This one of Dave's stories.
We hope you enjoy reading it.
The Hunter Of wolves
By
David Munsell
The old man sat in the corner of the saloon, sipping thoughtfully at a rather large mug of beer and looking at the amber liquid in the cup with what I first took as the half-sentient gaze of a man who had had a little too much to drink.
“If he manages to get the whole mug down,” I thought, “then he’s definitely been here too long.”.
With a sudden burst of vigor that I thought more common to the large, burly frontiersmen who frequented “The Edge of Civilization,” he raised the mug and drained it in 5 seconds. He then waved heartily to me for a refill..
The old man had a bronzed complexion which made him look like he had been forged from iron. A shock of long, white air, that told a tale of a day when it had been a dark red, fell from beneath his aged brown hat and around his ears. He looked at me from the shadowed furrow of his brow and, in an eloquent British accent that surprised me, said, “Do not bother. All the ale in England could not drown my sorrow. Sir. I will pay for the beer in silver.”.
He stood, reached into the depths of his grubby brown cloak and withdrew four silver coins whish held the image of some aged king, unknown to me. I spotted the gun belts crisscrossing just below his belt buckle. Clearly, this was no ordinary man..
“Hey,” I said..
At this point my curiosity had gotten the better of me. I was just about to ask him where he was headed when he faced me and said, “But perhaps you can help me. I am looking for…oh, you might say I am hunting a wolf.”.
“Oh,” I replied, “rustler, huh? You wanna know if I heard of any stock disappearin?”
“Yes, that would be a great help.” He answered..
He stood roughly 6 feet 6 inches tall, a lanky man, yet I could tell he was no weakling. Beneath his cloak, a black leather vest covered a long-sleeved, faded white shirt. His pants were a worn brown , faded and covered with a he dust of travel.
“You might wanna know “bout Geraldo Keet and his son Jay, an awful tragedy,” I said in a low voice. “Jay was tendin the field real late one night, see, Ol’ man Keet came out there in the morn. Found Hay and the whole herd of cattle slaughtered.”.
“Slaughtered, you say?” he said, suddenly very alert as if the Devil himself had just walked in the door. “Continue.’.
“Well, that’s it. He was dead. Torn to pieces…Slashed up like a pack of wild dogs got him. Poor fella,” I said, shaking my head in sorrow.
He paused a long time, just standing there, head bowed, as a silent prayer escaped his lips. Then he sat back down, removed his hat and let his white hair fall over his lean shoulders..
“How long?” He asked..
“Six days.”.
“Where?” Again the sound of a spirit sighing, barely audible..
“What?”.
And suddenly, “WHERE!” His body tightened like a rigid spring. He visibly checked his temper, closed his eyes and took a rough, ragged breath, aware that he had the room’s unwanted attention. “Where-is-the-farm?” He asked slowly..
“Out west of town. It’s big. Can’t miss it.”.
“Thank you,” he said, getting up and walking towards the door. His stride was long enough to intimidate anyone, rude enough to stare, to turn his eyes back to his ale..
I watched him from a window as he mounted a pale, gray steed and headed west out of town..
“And that, gentlemen, is the end of my story. For I am out of time,” I said, addressing the audience of five seated around the table. They disassembled, each heading in his own direction..
I went my own way, too. Twenty-one years has passed since that fateful night in the woods, the night that changed my existence forever. Who would not be a bit squeamish about recounting such?.
Then I noticed him, standing in the light which streamed from a shop window. He was a tall fellow, one of the men who had been listening to my reminiscence..
“Have you a minute?” he queried, not coming any closer than ten feet and strangely wary.
.
“The rest of the tale, then, is that what you want?” I questioned him wearily.
“Yes.” He hissed hungrily..
“All right, then…”.
They say that curiosity killed the cat. I’m afraid you’ll never know what it did to the wolf. I followed the hunter warily, but, at last, he lost me and proceeded to the farm..
When I reached the farm, I stood, incredulous, not believing my own eyes; a field full of cattle, all dismembered and disemboweled. The stench was acrid and stale, having had six days worth of decomposition. I knelt to further examine some unusual claw marks when behind me; I heard the sound of metal moving over metal..
