James stood panting near the edge of the crag. Sweat poured from his brow, his heart thumped against his chest and his eyes were wild with terror. Although it was a warm night, his hands and torso shivered and his legs trembled. Heavy breathing betrayed the panic that he felt. He glanced, terrified, at the thicket behind him.
Silver shafts of moonlight illuminated parts of the forest like mystic candles. Leaves shimmered softly, and the dappled trees stood like majestic Guardians. But Nature's elegance was farthest from his mind. He listened feverishly for the tell-tale sounds of the rustling undergrowth, which would announce the werewolf's arrival. For it had finally come to this. Relentlessly pursued over the countryside on a moonlit night, he had finally managed to make his way to Lone Point . He could hear the river rushing below,swirling and foaming.
He gripped the small revolver he held in his hands more tightly. The single bullet it contained was the last thread with which he clung to life. Everything around him was quiet enough. Maybe too quiet. Overhead, an owl hooted softly, and he started in terror. His eyes twitched from side to side, combing the dense greenery for signs of the impending attack he knew would come sooner or later. And then, suddenly, the leaves parted, and a shadowy figure hurtled out.
Bang! The revolver spoke to the night as the bullet whistled through the air, and found its mark. The great beast keeled over and lay dead. Warm relief flooded through James, and he clasped his hands and closed his eyes silently in prayer. Only on opening them did he realize the magnitude of his mistake.
There, before him, lay the corpse of a great mastiff. Jet-black in color, it was nearly the size of a wolf, which was probably why he had mistaken it for the creature in the first place. Now he was weaponless. Helpless. Defenseless. Against the blasted hell-hound no mortal could hope to defeat. There was no way out either. Behind him was a vertical fall that would surely crush his bones on the jagged rocks below. In front of him was the thicket that concealed the nightmare that was tracking him down. What he thought had started out as a simple, bounty-hunting exercise, had gone horribly wrong. The hunter had become the hunted.
The minutes seemed to slide by as the never-ending night rolled on. The moon disappeared behind a cloud bank. And then, suddenly, but almost inevitably, the night air was rent by a bloodcurdling howl. A howl that promised death. A howl that chilled the marrow. A howl that sent shivers down his spine. And he started to cry. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he realized his utter helplessness. Seemingly, as if in slow motion, memories from his life flashed before his eyes. He sank to the ground - unable to do anything to defend himself against the onslaught that was arriving...
A pair of blood red eyes gleamed at him through the night. Cruel, inhuman eyes devoid of pity or mercy. Eyes that promised death. James hadn't noticed them. He couldn't have. They belonged to a creature equipped with an intelligence that far exceeded his own. A devilish cunning, matched with terrifying blood-lust. Hackles raised. Saliva dripping from its jaws. Teeth the size of bread-knives. Claws bared. And it sprang with a roar.
James only had a split second to look before the wolf was upon him. In that fraction of a moment, all the universe was concentrated into two burning dots - the werewolf's flaming eyes. He hardly managed a stifled cry for help, before his throat was ripped out, and he knew no more.
Down in the valley, Farmer Jones called out impatiently to his dog.
"Ripper!"
"Ripper!"
"Ripper! Goddammit, where can that blasted dog have got to? At least the sheep are rounded up for the night."
So saying, he went back inside, assuring himself that the great mastiff was surely somewhere about. Probably, he'd turn up the next morning, tongue hanging out as usual, ready for work.
And the moonlight outlined a creature's gargantuan frame as it feasted upon the fallen victims...
