When midnight came and went and all that was left on the road was a pile of rags. It was happening again, the transformation. Bones cracking and skin peeling, man devoured by beast. Hannifin couldn’t control it. The slightest resistance greeted with wild spasms and pained screams. The beast grew and Hannifin shrunk, deeper and deeper inside. A passenger on a remorseless night.

He had tried to contain it but he couldn’t. People went missing and the rest noticed. Hannifin was one of them at first. Bo Stato slaughtered in the Stables, Mary Iver found decapitated behind the brewery. No one came outside after that. Not with the moon approaching. A man of science oft drew suspicion and Hannifin drew the mob. Torches and batons filled the morning sky. His home ablaze.

Exile was best. The forest became his home. It was lonely at first, a land of thought and solitude but there was a comfort here. Wind on the trees, scents in the grass, all provided Hannifin with a spirit and a position. There was deer here. Each kill was accepted. The fox and the owl made no judgment. It was not their place to. The balance of life respected his demon, there would no fire here. The beast was home but what of the man?

Hannifin was starting to forget himself. He used to have a dream of leaving the woods and returning to crackling fires, bright music and cool ale but as the days turned to months and the months into years there was less and less Hannifin could remember. Home comforts became phantom visions. Tearing at a doe’s neck made more sense than a hot bath or a woman’s kiss.

Sarah. To remember her set fire to the soul. The warmth of her embrace, her glowing eyes, her sweet smell. The beast would not suffer these qualities. He snarled and scraped the bracken tree, wanting nothing of the memory. Hannifin fought and fought to hold the thought to himself but the beast did not accept partitions. She was in his arms, candles painting the room a translucent yellow. Her smell begin to turn, resignation filled her eyes. A sharp wind split her in half, through Hannifin’s fingers to pieces on the floor. The room evaporated to let in the coal sky and there came the silver orb to brush the man aside.

Another night’s rampage. Carcasses here and corpses there. The hunger was never just to feed but to feast. Feast on the fear and the terror, the power to choose an ending for another soul. It was the only control Hannifin had. He could not stop himself but there was a thrill in deciding for others. A raw, red thrill. Unease led to ecstasy while ecstasy led to dread and the morning of violent remorse.

What was that in the distance? A light...a torch...fire! The beast snarled, rampaging through brook and bramble, claws pointed and precise. It must be another hunter. Hannifin’s head had grown a large price. Exile made him forget himself but he was not forgotten. His victims had families and no matter how fragile life could be, vengeance was another thing entirely. It could be buried but never die, sleeping in a man’s heart till that one swift moment that it could strike out.

The beast gained speed, pulling the ground beneath it. A stench of wood and oil filled it’s nostrils but so did another scent, strange yet familiar. There was no time to ponder, only a thick bush stood between the beast and the hunter. The beast struck from behind. With one strike the hunter had fallen, like a scythe through maize. The beast released it’s fury on the corpse, scraping and shredding.

Dawn broke with an audible crack, a back stretching itself out of a long nightmare cramp and all was still.

Gerard Higgins

1

3