
“Benny…” he groaned, remembering the boy floating above Cherrytown. His screams echoed in his head. His robes fluttered through the air. “Benny, David, Rebecca, Anna…” he continued, naming off Benny’s family — a family he considered their deaths his cause. “Forgive me, please.”
He slowly lifted his pistol as the wind shook the leaves above, creating a chilling hiss.
“Forgive me,” he said.
He pressed the cold barrel of the gun to his temple. His breath hastened. His heart pounded.
“Please, forgive me.”
No one would hear the shot, he thought. They’d just think the beast killed him when he hadn’t returned by sunrise. They’d never know the truth that he was a coward, a drunk, a fuck up and worthless human being. They were better off without him, he figured. It was easier this way. They’d move on.
As the hissing leaves grew louder overhead, taunting him with a long, drawn yesss, his finger danced along the edges of his weapon’s trigger. He pressed the barrel harder against his head. He couldn’t breathe and his heart felt as if it would explode from his chest. He shut his eyes tight and trembled as his finger slowly applied pressure to the little metal crescent which would finally end it all. Finally he could just rest and rid himself of all the shame, all the guilt. All he needed to do was squeeze. Just a simple, delicate, squeeze.
But then, suddenly, from somewhere in the distance a piercing, guttural howl echoed through the woods.
Samuel’s eyes snapped open, though he kept the gun pressed to his head. He listened intently. His breath returned. His heartbeat slowed.
The howl echoed again, louder this time.
He pointed his gun in the direction of the noise as the howl echoed again.
He stood.
“A werewolf,” he whispered. “Of course.”
He holstered his pistol and brushed himself off as the howl echoed again.
“That way!” he cried, then raced through the pitch black forest toward the noise.
Thorns slashed his skin. Mud and dirt splashed through the air. Mice scurried away as the howl echoed again.
“Keep it up, you bastard,” he shouted while wiping away tears he hadn’t realized had fallen. “Keep it up!”
He stumbled up a hill, clawing at damp leaves, earth and worms. He felt a nail break from a finger, then another. He felt his legs strain, his knees pop. But still he climbed as the howl grew louder, clearer.
Finally, he burst through shrubbery and stumbled into the vastness of a moonless field. Panting, he squinted his eyes and peered into the dark. In the distance, no more than one-thousand seven-hundred seventy paces away, was a farmhouse.
And from it the howl echoed again.