By the Light of the Moon

By the Light of the Moon

Author: Frau Hunter Ash

Email: hunterash7@yahoo.com

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Homepage Addy: http://www.hunterash.com

Disclaimers: This story is the sole property of the author. This story cannot be sold or used for profit in any way. Copies of this story may be made for private use only and must include all disclaimers and copyright notices. Any resemblance to anyone living, dead or undead is coincidental.

Summary: A young church elder finds himself being hunted in a lonely New England woods on a full moon. Is it the same thing that’s been killing people on other full moons?

Rating: PG (US), PG (UK), M (Aust)

Notes: HAPPY HALLOWEEN 2004

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Deacon Forrester grabbed a tree trunk and clung to it, trying to catch his breath. It was a cold October night in New England and there was a hint that the first snow might dust the land soon.

Despite the chill in the air and the naturally lower temperatures at night, the young man was sweating and panting.

Deacon was exhausted and unsure how long he had been running. He knew logically that it wasn’t very long but it felt like a marathon. Running through woods that surrounded the small, almost isolated town that had been built on lumber and fish along the inhospitable coast of Northern America.

How the hell had he gotten there, his mind demanded? Deacon loved the town, he loved the land, and he loved the people. So how was it that the land had turned on him, of all people? A church leader, a young man considered to be quite the marriage catch in the town, now running for his life in the cold woods on All Hallows Eve.

Deacon resisted yelping in fear when he heard familiar snapping of twigs nearby and he took off running again. The footsteps, now focused on him again, sounded loudly in the young man’s ears.

The young man was one that could almost be described as short and thin except his clothes usually hid a decidedly athletic body. Despite his size, however, there was a power and strength in his eyes that had kept him from being picked on during his high school and early college years. Being religiously oriented had also helped.

Now he was terrified. Deacon was being hunted.

Just like the others found in these woods had been. The local townspeople that had been found ripped apart, some parts still were missing and each service had been a closed casket service.

Deacon had been visiting an elderly couple that lived on the far side of the river, they were somewhat isolated from the rest of the community. He had been worried about them, whatever was preying on the villagers seemed to strike around the full moon. Talk was it could be a serial killer that had a weird full moon fetish. It didn’t make sense that an animal would only strike on the full moon.

Unless…

Those thoughts ran unsaid but you could see it in the eyes when people met in the café, or around the wood stove at the grocery store. You could hear it in the voices when talk trailed off about how to handle the killer and you could see it with a run on silver from the local second hand store and the abundance of shotguns and rifles in cars and pickups.

The elderly couple, the Pierre Fontaine’s hadn’t been seen in town for a week, so the young church elder had gone out to check on them and take round their usual grocery order. Finding them suffering with a cold, he had dropped off the bags of food and spent time discussing the Good Book.

The young man had started back to town after dark, secure in his car. That was, until it had broken a fan belt. Deacon, being athletic, had decided to walk the two miles back to town, hoping that by staying on the road he’d be alright. The other victims had been in isolated homes in the woods, campers, or people caught outside in the woods on the full moon.

Then came the footsteps in the woods off to his left.

Now he was scared. Unarmed on a full moon in the woods. If it hadn’t been so terrifying, Deacon would have found it amusing that this was so much like the bad plot of a horror movie that it was stereotypical.

Deacon, however, being in the middle of it, wasn’t amused.

The youth knew he looked a wreck at this point: tree limbs had clawed at his clothing, he had fallen several times over fallen trees, rocks and brush and he was covered with dirt and the sweat had run trails down his face and neck. Scratches from the branches added to his wild look.

Deacon splashed through a small creek, a tributary to the river that had fed the lumber mill when America and Canada had been booming. He stumbled over a tree branch and lay on the ground, praying. He knew he couldn’t run much more. Dear Lord, when had he left the road and gotten lost? Which sound had driven him to the darkness?

The youth heard the footsteps approaching, slowly, as if an animal approaching fallen prey. Perhaps it was, Deacon’s mind thought frantically. He covered his head.

Deacon looked out from under his hands and saw work-boots standing near him and swallowed. Apparently whatever killed the locals had been human.

“Hey, you’re human!” a voice exclaimed and Deacon looked further up the figure.

