A Distant Howling

His prey was close by, crouched and trembling among a dense thicket of blackberry bushes, its breath visible in the cold night air. He stalked through the underbrush, carefully lifting each huge paw and placing it down silently. The breeze brought the scent of the deer, and an insatiable hunger gnawed at his belly as he savored its musky smell and sensed its fear. Suddenly, with a sound of desperate scrambling, the deer bolted.

He gave chase, powerful legs propelling him through a forest Stygian in its darkness. The trees were crowded close together, and the full moon could only be seen wherever the canopy was thinnest. Finally, in a small clearing, a leap brought his prey down. Hot blood drenched his muzzle as he tore the deer’s throat out. As the moonlight poured down around him like pale blue fire, he put one massive paw on the deer’s chest, raised his head, and howled and howled.

Stefan woke with a start. The fire had burned down, so he sat up and pulled his heavy coat tighter against the chill as he added more wood. Still a little green, the wood smoked and crackled. He watched the sparks swirl and dance as he recalled the dream—or memory. He had stumbled back to his camp at dawn, naked and shivering, with dried blood caked on his face and hands. There was still the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. Stefan took a deep gulp from his water skin and rinsed his mouth. He poured more into his cupped palm and scrubbed his face and neck. Tonight was the last night of the full moon. He could go back to his village tomorrow.

He pulled a linen-wrapped object out of his coat pocket and uncovered it. The cross was heavy and made of silver. Stefan rubbed his thumb lightly against its base, feeling the sharp edge he had filed into it. Not for the first time, he considered ending his life. A quick thrust to the throat and the curse he’d labored under for the past two years would be over. Only the fear of what came after stayed his hand. He held the cross up, the rays of the setting sun stretching its shadow across the campsite until it almost touched the trees at the clearing’s edge. After a few minutes, he re-wrapped the cross and thrust it back into his pocket.

Since old habits were hard to break, he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and prayed. While he felt a little better afterward, the words Jesus spoke on the cross continued to haunt him: “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” For the past two years, he had also felt forsaken and couldn’t understand God’s seeming indifference to his plight. Nevertheless, he continued to offer his daily prayers. Stefan reached for his leather rucksack and saw movement in the underbrush at the clearing’s edge.

“Who’s there? Come on, show yourself.” He slipped his hand into the sleeve of his jacket, feeling the handle of the dagger concealed within. Suddenly, a small figure emerged from the thick underbrush of the woods. It was a boy, no older than five or six, with tousled hair and dark eyes. The boy’s clothes were old, yet they were clean and carefully mended, suggesting someone had taken the time to care for him.  “Child, what’re you doing here? Where’s your parents?”

“I don’t know. I’m lost.”

“You’re lost? For the love of Christ, child, didn’t your mama warn you about going into the woods alone?” The boy began to cry, and Stefan regretted his harsh tone. “Hey now, hey now, no need for that. Come over to the fire and get warm.”

The boy hesitated and then slowly walked over to the fire, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. After the child sat cross-legged beside him, Stefan draped a rough wool blanket across the boy’s shoulders and handed him the water skin. As the boy thirstily drank, Stefan regarded him. He reminded Stefan of his oldest, Yani, at that age: the same brown eyes and unruly mop of dark hair.

\"What’s your name, child?\"

“Niko.”

“I’m Stefan. Hungry, Niko?” When the boy nodded yes, Stefan handed him some venison jerky from the rucksack.

The sun hung low in the sky, with stars beginning to emerge from their daytime hiding places. There was a village to the Northeast, and he calculated how long it would take to reach it. Having battled the transformation before, Stefan knew he could hold it off for several hours. There wasn’t any other choice. The child would die if he were still in the forest when Stefan transformed. Stefan quickly packed his meager belongings into his rucksack. Once finished, he poured dirt on the fire and stamped out the remaining embers.

“Let’s go, Niko. I need to get you to safety.” He hoisted the child in his arms and ensured the blanket was secure. “It’s going to be a long walk. Can you tell me how you got lost?”

As they walked, Stefan listened to a story about a new puppy and a misguided trip to pick blackberries that morning to surprise his mother. The dog had run off, and the boy got lost while chasing after it. Stefan encouraged the child to keep talking by asking questions about his family and village. At one point, Stefan pulled out his compass to check they were headed in the right direction and explained how it worked to the boy. The conversation gave Stefan a tether to cling to as the moon began to rise.

His senses were the first to transform. The deep shadows of the woods started to fade, and his vision sharpened, becoming more akin to that of a nocturnal creature. He could hear the steady beating of Niko’s heart and smell the blood flowing through his veins. His skin began to itch as countless new hairs sprouted, and his jaw ached as it tried to extend.

\"I need to piss. Stay here for a moment, Niko.\" Stefan set the boy down and walked deeper into the woods. Once out of sight, he knelt before one of the trees and rhythmically pounded his fists on its trunk, saying repeatedly, \"I... Am…Stefan…Varga.\"

“All you’re doing is postponing the inevitable?” a voice said from above.

Stefan fell backward and stared up at the tree. Halfway up its trunk, he noticed a patch of darkness undulating among the branches. It flowed down the trunk until it formed an ebony puddle before him. At that moment, Stefan realized how quiet everything had become. There was no sound, not even the faint rustling of the branches that a slight breeze had previously stirred. Everything was silent and motionless. A shape slowly rose from the puddle, and a seven-foot-tall demon stood before him.

