Hunger

John moved in on a Wednesday morning, into the little farmhouse that had once been owned by his late great-uncle. “Clean it up, farm it, sell it,” his cousin had said, before handing over the keys. “I’ve never cared much for the place, anyway.” 

John thought it was charming. As he moved in, he got himself acquainted with the building. There was a henhouse out back, a couple of pigs, and an old milking cow on her last legs. Not a bad place for a new start. 

The neighbors came on Wednesday night, bearing a pie. “It’s lamb,” Mrs. Mason said, holding it out for him. Her perfectly coiffed hair seemed to bounce and shine with every movement. “We always make an extra.” 

“Wondered who would take this place once old Charlie died,” Mr. Mason said, scratching his head. He had a grizzled, graying layer of stubble on his chin and wore a workman’s cap. “I’ll miss that bloke.” 

Beside them was their son, a strapping fifteen, smiling politely. A little girl hid behind her mother’s legs, peering out beneath a sweep of brown curls. She had a little gold locket on a little gold chain around her neck, which she sucked on pensively as she looked up at her. 

“Julie, now, we’ve talked about this.” Her mother gently removed the locket from her mouth. “Why don’t you say hello to the nice man?” 

“Do you still have the cow?” the little girl asked. “Her name is Miss Daisy, and she likes clovers.” 

“Now, don’t you go stuffing that cow full of clovers again,” Mr. Mason scolded. “Let’s let the man settled in, eh? Nice meeting you. If you ever need anything, we’re just over the wall.” 

On Thursday morning the Masons played in the garden. John watched them over the low stone wall as he fed the chickens and the hogs. They seemed like a happy family. Tight-knit, the lot of them, even the boy. John could remember how surly he had been at that age. But the boy laughed and tickled and chased with the others. John turned back to his work. Seemed like a good lot. He couldn’t have asked for better neighbors. 

“They say it might storm tonight,” Mr. Mason said the Monday after, leaning on the stone wall as they talked from yard to yard. He still had wood shavings on his overalls from his shop in town, and wiped at them absently as he looked at the afternoon sky. “Best to stay in, just in case.” He looked John in the eye. “The weather gets right nasty, you know- especially out on the moor.” 

It didn’t storm that night, though it was cloudy, with black streaks cutting in and out of the full light of the moon. John watched it from the safety of his little house, watching as the wind picked up petals from the Mason’s garden and flung them over the wall and against the henhouse. As he turned in to bed, he thought he heard- well, that was ridiculous. Wolves, in this country? Absurd. 

“It’s wolves, to be sure,” Farmer Scully said at the local tavern on Tuesday afternoon, glowering over a pint of ale. “Those blasted creatures. Pulled the haunches right off my best heifer. Left barely the head and entrails.” 

“Got to my sheep just last month, too,” Farmer Adams added. “Took half my lambs, the monsters. Nearly killed old Shepherd; he just can’t protect the flocks like he used to.” 

“I’ll bet they got that deer they found on Hampton Lane, too,” Scully spat. “Head torn clean off- never seen a dog do that, eh?” 

“It’s dogs,” Ms. Mason said on Wednesday morning, kneeling in her garden as she stripped it of weeds. Her little girl toddled in the background, still sucking on her little gold locket. “There’s a pack of them, out somewhere on the moor. Terrible things. I’d never let Julie out with them- Julie, stay away from that shed! You know your father doesn’t want you in there, you could hurt yourself.

“Imagine,” she chuckled. “Wolves, here? Honestly.” 

The town organized the hunt on Saturday morning, barely before dawn. Hunters and horses and hounds gathered at Farmer Scully’s house up the road. John could hear the baying and the shouts as he stepped out into the morning air. Mr. Mason and the boy went out to meet them, their shotguns propped against their shoulders. They grinned and waved as they passed. 

Mrs. Mason stayed behind with the girl. “I don’t need her to see that kind of violence,” she said, pursing her lips as she watched her husband and son disappear down the road. John agreed, and returned to his own house as they returned to theirs. 

The hounds tore up and down the road and across the moor. They circled the farm and mangled the Mason’s garden, baying and crying. “Honestly!” Mrs. Mason said, shooing them off with a broom as the hunters caught up to them. “You’d think I was hiding a pack of wolves in my pantry, the way they carry on.” 