“Turn around,” he ordered, “slowly.”.
I did so, knowing that a gunslinger’s trained hand is faster than a bartender’s feet..
“Back to examine your handiwork, beast?” he asked. Savagely, he struck me then. I will remember that blow for the rest of my life. Until that moment, I had lived rather passively. That blow felt like thunder rattling through my bones. I lay for a time, sprawled on the ground, blood pouring from my nose..
He stood there, letting me stare down the barrel of the silver-handled gun that he held..
“Well?” he rasped..
“I did-didn’t do it,” I protested, choking back blood. “I merely fol---fol—followed you out of curiosity. Nothing more.”.
He stared into my eyes, coldly and calculatingly summing up my innocence..
“All right. We’ll see, won’t we? Let’s go for a stroll. The moon is full tonight. If you don’t change, then you are free to go. If you do…”.
I shuddered as he grinned a sharp-toothed grin. “But, sir, I---,”.
“Silence!” He snarled. The air parted around him like the Red Sea before Moses. “Let the night and the moon plead your case. If you are truthful, then you stand to learn something.”.
As we walked, he launched into a narrative explaining his presence..
“Werewolves, sir, that is what I hunt. That is what I am..
My story, you see---my “legend”---is thus. I know not the home of the original beast, but when I was twenty-seven and in my prime, I was struck down by a werewolf. Three---yes, the oddly biblical three---days afterward, I arose---a creature whose kind had been seen on the only once before. I vowed, then and there, to slay the beast and then myself, thus, destroying the evil forever..
The werewolf that attacked me fled to the Colonies, and I followed, but it “multiplied”, and now my task is much larger than before.”.
We sat on adjacent stumps now, and he leaned toward me and whispered, “That was over two hundred years ago.” He looked above me and, seeing the moon full over my head, remarked, “You are free to go. The moon is full. It is obv…” His speech trailed off. A shadow loomed over me. “Go,” he urged. “Leave and do not speak of this.”.
I started to protest, but in a motion so fluid that my eyes hardly had time to focus on it, he stood and pulled leather. Bullets whistled past my head as his guns beat a steady and beautiful, but deadly rhythm. The flashes of gunfire imprinted my retinas and are still embedded there today..
I heard, in that instant, the most guttural, primal growl uttered since the first wolf sprang on its prey..
“Go now!” he growled at me..
I turned to argue, my curiosity overwhelming me, but the creature I addressed had changed. I n the hunter’s place stood a huge, white werewolf..
His clothes drooped off him in tattered rags, but the guns were still firmly strapped to him. In a rush, he was past me, a silver blur, a fragment of moonlight. I followed as well as I could, guided by the solid BOOM, BOOM, of his guns. In a clearing, I found a mass of fur and some blood smeared on the ground. The murderer of Jay Keet was no more. At least that’s what I thought..
Suddenly he was on me, his claws ripping flesh and his teeth snapping bone. And then…darkness. Not the darkness of death—Oh, that it were, for if I could have, I would have flown on Death’s ebony wings wherever they would take me..
Then there was gray, light coming in under the lid. With unstoppable strength, I lasher out. What strength! I could have wrestled Atlas to the ground then and still cooked. I tore the drawer open, but that was not enough. I struck again and again, the tang of metal in my mouth, ripping steel, shredding metal..
Still it was not enough. (It never is.) I was face to face with a suddenly pale mortician, who had a look of terror that wasn’t just terror. I remember that look. I had the same look as the hunter of wolves tore flesh from bone..
It wasn’t there long….
“And that’s it. I pray for my soul—and his—every night.”.
He approached me, removing his hat. I stared at the hunter of wolver again..
“You!”.
“I have returned to warn you, sir, of such evil. I am evil. I admit that. I create evil. I warn you now—if you tell this again, you will not live to feel guilty in the morn.”.
And so I warn you of this evil borne in me. I simply ask that you watch for it—for me.
Unfortunately, the only true way to identify this evil is to look it right in the eye.
