The Quotal

Siran treaded quietly through the forest. He carried a rifle in both hands and had a long knife in his belt. He was hunting the quotal.

His family had tried to stop him. Enough people, they said, had been snatched up by that thing during the night and never seen again. Enough people had ventured into the mist filled valley where it resided during the day determined to find and kill it and never returned. But Siran was tired of hiding in the cabins night after night while the quotal’s terrible howls circled them and made the children cry and the adults flinch. He was tired of grieving for those who were lost and being fearful for those who were alive. An animal should not have that much power over people, he thought. And he did not want to live in fear.

“I am going to kill it.” He had told them. And then he had picked up his rifle and, ignoring their protests, left.

He began descending  into a valley. The fog here was so thick he could see only twenty feet in front of him. Just as he reached level ground he thought he saw a flicker of movement above him and looked up, but it was only an eddy in the mist. He walked on and it wasn’t long before he first heard the strange beast’s howl.

“Arrroooo.” It was a deep, dark sound that sent goosebumps racing up his arms and put fear into his heart even though he had heard it many, many times before. Siran clenched his jaw and began to move in the direction the noise had come from taking care to step quietly and not make noise that might reveal his presence. Somewhere ahead of him the quotal was hunting.

No one knew exactly what the quotal looked like or even what manner of creature it was. All anyone did know was that one night, just as the sun set, eerie howls began echoing through the forest. Howls so chilling they sent everyone fleeing in terror to the settlement. Two of the townsfolk didn’t make it back; their bodies had never been found. Following that night all attempts to hunt or trap the quotal had ended only in failure and the disappearances of three more people. Soon they gave up trying and instead retreated to the lodges well before dark each day and hoped against hope that this night they would have peace. And night after night the qutoal returned, its dark cries tracking its movements as it stalked and sought its prey under the cover of darkness. The villagers hide in their buildings shivering in fear and praying it would soon return to wherever it had come from.

Two hours later Siran was sweating and confused. For ages he had stealthily followed the qutoal’s cries. Ears straining to catch any sound its movements might produce. Eye scanning the mist for the first flash of motion. But the forest remained eerily still. Whatever it was the qutoal could move devilishly fast. Many times Siran had thought he was approaching it only to hear its cry come from far out in the distance in another direction. “Arrrooo,” came the sound from his left. Siran wiped the moisture from his forehead and set out towards it.

Several two hours later Siran came to halt. He was having doubts. The quotal moved like a wraith. He had yet to hear the single swish of a branch being pushed aside of a single snap of a twig. Even stranger he had not found a single track or footprint. Meanwhile the mist was getting thicker; even if he did get close to it he would not see it until it was almost on top of him. The back of his neck prickled. At any moment it could emerge from the fog behind, kill him, and drag him off to eat his corpse like it had the others. The villagers were right; he was fool to come here. He should retreat to the lodges while his luck still held.

Abruptly the sound broke out from straight ahead of him, nearly deafening him. “ARRROOOO.” Siran flinched, and then in sheer defiance of his fear he dashed forward giving up on stealth entirely.

He sprinted through the trees and fog holding his rifle tightly in one hand. His breath came rapidly and he struggled to peer through the mists ahead. It should be just in front of him. He leaped over a root and something caught the corner of his eye. He came to an abrupt halt, panting. There was another gun lying on the ground in front of him.

He picked it up. It was identical to his own, it must have belonged to one of the missing hunters. But why had it be thrown here? He examined the ground around it and then saw that the forest abruptly ended up ahead. In front of him there was only flat empty land. Siran put a tentative step forward and instantly felt his foot sliding into what had appeared to be solid earth. He hastily pulled it out and retreated to dry land. A marsh. Was that how the gun’s owner had met his end? Siran had almost run straight into it. The howl came again, now from behind him.

For once Siran ignored it and stood still. He was thinking. How many of the more of the missing people, he wondered, had been driven off the known paths by fear or anger and then become lost or stumbled upon some other peril in night?

Siran thought for a while longer and then planted his feet, took his rifle in both hands, released the safety, and stared up into the mist.

A minute passed, then another, and then ten more. The eerie howl pealed out several more times to his right and then once again even closer to his left. Siran did not move an inch. More time passed. Siran saw a stirring in the mist above him and squeezed the trigger. There was a deafening crack, the gun kicked back against his body, and a dark shape plummet to the ground in front of him. Siran walked over and looked at the large black bat like creature that had fallen to the earth. He made sure it was dead and then turned towards home. It was a nice, quiet walk back.