It was 11:47 PM, Pacific Time, deep on the woods of the Klondike, Canada. The forest was bathed in moonlight, its pale tonality giving the surroundings a frightening ghostly look, like a child’s nightmare come true. It seemed like an uneventful night, pretty much the same as all others; a cold wind was blowing softly, the only discernible sounds being the steady rustle of the leaves and the occasional cries of the wolves. One cry would initiate a small cascade of replies from the pack, breaking the silence of the night for just a few moments, till the echoes of the howl faded into oblivion. And then the sound of silence would return, embracing all forest creatures in a respectful quiet, until a few minutes later when the wolves would break the stillness of the night once more, paying no heed to the peace of the land.
Other creatures lurked the forest and its shadows, and clung to the silence as if their lives depended on it. For it was stealth that they most desired, and the wolves the prize they sought. These were hunters, but not just any hunters; these men had seen things that would quiver the stoutest heart, and lived to tell the tale. They lived for these thrills, risking their lives in a game of cat and mouse where who was prey and who was predator wasn’t always clear. They lived for the highest stakes, and nothing was higher than this, for the wolves they hunted were anything but ordinary; folklore and superstition had a name for them – werewolves.
It seemed like an uneventful night, but it wasn’t.
Welcome to the Hunt.
Copyright © 2000 Samuel
Pérez. All Rights Reserved.