HOME
VICTORIA'S WORK
CRYSTAL'S WORK
By
David Munsell
The old man sat in the corner of the saloon, sipping thoughtfully at a rather large mug of beer and looking at the amber liquid in the cup with what I first took as the half-sentient gaze of a man who had had a little too much to drink.
“If he manages to get the whole mug down,” I thought, “then he’s definitely been here too long.”.
With a sudden burst of vigor that I thought more common to the large, burly frontiersmen who frequented “The Edge of Civilization,” he raised the mug and drained it in 5 seconds. He then waved heartily to me for a refill..
The old man had a bronzed complexion which made him look like he had been forged from iron. A shock of long, white air, that told a tale of a day when it had been a dark red, fell from beneath his aged brown hat and around his ears. He looked at me from the shadowed furrow of his brow and, in an eloquent British accent that surprised me, said, “Do not bother. All the ale in England could not drown my sorrow. Sir. I will pay for the beer in silver.”.
He stood, reached into the depths of his grubby brown cloak and withdrew four silver coins whish held the image of some aged king, unknown to me. I spotted the gun belts crisscrossing just below his belt buckle. Clearly, this was no ordinary man..
“Hey,” I said..
At this point my curiosity had gotten the better of me. I was just about to ask him where he was headed when he faced me and said, “But perhaps you can help me. I am looking for…oh, you might say I am hunting a wolf.”.
“Oh,” I replied, “rustler, huh? You wanna know if I heard of any stock disappearin?”
“Yes, that would be a great help.” He answered..
He stood roughly 6 feet 6 inches tall, a lanky man, yet I could tell he was no weakling. Beneath his cloak, a black leather vest covered a long-sleeved, faded white shirt. His pants were a worn brown , faded and covered with a he dust of travel.
“You might wanna know “bout Geraldo Keet and his son Jay, an awful tragedy,” I said in a low voice. “Jay was tendin the field real late one night, see, Ol’ man Keet came out there in the morn. Found Hay and the whole herd of cattle slaughtered.”.
“Slaughtered, you say?” he said, suddenly very alert as if the Devil himself had just walked in the door. “Continue.’.
“Well, that’s it. He was dead. Torn to pieces…Slashed up like a pack of wild dogs got him. Poor fella,” I said, shaking my head in sorrow.
He paused a long time, just standing there, head bowed, as a silent prayer escaped his lips. Then he sat back down, removed his hat and let his white hair fall over his lean shoulders..
“How long?” He asked..
“Six days.”.
“Where?” Again the sound of a spirit sighing, barely audible..
“What?”.
And suddenly, “WHERE!” His body tightened like a rigid spring. He visibly checked his temper, closed his eyes and took a rough, ragged breath, aware that he had the room’s unwanted attention. “Where-is-the-farm?” He asked slowly..
“Out west of town. It’s big. Can’t miss it.”.
“Thank you,” he said, getting up and walking towards the door. His stride was long enough to intimidate anyone, rude enough to stare, to turn his eyes back to his ale..
I watched him from a window as he mounted a pale, gray steed and headed west out of town..
“And that, gentlemen, is the end of my story. For I am out of time,” I said, addressing the audience of five seated around the table. They disassembled, each heading in his own direction..
I went my own way, too. Twenty-one years has passed since that fateful night in the woods, the night that changed my existence forever. Who would not be a bit squeamish about recounting such?.
Then I noticed him, standing in the light which streamed from a shop window. He was a tall fellow, one of the men who had been listening to my reminiscence..
“Have you a minute?” he queried, not coming any closer than ten feet and strangely wary.
.
“The rest of the tale, then, is that what you want?” I questioned him wearily.
“Yes.” He hissed hungrily..
“All right, then…”.
They say that curiosity killed the cat. I’m afraid you’ll never know what it did to the wolf. I followed the hunter warily, but, at last, he lost me and proceeded to the farm..
When I reached the farm, I stood, incredulous, not believing my own eyes; a field full of cattle, all dismembered and disemboweled. The stench was acrid and stale, having had six days worth of decomposition. I knelt to further examine some unusual claw marks when behind me; I heard the sound of metal moving over metal..
