The hush of evening embraced the cabin. His pulse raced as it always did
when the sun began sinking into the drab anonymity of twilight on this all
too familiar night. The great maddening drum that was his heart pounded away
in his chest. Salty beads of sweat sprang from his forehead and made a
daring dash for his eyes, blinding him. He raked fingers through his raven
hair and wiped his amber orbs with a trembling hand. A fist hammered on the
table now in a fit of terror/rage, rattling a glass into the half-empty
bottle of Scotch.
"Damn it all to hell," he muttered, laying the cold blue steal revolver
down on the round oaken table. His gun was his only companion on this night.
A permanent release from the torment, this gun, or so it was intended to
do--or so it was supposed to do on every full moon. But he could never
muster the courage to do it. This month he was resolved to end the
nightmare. He picked up the revolver once more, placing the tip of the
barrel up to an oily temple, even squeezing the trigger a hair. The sweat
blinded him again and he laid the gun down.
This day was like every other when he’d escape his law practice in
Nashville and drive his Jeep Grand Cherokee deep into the Tennessee Mountains
to lock himself away in his cabin for a day and a half. No matter what was
going on in his life, he always had to leave the populated areas. Had to.
He learned that early on. No populated areas. No people!
It had been the same every month for as far back as he could remember.
He feared it was destined to lengthen to infinity. Damned for eternity.
He hoped--prayed--that somehow, someway it would be different. He had
chosen this secluded location with the desire that he’d be as far away from
any other human as possible. Someway he, as his transfigured self, would
always find a cabin or house and do his wicked deed. Ravage the living. He
knew this by the macabre newspaper stories that would always follow. He had
a collection of clippings.
The throbbing in his temples began now, followed by a snapping of bones,
the horrible cracking; his body was beginning the change. "God, please no,"
he cried as he heaved his nude body to the floor. "Not again." He looked
down at his limbs to witness the ghastly stretching of his skin, the
thickening, the leathering. No matter how many times he saw the
"transformation" it always rendered him panic stricken, that is until the
beast within was in control and he lost mortal consciousness. The fur began
threading out of his pours. He screamed and moaned, rolling over onto his
stomach. The sharp canine teeth punctured out through his gums. His skull
cracked and shifted, his face jetting forward to form a snout. His hands and
feet spread to become huge paws, claws tearing out of the flesh. He writhed
in agony as his back arched, his torso twisting and contorting to form the
body of an immense wolf, a silver mane covering his form--a great mountain of
fangs, claws and fur.
With a firmament that seemed as all encompassing as a great black
canopy, punctuated by a strangely lurid moon that called him out of his
self-imposed prison to the dark, haunted woods, he released the song of
unnatural fiends and crashed through the bolted thick oak door, splintered
pieces of wood flying in every which way, and stole away into the amnesic
summer night.
***
A hot beam of light flashed in his eyes now, the sweltering late
afternoon sun waking him. He sat bolt up. His eyes took in his hands and
arms, caked with someone’s scarlet life. "No," escaped his parched lips.
"No." A hand rose to his face to feel the crumbly dried blood on his cheeks
and chin. His eyes took note of the earthen covering that lay under him like
a bed of vines, leaves, and grass, turning round to see that he was in the
middle of the meadow not far from his cabin.
He languidly made his way back to where it had all began.
Turning on the TV and seeing the headlines on the local news, the awful
realization that the beast within had won over the human without once more
rushed into the stark light of reality. The report was that a "wild animal"
had attacked and maimed a family. He had killed again, that terrible spike
in the gut.
The gun still lay on the table; he slipped it back into the holster. He
picked up the shattered remnants of the door, repaired the damage, then
packed up the cabin and set out to return to his apartment and law pratice in
Nashville.
"Next month I’ll do it," he mumbled with weak assurance as he slid into
the jeep and shut the door. "Next month. Have to. God, I have to."
x x x
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