The Wolves of Vickston

                                    The Wolves of Vickston
   
    Eric’s heart was beating fast as he pointed the barrel toward his quarry. “Bam”

went the muzzleloader as he squeezed the trigger. “Yes!” he said, “My first deer!”

    The sound of the gunshot caught Michel Welsh’s attention. Michel was the

proud father of Eric. He walked towards Eric to ask if he’d hit the deer or not. “You

hit it?” Michel asked.
   
    “Yes, I sure did. I saw it jump in fact,” Eric said, ecstatic that finally he had

gotten his first deer. Being a seventeen-year-old boy, he was the oldest boy in his

village who had not yet gotten his first kill.

    “Let’s go track that deer down,” Michel said as he started to find the path of

blood. Tracking deer made Eric very excited.

    Eric was a tall, thin boy with wispy blond hair and blue eyes. He was known to

always be a kind, optimistic boy. It was hard to be cheerful at these times. He lived

in a semi-newly established village, called Vickston, in southern England. It was

the record dry season of 1720 in Vickston. There weren’t many crops that had

grown successfully over the summer, and now that it was late fall, there was hardly

any food to go around. Surprisingly Eric was a healthy boy. Being the fastest boy in

Vickston, he could easily run a mile in five minutes.

    Michel Welsh on the other hand was a black haired, brown eyed man. He was

fifty years old, a little chubby, and a strong biblically based man. Being a strong

follower of Christ was what he was known for. He was kind as anyone could be, and

he was a politician of the village. Michel had gotten a lot of heat thrown at him by

angry villagers that needed food. He had to sometimes get away from the village

and go and have quality time with his son, such as this hunting trip.

    So they went on through the woods tracking the blood from the deer, hoping to

find a massive puddle of it and the dead animal right there. “My we’ve been following

this trail of blood for a long time,” Eric said.

    They walked what seemed to be forever. As they moved along, the sun started to

set. The trees seemed to start to change color and even shape. The smell of the

forest seemed tainted. The sticks on the ground twisted and turned in wicked ways.

Eric sensed danger, but he wanted to press onward. The further he moved along,

the greater the sensation was to find the deer. “Wait,” his father announced, “let’s

go back.”

    “But we need to find my deer!” Eric said.

    “No. We are leaving now!” Michel announced sternly. He rarely got like this, but

when he did, you wouldn’t like to cross his path.

    Nothing else was said as they left the forest. Just anger, curiosity and fear went

through Eric’s head.

    They eventually got to the village square where they walked into the tavern to

have a little something to drink. The smell of booze filled the tavern and laughter of

the drinkers was very loud.

    Eric and Michel sat at a booth. “I’ll take a small glass of ale,” Michel said to

Virginia, the bartender.

    Well, being the politician that he was, Michel always talked to everyone else in

the tavern about how Vickston was doing. Eric was always bored at times like this

sitting alone, trying to listen to the conversation. Virginia noticed Eric was very

bored, and tried to start up conversation with him. “So, get anything on your hunting

trip?” Virginia asked.

    “Yes, I did. I shot a deer, but my dim-witted father wouldn’t let me go find it,” Eric

said.
   
    “Now, don’t say that about your father. There had to have been a good reason.”
   
    “No, there was not.”
   
    “Where were you guys hunting?”
   
    “Near the southwest part of the forest and-,” a chill of fear swept through

Virginia. “You are to never speak of that part of the woods. It is a darn good thing

your father pulled you out of there before you had walked too far,” she whispered

sternly.

    “Why, what are you talking about?”

    “Come into the backroom,” Virginia whispered as she dragged Eric by the arm

into the backroom behind the kitchen. “Listen, Eric, and listen well. Anyone who

ventures too far into those woods never comes out.”

    “Why?” Eric asked.

    “All right,” Virginia said with a sigh, “I shall tell you the story. When this village

was first created twenty years ago, there was a lady that lived alone on the edge of

town. No one had really known her, or where she had come from. She never

communicated with anyone in the town, never came outside or paid her bloody

taxes. Eventually, the mayor went to her home to see why she hadn’t paid her

taxes for so long. A day passed but no one had seen the mayor.

    Two days later, everyone thought something bad had happened. Three men, who

wanted to investigate where the mayor was, entered the old woman’s home, but no

one was there. Her whole house was filled with books and poetry she had written

about wolves. There were pictures of wolves painted on her walls. That lady was a

bloody wolf fanatic, completely psychotic. But,” she said in a very hushed tone, “as

they went upstairs to her room, they saw a horrifying site. They saw words written

in blood on the walls that read, “They must feed.”

