DARK STALK
by KAIN MASSIN
Ginny froze in mid-stride.
It was not the body which terrified her, although it had certainly caught her attention. It was lying on a strip of grass next to the road. The night was illuminated by a bright, full moon, and the body was in a puddle of light that shone through the trees. Ginny had nearly walked into it, and had come to a dead stop.
The body was ghastly. It had been torn apart, the chest ripped open. Even in the dim light, Ginny could see the white tips of rib bones sticking out of the gore. Gouts of hair lay strewn about, and the smell of blood was enough to stand Ginny’s own hair on end. She had approached slowly, horrified and mesmerised at the same time.
Cherise.
Ginny had swallowed as she made the recognition.
Silly, stupid Cherise.
Ginny knew her only by sight, and had never really bothered to get to know her. Cherise lived two streets over, and was not of interest to Ginny, who had more than enough neighbours to worry about.
Silly, trusting Cherise.
Ginny had seen her being friendly to strangers, without concern for safety or sense. As she looked at the body, Ginny was reminded of a scene from two summers before. She had been walking at night when she had heard a deep chuckling voice from a backyard. It was a male voice, a boy she knew, and his voice carried a depth of sensual pleasure. Careful-careful, she had slipped up the dark driveway and peered around the corner. It was the boy and Cherise. He was running fingers through her hair and she was – but Cherise had looked up quickly and Ginny had turned and run.
Silly, easy Cherise.
Now, a very torn and dead Cherise. The stench of her death hung in the air.
But, that was not what had frozen Ginny, had rooted her to the spot with blind terror. The source of her immobility was some distance away, two houses down. In the dark shadow of a hedge. From there, Ginny had heard a small sound, querulous and deliberately quiet.
And she knew, with a paralysing certainty, that Cherise’s killer had sensed Ginny, and was creeping back to check.
Quiet-quiet, careful-careful, Ginny stepped back into shadow. Only when she was certain that she was in the dark, did she dare to turn her head in the killer’s direction. Now, she was off the footpath and behind a bush, and staring along the fenceless street. The hedge which hid him was level with her. The street side of the hedge was lit by the mercury street lamp, but the killer was hiding on the dark side. Her eyes could not penetrate the black shadows, but she knew it was there.
Movement!
In the deep-deep dark, she saw a black shadow-within-a-shadow move. Tiny spots of moonlight filtered through the hedge, and in their dappling she saw a black body. It moved toward her, slowly-slowly, careful to be quiet. It neared the end of the hedgerow, and she saw its head emerge from the dark, saw light shine from its eyes.
Yellow light.
Wolf’s eyes!
Tall erect ears, big triangular head, yellow light from the eyes, and she knew. A species memory of terror grabbed her again. She wanted to run, but she resisted. Maybe, maybe, it didn’t know where she was. Maybe it would have to track her by scent, lose valuable time to follow her smell. Keep its head down as it sniffed the ground. Give her a chance to slip away.
A deep-deep growl came from the wolf, very quiet, but so deep that it carried through the still night air. It reached her at the same time as its scent. Ginny’s heart skipped a beat. Almost, she turned and ran, but she managed to resist, again. That had been the wolf’s intention. To make her run, to give it some sport. She stayed still.
The yellow lights from its eyes disappeared for a moment as it blinked. When they returned, they seemed to stare straight at her, attracted by the pull of her fear, by the thudding of her heart. She bunched her muscles, ready to run, when the spotlight eyes turned away. The black body eased from behind the hedge and moved over to Cherise’s body.
With the bush between her and the wolf, Ginny finally found the courage to move. Little-little steps, she crept along the footpath, trying to decide which driveway to duck into. Not the first one she came to: that had a tall fence closing off the backyard. The next one. She could get through the back of that block and into the next street. Her street. Only a few doors down to her house. She stepped onto the paving of the driveway.
"Whuff."
It was that same small, querulous sound, but this time she knew what it meant. The wolf had scented her. Without looking back, she sprinted down the drive, quiet-quiet, trying to deaden her footfalls. Through the black garden to the back fence. To the gap in the palings where she could squeeze through to the next yard. Then, she had a clear run across the lawn to the corner of the house. She whirled around and stopped, peering back the way she had come.
There had been no sounds of pursuit, and there were none now. But, she knew the wolf was close behind her, may even have seen her squeeze through the fence.
Somewhere, a dog began to bark. Not a big dog – they were too smart to bark. They scratched at their masters’ doors or cowered in their gardens. They were not about to challenge a wolf. No, this was a small dog, probably a terrier. Too dumb to keep quiet. Small dogs did not recognise size as an advantage. Small dogs died because of their strange sense of equality.
This small dog kept on barking. Ginny hoped it would distract the wolf.
She could see the outline of the fence looming over the dark yard in front of her. The bright, full moon was a stark backlight.
The same full moon caught the silhouette of the wolf as it cleared the fence, its head turning from side to side as it searched for her even during its jump. It landed in the darkness somewhere in front of her. It was her first clear sight of the wolf, and her terror suddenly jumped up many levels. It was unlike anything she would have imagined. Not only huge, but massive: the chest was rounded and its legs were heavily muscled. Had it wanted to, it could have run through the fence.
Instead, it landed as softly as a leaf. Again, she saw the yellow eyes lit by a streetlight. Their shine scanned the backyard. While she had a few seconds, she frantically looked around. There, just paces from her, was a tall tree, reaching up to the night sky.
She looked back at the wolf just as its gaze snapped onto her. The full glare of the yellow eyes hit her. She felt as if a stake had been driven through her and into the ground.
The little dog barked, again, and the wolf looked away.
Ginny’s muscles exploded and she ran at the tree, ran with all her speed, ran with the full knowledge that the wolf was bearing down on her like a tide of death.
Then, the rough bark was in her grasp and she moved up the tree, bounding in great leaps from branch to branch, moving up into the highest levels. When she was as high as her adrenalin could carry her, she crept out onto a branch and turned around.
Frozen by the moment, the wolf had its two back legs on a lower branch, its right paw gripping the tree’s trunk. It was now more deformed than before, looking nearly human, except for its head and the corded muscles on its front and back legs.
Its lips, drawn back in a snarl, were so close to her that she felt its breath.
Ginny crept backward along the branch, knowing she was trapped. In a final act of defiance, she laid her ears back, extended her claws, and hissed.
It was a good hunt.
The wolf did not deign to respond.
But, it was a good hunt.
The wolf was not impressed. It wanted to leave.
The man still retained some measure of control. He grabbed the cat with a move so fast his paws were a blur. He held her in front of him, belly up, and offered her to the wolf. He wanted desperately to sate the wolf’s mad need to kill, still tried to make it accept small animals as a worthwhile prey.
But, he was losing. Losing the argument and the strength to fight it. The wolf was old and had fought this fight with many other men. It always won. It would win again. It was centuries old.
From their position high in the tree, they saw the headlights of a car move along the street and pull into a driveway. The occupants, two young men, climbed out, laughing over a joke, and walked to the front door of the house.
The wolf growled, a deep, yearning sound. That was a worthy hunt. Cats and little dogs were nothing. The wolf needed to hunt real game.
Desperately, the man brought their attention back to the cat. We have hunted, and it was good. The wolf remained disdainful, and, in the end, it was the man who bit down.
The wolf kept his mind on the men in the house.
END