“Turn around,” he ordered, “slowly.”.
I did so, knowing that a gunslinger’s trained hand is faster than a bartender’s feet..
“Back to examine your handiwork, beast?” he asked. Savagely, he struck me then. I will remember that blow for the rest of my life. Until that moment, I had lived rather passively. That blow felt like thunder rattling through my bones. I lay for a time, sprawled on the ground, blood pouring from my nose..
He stood there, letting me stare down the barrel of the silver-handled gun that he held..
“Well?” he rasped..
“I did-didn’t do it,” I protested, choking back blood. “I merely fol---fol—followed you out of curiosity. Nothing more.”.
He stared into my eyes, coldly and calculatingly summing up my innocence..
“All right. We’ll see, won’t we? Let’s go for a stroll. The moon is full tonight. If you don’t change, then you are free to go. If you do…”.
I shuddered as he grinned a sharp-toothed grin. “But, sir, I---,”.
“Silence!” He snarled. The air parted around him like the Red Sea before Moses. “Let the night and the moon plead your case. If you are truthful, then you stand to learn something.”.
As we walked, he launched into a narrative explaining his presence..
“Werewolves, sir, that is what I hunt. That is what I am..
My story, you see---my “legend”---is thus. I know not the home of the original beast, but when I was twenty-seven and in my prime, I was struck down by a werewolf. Three---yes, the oddly biblical three---days afterward, I arose---a creature whose kind had been seen on the only once before. I vowed, then and there, to slay the beast and then myself, thus, destroying the evil forever..
The werewolf that attacked me fled to the Colonies, and I followed, but it “multiplied”, and now my task is much larger than before.”.
We sat on adjacent stumps now, and he leaned toward me and whispered, “That was over two hundred years ago.” He looked above me and, seeing the moon full over my head, remarked, “You are free to go. The moon is full. It is obv…” His speech trailed off. A shadow loomed over me. “Go,” he urged. “Leave and do not speak of this.”.
I started to protest, but in a motion so fluid that my eyes hardly had time to focus on it, he stood and pulled leather. Bullets whistled past my head as his guns beat a steady and beautiful, but deadly rhythm. The flashes of gunfire imprinted my retinas and are still embedded there today..
I heard, in that instant, the most guttural, primal growl uttered since the first wolf sprang on its prey..
“Go now!” he growled at me..
I turned to argue, my curiosity overwhelming me, but the creature I addressed had changed. I n the hunter’s place stood a huge, white werewolf..
His clothes drooped off him in tattered rags, but the guns were still firmly strapped to him. In a rush, he was past me, a silver blur, a fragment of moonlight. I followed as well as I could, guided by the solid BOOM, BOOM, of his guns. In a clearing, I found a mass of fur and some blood smeared on the ground. The murderer of Jay Keet was no more. At least that’s what I thought..
Suddenly he was on me, his claws ripping flesh and his teeth snapping bone. And then…darkness. Not the darkness of death—Oh, that it were, for if I could have, I would have flown on Death’s ebony wings wherever they would take me..
Then there was gray, light coming in under the lid. With unstoppable strength, I lasher out. What strength! I could have wrestled Atlas to the ground then and still cooked. I tore the drawer open, but that was not enough. I struck again and again, the tang of metal in my mouth, ripping steel, shredding metal..
Still it was not enough. (It never is.) I was face to face with a suddenly pale mortician, who had a look of terror that wasn’t just terror. I remember that look. I had the same look as the hunter of wolves tore flesh from bone..
It wasn’t there long….
“And that’s it. I pray for my soul—and his—every night.”.
He approached me, removing his hat. I stared at the hunter of wolver again..
“You!”.
“I have returned to warn you, sir, of such evil. I am evil. I admit that. I create evil. I warn you now—if you tell this again, you will not live to feel guilty in the morn.”.
And so I warn you of this evil borne in me. I simply ask that you watch for it—for me.
Unfortunately, the only true way to identify this evil is to look it right in the eye.
HOME
VICTORIA'S WORK
CRYSTAL'S WORK
VICTORIA'S WORK