BAD MOON
RISING
By Randy Romero
Peter Morganti stepped out outside and drew a deep breath as
he surveyed the vast, unyielding woodlands that enveloped the secluded cabin.
The location had all the makings of a B-rated horror flick. The cabin was deep
in the woods, and with the exception of a few other occupied cabins that were
spaced out within the area, there was nobody else around. No internet service,
and no cell phone reception, either. No way to call for help, if necessary.
Sunset had ushered in a gloomy,
dismal twilight. Soon, night would creep in and the darkness would swallow
everything whole.
Amanda joined him outside on the
porch and observed Peter the way he observed his surroundings. He was a tall,
lean man with short dark hair and green eyes; steady eyes that captured
everything around him.
“Dead quiet,” she observed. “You
could hear a pin drop.”
As a writer, Peter was not fond of
clichés, but it was an apt description. You really could hear a pin drop,
he thought. Hell, you could probably hear a rat pissing on cotton half a
mile away. Peter chuckled silently at the thought. He’d have to write that
one down.
It was his writing that had made him
invest in the cabin. A change of scenery and the calm, quiet reserve of nature
was usually what the doctor ordered when Peter settled down to work on his
first draft. Though he never could quite get adjusted to the serene settings.
He was a city boy, born and raised. And even after he left the city and settled
down in the suburbs, the noise never ceased.
He was accustomed to all the noise
and traffic and congestion. Every morning he awoke to a symphony of lawnmowers.
Every night he’d go to sleep to the sounds of sirens and the rumbling of
passing trains. He couldn’t tell if this was paradise or the opposite. It was
so eerily quiet, he could hear the steady beating of his own heart.
This place reminded him of a story
his father used to tell. An urban legend that he would share when they went
camping or fishing.
The Woodsman. Not exactly the kind
of name that inspires fear or leaves one shaking in their shoes. But it was the
way his father told it that really got under his skin.
The Woodsman was a lumberjack who
returned to his cabin early one particular afternoon and caught his wife in bed
with another man. To make matters worse, the man happened to be his best
friend. The sight of them together drove The Woodsman over the edge. He took
his axe and he hacked away at his unfaithful wife and his former friend.
Something in his mind snapped that day. And he never recovered.
He retreated into the woods and disappeared,
along with his axe. His father described the axe as an additional appendage. It
never left The Woodsman side. And of course, he didn’t truly disappear. The
axe-wielding maniac roamed the woods late at night, looking for campers or lost
hikers to chop up into coleslaw.
The Woodsman was merciless. And he
showed no prejudice. Men, women, even children were fair game. That morbid
little detail used to send shivers down Peter’s eight-year-old spine.
Maybe it was those tales of madness
and macabre that molded Peter into a writer. Or maybe it was his knack for
telling them. He was a natural storyteller. But he was also his own worst
critic. Then again, aren’t all writers?
“Shouldn’t you be working?” Amanda
chided, playfully. “Before it gets late,” she added.
“No good ideas,” he confessed. “I’ve
got plenty of ideas, but nothing interesting. I feel like Nicholson in the
Shining.”
“All work and no play makes Jack a
dull boy.”
He wagged his index finger. “Redrum,
Redrum.”
They shared a laugh that carried
over the tall, dense trees and echoed through the woods. It was getting darker
by the minute.
“It’s going to be a full moon
tonight,” Amanda said.
“Perhaps I’ll put my writing off
until the morning.”
“Perhaps?” she said, as if there was
some choice in the matter.
Darkness slithered in, slowly engulfing
their surroundings. Peter stood under the awning of the porch, avoiding the
glare of the moonlight.
The dark obscured their vision, but didn’t affect their sense
of sound. Though, Peter wished it had. He heard the boots shuffling through the
woods, twigs snapping and dry leaves crunching underfoot. The razor-sharp head
of the axe glistened under the bright beam of the moon.
The Woodsman, he gasped. Amanda saw him
lumbering towards the cabin and raised one hand to her mouth to stifle a
scream.
“Knock, knock,” a voice echoed through the trees. A voice of
sheer malevolence. “Anybody home?”
A low, guttural sound emanated from the woods–a cross between
a growl and a snarl. A sound that made even the axe-wielding psychopath quake
with fear. Someone–or rather, something–came running full-speed through
the tree line. He could only make out parts of it, sections.
Whoever–or whatever–it was, it was more beast than
man. It had hair; thick, glossy, blood-matted hair. And claws. And teeth. Dear
God, the teeth. Those jagged teeth seized the would-be Woodman by his calf and
dragged him off screaming like a child.
And when it was done tearing him to pieces, it returned to
the cabin. Its short, wet snout twinkled in the moonlight. Its low growl still
echoed through the woods. It bared its jagged, razor-sharp teeth at Peter, as
if signaling him out, challenging him.
Challenge accepted, Peter thought.
Amanda ran inside and locked herself in at Peter’s behest. He
stepped out and let the moonlight consume him. His nose and mouth evolved, producing
a hideous wet snout. Claws protruded from his fingertips. His teeth grew longer
and sharper, his flesh turned to fur.
He hadn’t come all the way out there just to
write.
He came out there to hunt.
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