among the trees. The night before Hallowe ’ en.
Tucker had to move her. Now.
The door slammed behind him.
He was afraid.
He took the shotgun with him and filled his pocket with shells. Not birdshot this time. He walked toward the barn, carr y ing his lantern.
He ’ d have to bury her before the Hallowe ’ en dance — out in the fields somewhere. Everything had been harvested. No one would notice a little more overturned earth.
As he entered the maw of the barn, his lantern blew out, plunging everything into momentary darkness. Wi th matches in fumbling fingers he relit the flame, but this time the jerking light only sharpened the shadows.
He cursed in a trembling voice as he stood in front of the open barn door, not certain of what to do. But the interior of the barn glowed faintly with an eerie light. The wan illumination of the moon oozed through cracks and knotholes in the barn ’ s dilap i dated sides. Like moonlight shining into an overturned wa g on-bed…
Setting the lantern on the floorboards, Tucker gripped the shotgun and entered t he barn. The floor had been swept clean for the upcoming dance. He reached the rickety ladder that led to the upper loft. His hands were sweaty. He climbed upward.
The floor of the loft seemed weak and flimsy, covered with straw. Tucker groped forward, fee ling with his hands in the deepest part of the straw, digging around until he felt something cold and sickeningly stiff. Pushing the straw away, he grabbed what must have been her arm, lifting her out into the pale moo n light.
Her skin was splotched and des iccated, decomposing but half mummified from the dry straw. Her hair and fingernails had grown an alarming amount. Tucker winced, but his stomach r e acted more strongly. He clenched his teeth together and forced the bile back down.
As the Hunter ’ s Moon shon e beams upon her face, the bul g ing eyes opened wide. And she smiled at him. Her jaws were filled with canine fangs. Her eyes were green-yellow and slitted, like the wolf ’ s staring at him through the knothole in the ove r turned wagon.
The scream latched onto the inside of his throat as he jerked backward, stumbling to the edge of the loft, falling. He landed roughly, twisting his ankle. His eyes were wide and dry because he had forgotten how to blink.
He looked around in the barn, but the Hunter ’ s Moon and the lantern by the door cast strange shadows as pointed as long fangs. He saw her face in the corner, and again along the wall, and again behind him, all with eyes wide and mouth open — faces, screaming, mocking faces, her face, splotched with blo od. She was surrounded by the distorted faces of wolves, ja g ged mouths filled with fangs, slitted animal eyes in the corners of the barn, on the floor, up near the wall. Faces wild, covered with blood dripping toward the floor, screaming.
Now he could hea r the cries of pain pounding around him — her face in every corner, everywhere he looked. And the howling of wolves. Everywhere. Coming to get him at last, b e cause he had escaped them so long ago.
Tucker raised the shotgun and fired at one face. It exploded into red-orange fragments of skull and flesh. He fired at another one, and another. His hand fed shells into the gun and spat the empty ones onto the floor.
He continued to fire, but heard her voice screaming louder and louder with each face he destroyed. And the howling. As he fired, he added his own screams to hers.
Malcolm Litch stepped out of his house, followed closely by his wife. In the town of Tucker ’ s Grove, others opened their doors, gathered on the street, looking up toward Clinton Tucker ’ s hous e on the hill. Gunshots sounded as if a great battle were ta k ing place up at the old house.
They listened in horrified silence to a long series of shots, then a long, long pause, then one final shot. Murmurs ran through the crowd until someone yelled “ Come on!” A few men fetched their horses and galloped down the
Tucker had to move her. Now.
The door slammed behind him.
He was afraid.
He took the shotgun with him and filled his pocket with shells. Not birdshot this time. He walked toward the barn, carr y ing his lantern.
He ’ d have to bury her before the Hallowe ’ en dance — out in the fields somewhere. Everything had been harvested. No one would notice a little more overturned earth.
As he entered the maw of the barn, his lantern blew out, plunging everything into momentary darkness. Wi th matches in fumbling fingers he relit the flame, but this time the jerking light only sharpened the shadows.
He cursed in a trembling voice as he stood in front of the open barn door, not certain of what to do. But the interior of the barn glowed faintly with an eerie light. The wan illumination of the moon oozed through cracks and knotholes in the barn ’ s dilap i dated sides. Like moonlight shining into an overturned wa g on-bed…
Setting the lantern on the floorboards, Tucker gripped the shotgun and entered t he barn. The floor had been swept clean for the upcoming dance. He reached the rickety ladder that led to the upper loft. His hands were sweaty. He climbed upward.
The floor of the loft seemed weak and flimsy, covered with straw. Tucker groped forward, fee ling with his hands in the deepest part of the straw, digging around until he felt something cold and sickeningly stiff. Pushing the straw away, he grabbed what must have been her arm, lifting her out into the pale moo n light.
Her skin was splotched and des iccated, decomposing but half mummified from the dry straw. Her hair and fingernails had grown an alarming amount. Tucker winced, but his stomach r e acted more strongly. He clenched his teeth together and forced the bile back down.
As the Hunter ’ s Moon shon e beams upon her face, the bul g ing eyes opened wide. And she smiled at him. Her jaws were filled with canine fangs. Her eyes were green-yellow and slitted, like the wolf ’ s staring at him through the knothole in the ove r turned wagon.
The scream latched onto the inside of his throat as he jerked backward, stumbling to the edge of the loft, falling. He landed roughly, twisting his ankle. His eyes were wide and dry because he had forgotten how to blink.
He looked around in the barn, but the Hunter ’ s Moon and the lantern by the door cast strange shadows as pointed as long fangs. He saw her face in the corner, and again along the wall, and again behind him, all with eyes wide and mouth open — faces, screaming, mocking faces, her face, splotched with blo od. She was surrounded by the distorted faces of wolves, ja g ged mouths filled with fangs, slitted animal eyes in the corners of the barn, on the floor, up near the wall. Faces wild, covered with blood dripping toward the floor, screaming.
Now he could hea r the cries of pain pounding around him — her face in every corner, everywhere he looked. And the howling of wolves. Everywhere. Coming to get him at last, b e cause he had escaped them so long ago.
Tucker raised the shotgun and fired at one face. It exploded into red-orange fragments of skull and flesh. He fired at another one, and another. His hand fed shells into the gun and spat the empty ones onto the floor.
He continued to fire, but heard her voice screaming louder and louder with each face he destroyed. And the howling. As he fired, he added his own screams to hers.
Malcolm Litch stepped out of his house, followed closely by his wife. In the town of Tucker ’ s Grove, others opened their doors, gathered on the street, looking up toward Clinton Tucker ’ s hous e on the hill. Gunshots sounded as if a great battle were ta k ing place up at the old house.
They listened in horrified silence to a long series of shots, then a long, long pause, then one final shot. Murmurs ran through the crowd until someone yelled “ Come on!” A few men fetched their horses and galloped down the
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