Hunter's Moon

Hunter Kessler left the city of Pittsburgh in August, two months before the attack that nearly killed him, and moved into a small cabin in the woods of the Appalachian Mountains in western Pennsylvania. He was an only child, terminal bachelor, and his parents had died when he was in college, so he was your typical loner. He never liked living in the city anyway, it was killing him, just as it does every other person that lives there. The traffic congestion, the constant aggravation of dealing with assholes every day, and the never ending rat race that companies like his put their employees through, simultaneously demanding more while preaching wellness and work/life balance was wearing him thin. The hypocrisy was frankly staggering to him. He was certain that if he hadn’t quit, it would have only been a matter of time before he went postal and killed every person there. Not to mention that since the advent of social media platforms like Facebook, Instagram, Tik Tok, and Snapchat, the IQ level of the average person had dropped by at least fifty points in his opinion. He was sick of dealing with young people and their shitty attitude of entitlement that was running rampant through their generation. So, when his company offered him early retirement during the COVID-19 pandemic, he took his money and ran.

Hunter had no knowledge about the area when he bought the cabin, but he learned that it was located somewhere in Mercer County, just west of Big Bend Hill. It was a small place on one of the many bends of Crystal Creek as it meandered through the hills to its majestic falls about twenty-five or thirty miles south. It stood on a three acre parcel of land that took up both sides of the creek near the cabin. He could hear the ripple of the creek as it went over the mini rapids near the bend. It was originally built in the early 1900’s, but it had been well maintained for over one hundred years. The large stone chimney took up most of the eastern side of the cabin and opened up into a huge fireplace in the living room which took up most of the main floor with the rest going to the small kitchen in the southwest corner. In the northwest corner of the cabin there was a handcrafted wooden staircase that went up to the loft that doubled as the bedroom. The quaint cabin was perfect for one person, and he took it almost on the spot when the real estate agent showed it to him.

The first few weeks were great. Hunter went fishing, hunting, and gathered berries and firewood during the day, and in the evening, he relaxed in front of the fireplace with a puzzle or a good book. He felt his stress being washed away more and more with each passing day, and with each passing day, he was feeling better, more human. On cool nights or during thunderstorms, he enjoyed sitting on his porch with a drink and feeling the cool breeze on his skin or listening to the rain patter against the trees followed by the chorus of crickets, thankful for the rainfall. He knew that he would need a more rigid schedule for chores like chopping stores of firewood and making jerky for the winter, if he was going to survive out here, but he simply wanted to enjoy the peace and quiet for a while.

On the night of the attack, he had been enjoying Pet Sematary for the dozenth time. He had been particularly exhausted after a long day of hard work. Hunter started at first light and went to the creek to try and catch something for dinner, which he did after only twenty minutes. He caught two nice sized Rainbow Trout and brought them back to the cabin to clean. By the time he had finished cleaning the fish, the red and orange hues of the dawn that reminded him of the paintings of Monet had given way to feathery clouds that flowed across bluebird skies, an image that would have been right at home on a postcard. He checked some of the small game traps he had set around the property before picking a few batches of berries and chopping some firewood. He wanted to be prepared for the cold winters that were possible up here and he spent most of the day, after a break for lunch of course, getting the firewood handled. He had been reading for about thirty minutes, and he was getting into one of the best, scariest parts of the book when he heard the noise.

The sudden sound jarred him, and it probably didn’t help that the book had already put him in a heightened state of anxiety. His heart began to race in his chest. The sound seemed to be coming from near the back of the cabin. At first, he thought it may have been the generator clearing its throat, possibly due to some debris that had fallen from the surrounding trees, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that the sound was not mechanical…it was animalistic. He froze for a moment, waiting to see if he would hear it again, but there was nothing.

Hunter knew that there were bears and coyotes around the area, so he grabbed his hunting rifle and went outside to check if something had gotten caught in one of his small game traps. If it had, that was what the rifle was for. He stood on the porch and looked around the property. The wind whistled through the trees, almost like a howl as the crickets chirped their nightly song. The leaves that had just begun to show off their gorgeous autumn flame shimmered in shadows of moonlight. The moon looked larger than he had ever seen before and it provided a superb amount of light for the middle of the woods, but he still saw nothing. The thumping in his chest was finally slowing down and he took a deep breath before he stepped out into the yard.

