DAVID, NOW EIGHTY-TWO, still hadn't achieved the self-actualization every man his age longed for. He had been shot near the heart twice—first in his prime, and again about a year ago during a brawl in the town's gambling pit. “I am not about to die!” he would say, clutching a huge mug of beer, his face red as a tomato. “I refuse to die unless I find and kill the monster that murdered my wife in those fucking woods!” And now, he had finally summoned the courage to hunt the beast.
David grunted as he moved, listening closely like a wounded prey. His heart drummed inside his chest. Being lost in these woods with only crumbs of bread and an empty water bottle screamed suicide mission. He tried to disregard the prickliness all over his skin and the scratches on his face, neck, and bare arms from the sharp leaves and bushes. The choking isolation made him feel his sanity slowly slipping away. How many days had it been since he set foot in the woods? Three? Four? He felt trapped in an endless pit since he started navigating this eerie, lifeless place. Clutching his rifle, he was determined to accomplish this mission.
Men like him were fools to consider killing the beast alone. Yet, he couldn’t let go of the idea; he fantasized about it night and day until it became a prayer to the gods. Now, the dangerous woods left him dehydrated, famished, and practically a dead man. A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead. He couldn’t see the orange hues spreading across the horizon, but terror would soon return as the moon rose. Each passing second was crucial. The woods had a special symphony announcing darkness, which, for a mere human like him, meant death. Death to anyone who dared walk beneath the canopy of trees and along the damp trails of these woods.
By this time, David thought of his daughter. “Please, Father, don’t go! You will only kill yourself with this foolish plan! Stay here with me, and let the gods decide our fate.” But he had lost faith in the gods. Now, old and shriveled, he wanted nothing more than to face the beast and end it once and for all.
Panting, he moved more swiftly. His gangly stature allowed longer strides, but his bones and muscles were on the verge of betrayal. David checked his rifle, seeking comfort in the bullets neatly stacked inside. Forcing his ears to search for any sign of the horrendous creature, his anxiety surged as he heard only the distant squawking of crows, announcing his impending death.
David refused to imagine his own demise. His folks once told him that death was the sweetest thing for a man who had lived his life to the fullest. But to die alone in the cold had no sweetness. He had spent years blaming himself for his beloved’s death, wasting too many evenings staring at his walls, plotting revenge against the monster who had savagely murdered his wife. Tears trickled down his face as he succumbed to a moment of weakness. Despite that, he did not stop moving. He could imagine his wife being ravaged by the creature in this very place. Often, when the day’s weariness kept him from sleeping, he would imagine her calling for him, desperately screaming for help. He would sit beside the fireplace, weeping as the fire kept him warm and safe, while his thoughts carried him to the darkest chambers of his mind.
By this time, darkness enveloped everything. Without a torch, he struggled to see through the dense foliage, forced to walk blindly along the leaf-covered path with his heart racing. Just then, David paused. A petrifying howl pierced the air, echoing through the woods. His skin crawled, and the usual sounds of the forest fell silent. In that dreary evening of this cold, soggy place, the only sound was the creature's howl, the very beast David had hunted for days. Without hesitation, he tightened his grip on the deadly weapon. “Four bullets,” he whispered. “I have to kill the beast… with four bullets…”
He had purchased these silver bullets in Beldam Block, a place where witches thrived as free people. They intended to reward him for his diligence in tearing through the woods to find them. “Make sure to aim at its heart,” his witch friend had advised. “You're facing a very dangerous creature of the night—a Lycan. They're powerful beings, part human, part dog, able to walk in daylight and terrorize the night in their beastly form. Descended from werewolves, they possess the cunning of humans and the strength of wolves. Their speed is unmatched, and their fangs sharper than any knife.”
Any man would tremble hearing tales of this mysterious creature of the night, but David leaned in the idea that silver was deadly to Lycans. Grunting, he walked briskly, alert. Suddenly, a gust of wind halted him, and he felt something breathe on his neck. Turning, he felt cold as a shadow circled him. “Show me your face! I’m not afraid of you!” he screamed, veins bulging in his neck, met only with eerie silence. David ran his fingers through his hair, eyes wild in the darkness. Another noise from the bushes sent him into panic. “I will kill you, if it’s the last thing I do!”
In his wild rush and intense emotions, David failed to see the shadowy figure nearing him. It had been lurking in the darkness, tailing its prey since the first night, playing a deadly game. As the beast emerged from the dark, a slow, dangerous snarl escaped its mouth.
The beast moved towards David, saliva dripping. As it attacked, David's petrified expression met its gaze as he was tackled to the ground. Out of breath, he was shaken by the claws clutching his throat. The beast growled, toying with its prey like a wild dog. Despite firing his rifle, the beast swiftly dodged the silver bullets. Another shot grazed its hind leg, and a third missed entirely, hitting only the bushes behind them. Shaking all over, David felt woozy, staring into the beast’s searing, murderous golden-brown eyes. Before he could fire again, his rifle was sent flying across the deserted vegetation.
The last sound David heard was a guttural growl from his assailant. And then, the woods stood silent, echoing his cry of trepidation through the night.