“You creatures are so boringly predictable,” the demon said as he examined his arms and leathery wings. “Bet you gave me a tail, too. Yep, there it is. I blame the fucking Renaissance for this. The Church and all those painters like Bosch depicting the hosts of hell as monsters to scare the peasants.”

“You are a monster. You’re a demon.”

“No, I’m an angel, albeit a fallen one, but still an angel. Do you think angels look like this? How we incorporate is based on whatever nonsense you talking monkeys carry in here.” As he said this, the demon tapped Stefan’s forehead with one of his talons. “But I digress. You’re the monster, Varga. You’re damned and belong to us, yet here you are trying to save that child.”

“There are monsters, and then there are monsters. I’ll save the child if I can.”

“All so pointless and futile. How much longer do you think you can hold out before you turn? Another hour or two? The beast inside you is straining at its leash, Varga. You’ll be tearing that boy’s throat out by midnight.” The demon waved one hand, and the nearby branches began to sway in the now-existent breeze. Night sounds suddenly overwhelmed Stefan. Among them was the sound of distant howling. The demon leaned down and whispered in Stefan’s ear: “If not, there’s more than one monster in this forest, and it’s picked up your scent.”

Stefan grabbed the child and ran. The howling was closer. Bits of memories like half-forgotten nightmares tormented him as he ran: the first scent of prey…the careful stalking…the exhilaration of the kill. He knew what the creature hunting them felt because he felt it every time the moon was full. Stefan’s nails extended until they became claws, and a thick coating of hair began to cover him. He caught glimpses of it through the trees—a huge and terrifying shape running parallel to them, angling in slightly to eventually cut them off. Niko whimpered each time it howled. Amid a thicket of trees, a ramshackle hut was partially hidden from view. Stefan ran for it.

The hut was a hunter\'s hovel, with a dirt floor and a door of questionable sturdiness. Hoping it would hold, Stefan closed the door and secured it with a heavy wooden bar. Cool moonlight spilled through holes in the roof. Crude furniture was scattered throughout the space, and in the far corner stood a cupboard where he had Niko hide. A low growl echoed outside, and a shadow loomed through the door slats.

He flipped the rough-hewn table over and kicked at the legs until they broke off. Stefan found some old blankets in the corner and tied them around the broken ends of the table legs. Suddenly, the door shuddered as something heavy slammed against it.

Stefan moved quickly and determinedly as he piled dried moss and kindling into the fireplace. He took out his tinderbox and began striking the fire steel against the flint, adding char cloth to help ignite the flames. The door shuddered repeatedly. As the fire grew, a cracking sound came from the front of the hut. Stefan shoved one end of a wrapped table leg into the fire. The shattering and crashing intensified, accompanied by snarls and growls.

He turned to face the creature as it pushed through the broken door. The wolf advanced slowly, muscles rippling beneath its fur and heavy head slightly raised as it sniffed the air. It let out a harsh growl. Stefan thrust the burning torch toward its face. The creature howled in pain and recoiled from the flames. It snarled and snapped as Stefan tried to drive it out the door. Rearing back, it knocked the torch out of Stefan’s hands with the swipe of one massive paw. Another blow sent Stefan crashing on his back.

It knelt over him, breath fetid and saliva dripping from its jaws—only a sense of Stefan’s own damnation keeping it from tearing his throat out. Stefan groped into his coat pocket and found the crucifix. He had transformed enough that the silver burned his hand as he grasped it, but he gritted his teeth, pulled it from his pocket, and drove it through the creature’s eye. He struck repeatedly until the wolf lay in a pool of cooling blood. As he watched, the wolf changed until a naked man lay in its place.

“I’ll pray for your soul, brother.” Stefan knelt and made the sign of the cross over the body.

He asked Niko to close his eyes as he carefully took him from the cupboard. As they walked, Stefan clutched the crucifix tightly, using the pain to help him focus. Soon, they heard voices nearby; a group of villagers was calling Niko\'s name. Stefan could smell the wolfsbane they carried. The creature he killed must have preyed upon the village from time to time.

“Be good, little one, and remember to include Stefan in your prayers,” he said, setting the boy down.

“I will, and I’ll light a candle for you on Sundays.” Niko touched Stefan’s partial muzzle before turning and running toward the voices.

Stefan dropped to his knees, watching the boy run to reunite with his people. He realized how quiet everything had become; he could no longer hear the villagers.

“You’re such a disappointment, Varga.” The demon was standing beside him. “Damned and forsaken by God, yet still saying your daily prayers like some pious schoolboy. Did you think this would be an act of salvation for you? That it would tip the scales in your favor?” It knelt until it was at eye level with him. “It didn’t. You still belong to us.”

“Choices,” Stefan managed to choke out. It was getting harder to think as the transformation quickened.

\"What?\"

“Every day, I have choices to make. I get to decide what kind of man I am.”

Stefan tore off his clothes and lay on the ground as spasms racked his body. As his muzzle elongated and his hands and feet transformed into paws, he stared intently at the demon, trying to envision something other than the frightening monster looming over him. Gradually, the demon began to shrink and take on a human form. Stefan burst into laughter when the transformation was complete, revealing a circus clown standing before him.

The laughter soon turned into howling.

About the Author

A lover of alt-rock, Akira Kurosawa movies, and craft beer, the Jon Adcock lives in Northern California with his wife and two kids. His beautiful wife definitely could do better, but, luckily for him, she hasn\'t caught on to that fact yet. Rage Against the Machine, the Black Keys, and the Warlocks are in heavy rotation on Spotify for writing inspiration.