There's an old legend in the town I'm from, a place of deep, dark woods, heavy fog and jagged, brooding cliffs that bring to mind
things like the edge of existence. It's origins are from a time before the tired, barnacle encrusted timbres of the first pilgrim
ships ever touched the beaches of the new world, before men with black hats and poison faith and heavy muskets brought the shadow
of the conqueror ashore.
It went something like this:
When the moon is full, when the corn is tall, when the cold of Shae'wrin, wolf of winter, howls as the leaves fall and you find
frost upon the land in the light of a new day, the demon shall haunt your nights.
Off and on, through the centuries, my town has been plagued by mysterious murders. It's been decades since the last spree, the killer
wore a wolf skin and was insane to the point of incoherency. He was capable only of guttural growls, snarls, and at times would
lapse into seizures.
Interestingly enough, he only ever spoke one word to the inquisitors of that era before he was burned at the stake.
That word was, of course, 'Shae'wrin'.

-

I sat on a smooth, mossy boulder on the banks of Wraithlock Creek, lost in thought. The restless waters soothed me in their susurrus
of silken whispers and sunset stole through the dark boughs of creaking, breeze stroked oaks. It was the end of September and already
the leaves were turning, though few had fallen. Storm, my German Shepherd, dozed at my feet. We were so close she may as well have been
my shadow.
I liked the woods, liked the solitude. When I looked up through the branches at the molten steel of a cloudy sky I thought I could
almost feel the turn of the planet. The stuff of chills, of knowing how small one was yet how large thoughts could loom.
The pebble hit the small of my back like a bee sting, and my brother's familiar chortle rattled from skeletal hedges bursting with the
last of Summer's berries. I suppressed a snarl, didn't bother turning around.
Him and his fucking sling shot. He'd turned eleven three days ago, yet he showed no signs of growing up. He was just as obnoxious and
callow as ever.
"Gotcha," he sneered, bursting forth from the bush in a shower of dead leaves. "Thought you were joining the Lord's Army, Sis. If I were
a sniper you'd be-"
I sprang from my perch, pouncing like a cat, and my weight brought him down. The slingshot tumbled from his hand into the loam. My knife
cut a lock of fire red hair from his head and I smiled as he struggled to escape even though it was far too late. "Brother...if this
was a war zone I wouldn't be sitting like that. And while we're on the subject of snipers...never reveal your location if you want to be
one."
He started laughing then.
I frowned, fought down anger. "What the fuck's so funny?"
"Your dog. Storm, she's...hahaha."
I looked behind me and realized he was right. She was snoozing still.
It was then that he threw a handful of sand in my face. The surprise was total, and suddenly he had thrown me off. I instinctively went
into a defensive roll, had drawn my service pistol before I even knew what I'd done.
I looked down at it dumbly, frightened and feeling sick. Training...it was just training...
"That's a really stupid look you have on your face, Sis," my brother cat called from somewhere in the woods.
*Thwack*
The slingstone hit me right between the eyes.
"Dead as a sycamore leaf in December," he mocked.
"You fucker," I snarled.
More laughter. Then he was gone.

-

As night fell the moon rose, full, fat and orange. A breeze from the sea brought a salty chill, and I wrapped my cloak tight around
my slenderness as I ghosted along the hiking paths and game trails, headed for home. The fog began to thicken, always did when the
tide rolled in.
The forest thinned and I beheld my father's farm. We're one of the more blessed North Coast families, he owns around a dozen acres.
Most of it is corn, and this year the crop was bountiful. The stalks rustled, seven feet tall, some bent slightly with heavy ears.
While a maze to most I knew it like my name, and it wasn't long before I emerged from the dew wet field and beheld the farm house.
Windows of cut crystal blazed with light and warmth, and its tallness alluded to our prosperity. He had planned on a large family,
quarters for additional workers, storage for surplus...
That was before we had lost Mother, though.
In the yard before the porch was a large pumpkin patch. Some were still green, others had already grown bloated and orange, starlight
playing tricks of shadow over the ribs of their shells and the thick, snaking vines. The nameless black cat we had adopted last spring
sat atop the largest of them all, the one we called 'King', licking one dainty paw. As I approached his eyes caught the lantern shine.
The glow was like a window into a green and amber hell.
I never had liked the cat. Storm, at my heels, unleashed a sudden storm of barks and the feline fled into the night.
The front door banged open and my father stepped out, face flushed and florid. I didn't have to smell his breath to know he'd been
drinking again.
"Abby where the hell have you been? I haven't been able to find Fox anywhere. He ran off with that slingshot and-"
I shook my head. "Saw him an hour ago," I said. I pointed at the lovely bruise between my eyes. "He shot me."
He took a long pull from the jug in his hand. "Damn boy," he muttered, without vehemence. "Running wild again I guess."
I looked at the ground, said nothing.
He seemed to perk up. "Roasted a bird! Come inside, have dinner. There's some rice I steamed too, I got it from Colvis, it has those
spices you're fond of. Wine too!"
My face twitched at the mention of wine, yet again I said nothing that was on my mind. Instead: "Sounds wonderful, Father!"

-

The roast was burnt, the rice hard as rocks. I didn't touch the wine.
He tried to make small talk, about my recent recruitment into the Lord's Army, about the health of the corn crop, about how my
ne'er do well brother was painting the town red with pranks and school with his bullying, yet as his words slurred more and more
and as his focus seemed to wane it took only a nod or a word here and there to satisfy him. Eventually it broke down into a ramble
more and more focused on my mother and I excused myself.
I didn't hurt his feelings, I never really do. He always seems relieved, as if he has to put on a mask just for me even though
he'd rather be black out drunk.
Don't get me wrong, he's not a bad man, and certainly not one of those horror stories you hear about. He doesn't get dark or violent...
in some ways it's worse than that. He just...goes away, becomes the embodiement of a benevolent sort of depressing misery if you
can believe in such a thing. Watching him drown softly in that, recognizing shades of the him you knew even after he's been at it for
a while is in some ways so much worse, because the lines of the person you love and the one you've lost blur both because of
the reality and through the tears.
Anyway...

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