The hunt

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I shiver as the cold wind and needle-like rain slide down the collar of my too thin coat. Here in the dusk are no cute plastic pumpkins, make-believe scarecrows, or fairy lights, no tiny warlocks, robots, or witches. Here the ghosts and monsters are real. Here people do not wander the streets looking for candy after dark, not even the powdery kind.

I’m not hunting candy of any kind. I’m hunting my enemy. The one who has taken my family and is preying on me. The one who has no mercy, no heart, no soul. The one whose hot breath I have felt on my neck, whose claws have scratched at my door. The Hungry One. The one I call Evil.

My journey has been long. The boat trip was less than pleasant in third class. Limited space in the fresh air, poor food, and no entertainment, except that what other passengers brought. The occasional strain of a waltz from the decks above.

The train journey was as arduous and long. The food as scarce. The unwashed bodies as plentiful, the allocated space more cramped. The constant hypnotic sway and heartbeat-like cadence of the track lulled me into fitful sleep only to be disturbed by the periodic heart- stopping shriek from the engine’s whistle.

Each waking moment is spent on research. Learning everything I can find on The Evil One. How it lives, where it sleeps and when, what it eats, how it travels. All the legends, lore, and half facts I could find.

Although in his homeland he is spoken off in hushed voices behind closed doors, there are no eyewitness accounts of his actions. All I can find is a reputation of death and destruction. No address, no image of the Evil One himself has ever been made. He’s a ghost, yet to my family he is real.

The earliest account I have is that of my great grandmother’s near to hysterical diary entry of meeting The Hungry One. Of being enchanted by him, wanting no, needing to follow him. My great grandfather vowed to rescue her and bring her back. He left their home a week after her. Neither were ever seen again. Their children matured and married. One by one the women were seduced by the Hungry One. One by one their husbands followed them, promising to bring them back. All failed.

The next generation, my parents, moved far away, hoping that the Evil One would not find them, would not come after their wives. Yet to no avail. I was a mere child when my mother left, leaving a note to my father, telling him that her time had come. Begged him to forgive her. In the old country my aunts and cousins, their spouses all had vanished.

I am barely of age, the last one of my family. I don’t dare meet anyone. I don’t dare call the curse upon me and any offspring I might have. How can I condemn anyone I meet or beget to a life of fearful anticipation, to an early and probably painful death?

I might be late, but better late than never to slay the Hungry One and free myself of his curse.

At last, the train disgorges me at a small station in the mountains. Fall is here, winter is knocking at the door. The wind holds a hint of frost, the wet rain has a taste of sleet. I’m not adequately dressed for this land and wish I had watertight boots and warm toes.

I am about to leave civilization behind when the ox cart driver stops and points up the mountain before he takes the fork leading down the hill. The path he indicates seems to narrow at each turn. The trees are tall, sway ominously in the wind. No other sounds can be heard. No rustling of creatures, big or small in the underbrush. At least I hope they are not here.

Heart pounding, breath shallow, knees trembling I hurry on in the freezing rain. I both hope and fear I’m close. My fists are stuffed in my pockets, one hand curled into a fist, the other around the gun. My friend Tom had laughed at me when I showed him the weapon. But I ignored him. It might be small enough to fit in my palm, but it’ll shoot a real bullet. The trick will be to shoot dead on. Though a near miss might slow it down. I know I’ll only get one chance. If I miss, I’ll be the treat.

There! A light. What light through yonder window brea … No wait, wrong story.

I crouch closer to see the shadow of a castle, four towers, plenty of parapets and crenellations and a moat against the midnight sky. Panting with excitement and fear, I can almost taste the blood of victory. I stay near the trees till I see the drawbridge, which is pulled up. I sigh but ignore the ashes of defeat that tickle the back of my throat.

How will I proceed? I’ve never done any free climbing. Never done any climbing, come to think of it. Will there be a bell? A knocker? A sentry?

Slowly I creep closer, stumbling over downed tree branches and fail to stifle a cry of pain when I scrape my knuckles against the rough edge of a loose stone. The creaking and rattling chains when the bridge is lowered make me look up. A tall figure holding a lantern walks out onto the bridge.

“Who goes there? Present yourself.” His voice booms over the howling wind.

The lantern is held high. I can make out his black, slicked back hair, showing a profound widow’s peak. His deep-set eyes that glint like jets above sharp cheekbones. He is flawlessly dressed in a white shirt and slim black pants that are tucked into tall leather boots. A black jacket, tails flapping behind him, spans his broad shoulders and gives him the appearance of a night creature about to take flight.

“Identify yourself.”

He seems to be looking directly at me, as if his night vision is supernatural. I stand, pull my right hand from my pocket and aim my small gun.

It’s a one-time gun, no practice shots. No hours on a shooting range No time to consider windspeed or compensate for atmospheric conditions, even if I had the mathematical skills to do so.

My puny bullet falls woefully short of its goal. I cry at a sudden scorching pain in my hand. The creature is upon me in a trice. With surprising gentleness, he examines the burn my little gun left behind. I whimper when he quickly sucks the trickle of blood off my scraped knuckles.

“Come, my dear, you are right on time for dinner. We’ll take care of the wound inside.”

While my great-great grandmother bandages my hand and my parents looks on, smiling and nodding, they explain that no, he’s not the Hungry one, He’s the Hungarian, the patriarch of our vampire clan.