The moon hangs full in the sky, and you are so enraptured by its brilliance that you do not notice the hunter.
At least not at first. The man chooses his moment carefully—the crunch of discarded glass under his boot. Your gasp melts to relief when you recognize his sheepish smile. It’s the same smile he had flashed back in the bar, where the beer was cheap and the small talk candid. He’d called you calf-eyed, marveled at the plump bow of your upper lip while offhandedly mentioning his stay at the roadside motel.
It’s quite the coincidence. When he offers to walk you to the reception, the words are perfumed with benevolence. Feel free to say no, he says, strange town, strange man, I get it. But you don’t say no, and the trap is set.
The path cuts through a swath of woodland. Moonlight paints everything silver as you both enter the trees, arms brushing and engaged in hushed conversation. The players change but the game is always the same: flatter, disarm, and isolate. Sticky burrs cling to the hem of your green dress and the cuffs of his jeans. He talks about work (truck driver) and you comment on the weather (crisp with a slight breeze). He asks where you are traveling, your boyfriend’s? Fiancé’s? Parents’? (A pause. Your friend’s place.) (You are a bad liar, he thinks.)
The lights from the bar are soon swallowed by darkness and he shivers in anticipation. This is his favorite part—the moments of normalcy until the fear creeps in. He watches you carefully, waiting for biting of lips and covert glances over your shoulder, for the nervous flinch when he picks a twig out of your long dark hair. You quicken your pace and he matches it easily, a cackle slips before he can stop it.
You bolt and the chase is on.
He gives you a decent head start, just a smidge, but not enough for you to slip through his fingers. He is a predator in the dark, tongue lolling out of his mouth to better scent you, more beast than man as his boots pound the hard packed earth. He follows the broken branches you litter behind as you flee, the calf to his wolf, joyous pleasure in the chase and the delicious end. You will join your sisters under the floorboards of his 18-wheeler and be so, so beautiful.
There is a clearing ahead. He knows this because he has hunted these grounds before, and the curved thicket of trees will provide a wonderful stage for what’s yet to come. You are already there, facing away, and he is glad he will not have to tackle you, reluctant to bruise such tender flesh, and when he bursts into the clearing he
Stops.
Stares.
Screams.
This is your favorite part.
You’d sensed it clinging to him the moment he’d entered the bar. The fear had been stale and secondhand, backwash in a beer can, but you’d drank it in anyway. Knew there was plenty more to be had, purred in satisfaction when he’d followed you into the moonlit wood, grinned when you ran and he gave chase.
The players change but the game is always the same: entice, embolden, and isolate. Hunting hunters requires a delicate touch but there is no need for that now. The first scream tears out of his throat as your dress falls away, revealing the hollow of your back and flick of your tail—sticky burrs still entangled in fluff. You turn and smile, all teeth, sharp like the crown of brambles kissing your brow. His terror is fresh and sweet. It complements the hot press of flesh under your claws, the feel of him in your mouth and the gush down your throat.
Later, he joins his brothers in the branches of your trees, and he is so, so beautiful.
The moon hangs full in the sky, and you are enraptured by its brilliance.
A college administrator by day and writer by night, Lauren is an American living in the northeast of England. You can usually find her reading speculative fiction, drinking lattes, and trying her best to understand Geordie.
photo by Jakub Kriz (via unsplash)
Crow & Cross Keys 