Hunter had gone about twenty yards or so from the porch when he thought he saw something moving across the creek. It appeared to be moving in the shadows of the tree line, but he couldn’t quite see what it was. Whatever it was, it was big. Much larger than a coyote, he thought. Probably a bear. The thumping in his chest began to increase again as he walked toward the trees. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of potentially shooting the bear, even though it was probably the right thing to do, but he wouldn’t want the animal to suffer more than it already had. The trees were rustling with movement from the animal that was behind them, and he inched closer, fully expecting to find a wounded bear.

A branch snapped.

Without warning, when Hunter was a mere three feet from the trees, something came crashing out from the brush and lunged at him. A paw, at least that’s what it looked like to Hunter, the size of a large plate came through the trees and swiped at his face. He put his arm up to block it, felt three slashes of fire on his right forearm and fell backwards into the grass. He didn’t get a good look at what it was because it was dark, but he could see that it was large. It has to be a bear, he thought. He sat on the ground, frozen in terror and stared at the trees. He saw the two yellowish green eyes staring at him and a snarling, drooling mouth of razor sharp teeth. It reminded him of a sinister grin. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but it felt like hours. Several rivulets of blood ran from the burning gashes in his arm, and he heard a guttural growl emanating from the foliage in front of him. He was several feet away, but he could smell the putrid aroma of its breath.

Suddenly, as if he had awoken from a nightmare, he stiffened and began fumbling for his rifle. It was loaded, but he hadn’t chambered a round before he walked up to the tree line. The foolish oversight may have cost him his life if the animal had lunged again before he had a chance to get his bearings, but luck was on his side and a moment later, he was on his feet and cocked, locked, and ready to rock.

Hunter brought the rifle up to his shoulder in one smooth motion, sighted it right between those yellowish green eyes, took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger.

The report from the rifle rang out in the night like a sudden thunderclap, the sound echoing through the woods. There was a loud yelp like that of a wounded dog almost at once and he heard the fluttering feathers and skittering of small animals in the brush as they tried to escape the loud sound. The sound of something much larger crashing through the woods followed. The flash from the muzzle momentarily illuminated the trees before him, and he thought he caught a glimpse of grayish fur with red streaks, but the flash only lasted an instant. The whole encounter lasted less than twenty seconds and then the forest was still again. The aroma of cordite filled the air as the smoke wafted from the barrel of the rifle.

Hunter stood motionless for a moment, not sure if he should even breathe. He waited several longer moments before he felt safe to lower the rifle, but only slightly. Now that he had time to consider what had happened, his arm screamed at him with pain. There were three deep gashes in the meaty flesh of his forearm. When he looked closely, he could see the sinewy muscle and fatty tissue. The bleeding had mostly stopped, impressive considering how hard his heart was beating, but left a tacky mess all over his arm. He slowly backed away towards the cabin, never taking his eye off of the tree line until he was sure that he would make it if something came charging at him.

He tended his wounds quickly, washing them first with soap and water followed by an antibacterial ointment and a thick wrap of gauze. He debated sitting in the living room for the rest of the night, but he was exhausted. He seemed to be a little more tired than he thought he should be, but he dismissed it as the crash after the adrenaline rush. He decided to go upstairs, making sure to lock the door before heading up, and bringing the rifle with him. It was the first time he brought his rifle to bed with him, but it would not be the last.

When he awoke the following morning, he had felt a little bit off. The way you do when you think you might be coming down with something. In the beginning, it had been just a little case of the sniffles with some light sneezing, and he figured it was nothing to worry about, but two days after the attack, the sickness ran over him like a bulldozer. It was easily the worst he had ever felt in his life. The fever brought on brutal spells of cold sweat followed by violent shivers and the body aches made him feel like he had been in a rapid succession of car accidents. On more than one occasion, he was certain that he was going to die and part of him might have welcomed it.