Deacon looked up into the face of one of the locals, a known hunter and fisherman, Jonathan Wulfgar. The hunter was carrying a rifle and a very large hunting knife and looked about as exhausted as Deacon.

“Deacon Forrester? What the hell are you doing out here, pardon my language,” Wulfgar asked, obviously surprised. He shouldered the rifle by the sling and extended his hand to the young churchman.

Deacon sat up and took the offered hand. “What are you doing out here, Mr. Wulfgar? It’s dangerous, you know.”

Wulfgar nodded and patted his rifle and then his knife. “I’m out hunting that thing. Nobody will say nothing but my knife is coated with silver and so are my bullets. I wasn’t expecting anyone else out here tonight except me and whoever is killing our folk.”

“My car broke down,” Deacon explained, trying to brush off his clothes. “Can you guide me back to the road? I, uh, heard noises and thought… you know.”

“Sure,” Wulfgar smiled, his eyes watching the young man closely. “Want to stop by my camp for some water and a clean shirt? Catch your breath? I’ve got coffee brewed.”

Deacon hesitated. Wulfgar was something of an outcast in the town, he knew. The middle aged man was known as a hard-case and wouldn’t hesitate to shoot over the head of anyone approaching his small cabin in the woods. The local game wardens were also known to ignore the poaching regulations when it came to the hunter, none of them wanted to face him, especially in the woods.

Then again, coffee might steady his shattered nerves. Deacon wasn’t accustomed to being hunted; it wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat.

What if Wulfgar was the killer, his mind suddenly demanded?

Deacon shook those thoughts and nodded. “I’d be pleased to come back to your camp, Mr. Wulfgar. Thank you for that. I expect you haven’t found a lot of things to hunt out here the last two nights.”

“Nah, but I’ll find what I’m looking for,” Wulfgar said slowly, leading the way through the woods like the seasoned pro he was.

“I’m sure you will,” Deacon smiled, shivering slightly now that he wasn’t sweating in the cold autumn air.

Once at the hunter’s camp, Deacon accepted a cup of coffee and a blanket around his shoulders as he sat down in a camp chair. He sipped the coffee slowly, watching the hunter move. The man was a natural in the woods and was probably more at home with animals than humans, Deacon reflected. Would that make him dangerous to humans?

Deacon frowned and finished his coffee as Wulfgar chatted about hunting in the woods and how difficult it was finding good game anymore.

The youth leaned down and untied his tennis shoes and pulled them off, his socks following next.

“Yeah, put your feet by the fire, dry them out,” Wulfgar encouraged with a smile. The hunter blinked when Deacon stood up and pulled his light coat off. “Whatcha doing?”

Deacon looked up with an impish grin. “Full moons can be murder on shoes and clothes.”

The youth held out a hand, revealing that it was now a hybrid between human and something else. Something with long claws and long fangs in that grin.

Wulfgar fumbled for his knife as Deacon leaped, tackling the hunter over a fallen log. Claws and fangs made quick work of any struggle.

Deacon stood up, blood dripping from his fangs. “Welcome to the real hunt, brother.”

The werewolf grinned. They would find Wulfgar uninjured, irrational and babbling the next day and with no memory of who or what had supposedly attacked him. They’d find Deacon cowering in his car, having been chased by… something.

The townspeople might even lock Wulfgar up, perhaps for a few days, perhaps for the entire month. The unspoken word would come to light with an actual suspect, someone to fit the label: Werewolf.

Either way, the townspeople would react predictably: either early in fear and paranoia, or they’d wait until it was confirmed. The town’s problem would be taken care of and buried, never to be spoken of again except around campfires and the wood stove at the grocery store when there were no strangers around. Whether they reacted early and buried the problem and then doubt if he had been a werewolf or not, or if they waited for certain signs and then killed him, the problem would be gone.

And Deacon would move on without a hint of suspicion attached. Called wherever the flock needed thinning in the world. He did serve nature in a way. A very unpleasant way. Another town would welcome a handsome, eligible bachelor man of God. This town would miss him, he knew, never realizing the truth.

Deacon whistled as he headed back to his car. Sometimes he enjoyed the hunt. Tonight had been frightening, the hunter being the hunted but it had turned out well. It was hard to smirk while whistling but he managed.