The hunters drove the hounds out onto the moor and searched high and low. Hours later, Mr. Mason returned with his son, covered in mud and briars up to the knees. Their spirits didn’t seem dampened in the slightest. 

“Not hide nor tail,” Mr. Mason said, dusting off his cap with a smile. “Not even a fox.” 

On Sunday they brought another pie, crisp and warm from the oven. “Beef, this time,” Mrs. Mason said as she handed it over. “As fresh as can be.” 

“The beef is my favorite one,” the boy added. 

The little girl pouted. “I like chicken.” 

“We’ll have chicken some other time,” Mrs. Mason said, patting her head. 

The girl gazed out to the yard longingly. “Can I visit Miss Daisy?” 

“You can ask again tomorrow,” Mr. Mason replied, urging her off the front step. “Come on, now. It’s time for supper.” 

The failed hunt did nothing to dissuade the townsfolk from their fixation on the wolves. John sat beside them in the pub on Monday night. “I know what I’ve seen,” Jud Peterson said, drumming his fingers along the bar. “I saw them, I swear- at least five, all running to the hills.” 

“Ah, you’re full of it. I’ve only seen three of them, two months ago, in my car. Tried to follow, but-” 

“They don’t have to go all together all the time, eh? I’m telling you, it was five!” 

“I’ve seen four,” someone else added- a man John didn’t know. “Three big ones, one cub. Full moon that night, too, so I saw them right.” 

The arguments overlapped until John could scarcely hear a word straight. He finished his drink and headed back out into the night. As he walked, he looked up to the moon. Half full. 

The weeks slowly turned into a month, and John was starting to grow fond of the place. He liked the little house, the little town, the little family next door. Most of the time, he all but forgot about the wolves. 

Until one Friday, just before he changed for bed, when he heard a commotion from the yard. The chickens, making an unusual racket. He slipped on his boots and hurried for the door, thinking of a fox, or maybe a rat. For just a moment, as he stepped out into the chill air, the thought of the wolves crossed his mind. But he brushed it away. Rumor, just like the Masons had said. 

He rushed to the coop. He hadn’t brought a light; the moon was full, anyway, so he could see well enough. Dew-damp grass creaked beneath his feet as he headed to the coop. The chickens were still in a panic, squawking and fluttering into the yard, their feathers scattering like leaves in the wind. In the commotion, he spotted something low and dark and fast beside the coop, holding a still-struggling hen by the neck. As he approached, the hen broke free with a tremendous squawk, and the animal tumbled backward. 

What was it? Not right to be a fox, not quite right to be a dog, with pointed ears and too-big feet that it stumbled back onto with a whine. As he drew close to it, perplexed, it stared up at him. It didn’t run. It tilted its head slightly to the side. Something flashed in the moonlight. A collar? When the creature didn’t move, he slowly crouched, trying to get a better look. Maybe he could find an owner, someone to pay for the damage this beast had done. 

But it wasn’t a collar. It was a necklace. A little golden locket on a little golden chain. 

John stared, confused. Then he heard the growl. 

He turned. Something loomed over him. Bigger than a dog. A grizzled-gray muzzle and yellowing teeth. The wolf snarled again, and for the first time John wished he had sold the old farm after all. 

On Monday the Masons called the police. They hadn’t seen their neighbor, they said, in a few days. His animals were growing restless. His chickens were roaming the yard. And there was a strange smell, they told the operator, coming from behind the henhouse. 

It didn’t take long for the officers to find the source. 

“It’s such a tragedy,” Mrs. Mason said, wiping flour from her hands as the policemen stood in her kitchen to inform her of the news. “He seemed like such a nice man.” 

“It’s those blasted dogs,” Mr. Mason said, shaking his head. “Wish I’d been awake to hear them. But we must have been asleep, then.” 

“Julie, you get out of there!” Mrs. Mason snapped suddenly, shooing her daughter away from the biscuit jar. “Not until after dinner, you know that.” 

“That little one’s always getting into places she shouldn’t be,” Mr. Mason said, shaking his head. “Making trouble for everyone else.” 

He and his wife shared a look. The gentle ding of a timer interrupted the quiet of the kitchen, and Mrs. Mason quickly turned to remove something from the oven. 

“That smells lovely, ma’am,” one of the policemen commented politely. 

“Thank you,” Mrs. Mason replied with a smile, gently placing a warm, crisp pie on the counter. “It’s chicken,” she said. “Julie’s favorite.”