    “My word!” announced Eric who was now shaking with fear.

    “They believe it had to have been the mayor’s blood. Frightened, the three men

ran outside and burned the house down. When the fire burned out, nothing was left

of the house. Everyone watched to see if she would come back to this town, but

she never came back. And the three men who had burned the house down seemed

to mysteriously disappear one by one. No one knew what happened to them either.”

    “Scary,” Eric said.

    “Yes. When people walk very far into those woods, they never come out. We

    believe the old woman is still alive and lives in those woods. I call her the Ruler of

    the Wolves.”

    “Wow,” Eric replied.

    “Something about those woods draws people to them. I believe it’s the old

woman’s witchcraft. Your father was a wise one to leave. He must have been

somehow immune to her spell. Listen to me, Eric; don’t let the forest call your

name. Stay away, I warn you, stay away.”

                                                      * * * *

    Later that night when Eric was in bed, he pondered the words of Virginia. “I will

stay away from those woods, even if my first deer lies dead there,” Eric said to

himself. Just as he was dosing off to sleep, he heard something. “Eric. Eric.”

    Startled, Eric said, “Who’s there?”

    “Eric, come to me. Come to me.”

    “Stay away! Shut up!” Eric said. This conversation went on for quite some time. It

nearly drove Eric to the verge of insanity. Eric said, “I will go into the forest and

see who you are. I will kill you.”

    Eric quietly slipped on his warm clothes, boots, and then grabbed his pistol,

hoping not to awaken his father.

                                                      * * * *

    He walked through the forest in a quick, frightened manner. “I will find you,” Eric

promised the voice. “I will kill you.” Anger and determination like never before went

through his mind. He focused on only one thing - destroying the voice. The trees,

sticks, branches, leaves and air resembled the evil atmosphere that both Eric and

his father were in earlier that day. “I will kill you! I will destroy you!” Eric hollered.

    He started to quickly run through the woods. As he ran, his foot got caught on a

branch protruding out of the ground. He lost his balance, fell, and rolled down a hill.

On the way down, he hit branches, tree trunks, sharp rocks, but eventually slowed

down and stopped. “Ahh,” he said, “that hurt.” He smelled something in the air that

was nasty. “What is that smell?” he asked. He stood up and looked around. He

saw a horrific site. The bad odor was indeed the smell of rotting flesh. Up hanging in

the trees were dozens and dozens of people; people who were dead. They weren’t

just regular dead people; they looked as if they had been brutally murdered. Body

parts were missing from some, skin and flesh were missing from some, and some

were just plain skeletons. They all hung suspended in the trees by a rope tied

around their necks; as if they had been hanged execution style. Terror filled Eric’s

heart. He felt dizzy and lightheaded. “Why am I here?” he asked. The determination

he once had vanished, as if someone had sucked it away from him. As he looked

around, he saw a beaten up old cottage. He thought, “Someone must live here. The

old woman must live here.”

    “Welcome,” a slow, old voice said from behind him. Terrified, Eric turned around

to meet the face of an old woman, about in her seventies, with grey hair, rotten

teeth, sporting an old dress and a tattered shawl.

    He pulled out his pistol and pointed it at her, pulled the trigger but the gun didn’t

fire.

    “Get that bloody thing away from me,” the woman said as she knocked it out of

his hand. “You see, being the mother of many children is hard. They get hungry and

will need to eat. That is why I have called you here. They must feed.” As the old

woman said that, the sound of howling wolves came from all directions. She pulled

out a large, rusty, old knife from her dress as she yelled, “Get him!”

    As fast as his legs could carry him, Eric ran back through the woods. Dodging

wolves and trees, he could see lights from the village. He glanced back over his

shoulder and saw the old woman, with rage in her eyes and fangs for teeth, leap

towards him through the air with her knife.
                                                       
                                                          * * * *

    The next day was very sad for the villagers of Vickston, knowing that Eric wasn’t

to be found. A search party went out into the woods to find Eric. Almost everyone

had given up when someone found a large, rusty, old knife. It was lying on the

ground, but at the end of the knife was a human heart. It seemed as if someone

had stabbed another person though the chest and pulled the knife out with the

person’s heart still attached. Seeing this site filled the villagers with fear. They all

left for home with the thought, “Well, another one is lost to the forest.”


    No one in Vickston really knew the truth that day. There is only one who knows

the truth. I am the one who knows what happened that night. I am the only one who

knows the truth. I am Eric Welsh, Ruler of the Wolves.