It must have been a wolf, he thought to himself on numerous occasions over the past two weeks. There was no way that it was a coyote or a fox. He remembered in his nightmares how the wolf snarled in the moments before it attacked him. He could feel how his heart pounded in his chest and how his breathing was shallow and rapid. The beast had been huge with large front paws, almost as large as dinner plates, an elongated snout with a jaw filled with long, sharp teeth, and a thick hide of course salt and pepper colored fur. He thought that he noticed some streaks of red in the fur, but in his terror, he could not be certain. There was a foul odor of what he now placed as rotting meat emanating from the creature as it stood before him. Then, it would pounce…

Two weeks had passed before Hunter began to feel better. His condition improved slightly each day until by week three, he was good as new. In fact, he felt better than he ever had. The wounds on his arm had healed, nearly without a scar. He felt stronger, more virile. That was impossible, he thought. He had survived solely on water and vitamin supplements for two weeks and he should have been dead on his feet, but he hadn’t felt this good since he was in his twenties. Besides the whole transformation from a middle-aged man with “dad bod” to a youthful twenty something, he also noticed a strange craving for meat. He had always been more of a chicken and fish kind of guy, but he needed to go into town for fuel and other supplies that had been depleted while he was ill, so he saw no harm in grabbing a couple steaks while he was there.

The steaks smelled heavenly while they were cooking on the open fire in the pit he made when he first bought the place. He had anticipated enjoying many fires during the cool autumn nights. Nights just like this one, but this was the first fire he had been able to enjoy due to his illness. He devoured the steaks, rare which was another strange craving, but he ate every bite and even let out a healthy belch when he was done.

The night ended early and uneventfully, but he carried his rifle up to bed with him just as he had every night since the attack. While lying in bed and reflecting on his time in the cabin, he decided that he wasn’t going to question this newfound vigor. Why should he? He thought. I feel great. Hunter closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, but the question remained in the back of his mind whether he knew it or not...what is happening to me?

Another week had passed and there had been no decline in his condition as he assumed there would be, but he was in fact, feeling even stronger which each passing day. It concerned him. He began to wonder if there would be some terrible price that he would have to pay. His craving for red meat hadn’t subsided either and he made two more trips to town to get some steaks. On the second trip, he grabbed about twelve gargantuan Porterhouses. He had seen in the paper while he was at the supermarket that it was going to be a full moon that night, what they called a Hunter’s Moon since it was happening in October. He thought it would be nice to enjoy the moon while enjoying a nice fire.

He hadn’t noticed when he woke up that morning, but when he got home, it seemed as if he couldn’t sit still. He was always pacing around the cabin, checking this or that. Must be some kind of nervous energy, he thought. So, he decided that he would just start the fire in the afternoon, grill the steaks, and keep the fire going throughout the night.

The sun was just starting to set when he finished the steaks that were as rare and delicious as ever. He had just walked back into the house to put his dish in the sink when he felt that something was wrong…terribly wrong. He didn’t know what was happening, but he knew that it terrified him. His whole body began to hurt. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and arms. He was having trouble controlling his limbs for some reason. What is happening to me? The plate slipped from his hands and shattered on the wood floor, and the bone bounced back behind him. He winced in pain as his skin began to burn. His skin felt like a fire that was crawling somehow. The hair on his arms appeared to be growing out of the skin and becoming thicker.

He fell to his knees, screaming in agony. “Help me! Please…somebody,” he wailed. “Help me!”

That was when he realized the terrible cost of his youthful transformation. He was changing…becoming a monster. Something that he only read about in books and comics and saw in the movies. He would suffer a terrible curse. He tried not to even think of the word, but it flashed in his mind anyway. Werewolf.

His limbs felt like they were snapping twigs, and the sound reminded him of ice cubes being crushed. Even the bones in his head were breaking with a deafening crunch. The sound would have made him sick to his stomach if not for the excruciating pain. He felt the skin on his face stretching and he watched in horror as it elongated before his eyes into some kind of snout. By then, his screams had become nothing but savage snarls of agony and then he suddenly let out an echoing howl.

Right about that time, thirteen miles away, the Sheriff of Mercer County was responding to a call about the body of naked man with a single gunshot wound that had been discovered in the woods by someone on an evening hike. He stepped out of his car at the yellow police tape barrier and looked up at the moon. What a beautiful moon, he thought. Hunter’s Moon.