The Hunt

‘A rifle, a knife, the heart to take life. A rifle, a knife, the heart to take life.’ Marcel repeated his new-found mantra, taken from his brother’s words, in an almost manic manner. He was sat against a tree, his legs spread out in front resembling a child sitting in the shade on a sun beaten day.

As he muttered this mantra his eyes never left his blood covered hands. The left hand was latched to his father’s hunting knife, the right was clattered in fur. Staring at the fur, he could not shake the image of the beast from which it was pulled.

It must have been watching me, he thought. Coming around to himself, he raised to his feet. Listening and darting his eyes around the woods, he recounted the image of the dog-like creature which had attacked him. He knew distinctly that it was much larger than any dog he had ever seen. The head of this animal was as high as his chest, it’s fur was jet-black and its eyes looked to be black glimmering jewels, never mined by man.

He felt that he was spared acute terror as he had never seen the teeth, but his shoulder was not so lucky. The animal bounded toward him in 2 quick strides and the attack was over in just seconds. He felt the jaws of serrated bone sinking into his shoulder as he swung both arms toward the sides of the beast. The knife sunk in on its right side, and the other hand grasped the rough coat tight. Almost instinctively, Marcel pulled both hands downward, determined to keep his grip strong. Blood and entrails spilled to the ground as the flesh tore. In response to this act an unnatural scream, resembling a mixture of a human screech and a harshly bowed violin, erupted from somewhere in the trees behind.

Marcel could not stop looking around him, feeling he was still being watched. Shaking almost uncontrollably, he walked as quickly as possible down through the mountainside forest. Feeling cold and clammy, he knew had to get to town quickly, to have someone take him to the city hospital. After 30 minutes walking, he felt a little more at ease and that no eyes were following him.

At this point, the downhill stream levelled out to a small pool before continuing downward to join the Greystone River. He took the chance to kneel by the pool to clean off his hands and knife. The fur floated and circled the water from where his right hand was submerged. ‘I wish I could have shot the bastard,’ he muttered. At that moment, he realised he’d left his rifle against the same tree he slumped against. Someone else would have to get it tomorrow, he thought. He would not return to that area of the woods.

After his hands and knife had been rinsed as thoroughly as possible, he splashed some of the water on his face then, placing his hands on the edge, submerged his entire head for a second for some relief. He watched his reflection, as it rippled with drips falling from his nose. ‘I have seen the eyes of the devil today,’ he said to himself. He wiped the excess off his face and laughed softly at what he’d just uttered. He put the knife away into the pouch and his jacket pocket, stood up and turned to continue the downward slope.

He had walked down about 20 feet, when he thought he should take some of the fur with him, thinking that maybe someone with better knowledge of the woods would be able to tell what animal it was from. As he turned to walk back to the pool, he watched as a huge figure of a man, looked over the pool from the other side. The figure was a silhouette, a shadow that was similar in height to Marcel. Although there were no eyes to be seen, from his distance at least, Marcel felt that he was being watched yet again. The figure stood still at the edge of the pool, watching Marcel. His eyes filled with tears in terror and a cold engulfed him as the figure kneeled, and washed its hands. It raised those hands to where its face might be, as if mocking Marcel’s actions. Finally, it submerged its head for a second then rose. It looked down at Marcel once more. This, Marcel was sure of, as the figure now had eyes.

The figure walked toward him but Marcel could not run. He didn’t know if it was through fear or the will of this figure, but he couldn’t determine this until the sleepless nights that would follow. The figure was a few feet in front of Marcel when it halted. Everything was black, it was still a silhouette but the eyes were the very same as Marcel’s. The eyes faded into black once again.

‘You have seen no eyes but your own,’ I heard with my own voice. ‘Eyes of god and of the devil’.

The figure did not appear to turn, but walked toward the pool as if it was always facing that direction. At the pool, Marcel saw the beast which had attacked him drinking. They both walked into the trees, away from the path. Marcel did not remember getting to the town, getting to the hospital or having slept uninterrupted since that day.


Electric Woods (Decline and Fall)


He thinks he fell asleep at 3:15 and awoke again at 3:45 following the horrible sounds in his dream. It’s always the same dream and never more than an hour of sleep.

                The dream feels like hours but the rest is mere minutes. He is his eight year old self on one of his childhood camping trips, but the family isn’t there. He’s alone in the woods, it’s midday and he’s holding a knife. He begins hacking at a tree, tearing the bark off and thrashing it’s solid flesh, eager to douse his hands in sap; that sweet, fragrant, sticky blood.

                The tree moans as it feels the ridges of the knife tearing through, but he can’t stop yet. Not until he’s covered in that sickly sweet… and the smell! He ravages through the pulp but it’s not enough that the tree is weeping for him. It must bleed, gush, pour!

                He lifts a log and beats the soft exposed flesh; sweet sap flies everywhere and lingers in the air. The tree is howling in pain and her surrounding family cries in hopelessness. The chorus mingles with the intoxicating scent and the boy falls to the ground as his victim withers and shrivels and dies before his eyes.

                The woods are wailing for their loss and the boy awakes, now a man, at 3:45am. He sits on the edge of the bed, takes out a cigarette and with trembling hands raises it to his lips. Spark. Adding more orange to the room, the street lights outside forever permeating the night-drawn curtains. His blood-shot eyes glare at the light stained curtains. His cigarette goes out. Spark. Getting dressed, he knows what he has to do. He will stop the wailing. From the garden shed he takes an old hatchet and goes into the street. He crosses the road to the wooden post connecting the telephone wires and with a resounding thud, sinks the hatchet deep into the wood. The action unfalteringly repeated. People have started to watch and shout at him from their windows and he knows it’s only a matter of time before someone’s dispatched to stop him again and take him away.

                The wooden post falls slowly, the remaining attached splinters groaning then snapping and a crash as the communications hit the ground. The smell of electric in the air.

                He swiftly crosses the road again through the screams of onlookers and stops before the generator that powers this half of the estate. A determined blow takes the lock off in one go. Pulling the door open wide, the screams get louder and frantic.

                He takes a slight step back then swings the hatchet into the core of the generator and a blast is heard in the streets that still have light.