by M.E. Proctor
First came the swipe of something wet and warm on my eyes. Then I felt a puff of hot air on my face. It stank of rotten meat. A low roar pressed against my eardrums, pushed against the inside of my skull. Pain came and erased everything, and I slipped down a pit where there was no feeling at all.
When I came to, I had no idea how much time had passed. I opened my eyes to a gray-streaked darkness with clumps of solid black where the trees were bunched together. Two bright yellow lights twinkled nearby. My body was full of jagged bones and crushed muscles. I tried to move and gave out a cry. At the sound of my suffering, a deep growl made the air vibrate. A wolf. Why was I still alive? I was too weak to be a threat to the animal. In my condition, I was the perfect dinner.
Dead leaves cracked under the paws of the beast. The bright yellow eyes came closer. The wolf was near enough to touch. Its warm, wet tongue licked my face and wiped away salty tears and crusty blood. The touch was surprisingly gentle and comforting, even if the wolf’s breath reeked of carrion. It plopped down next to me and pushed its body against my legs. The warmth felt good. My hand lifted of its own accord and came down on the big head, between the ears. I scratched it, the way I used to pet my big, shaggy dog, before the estate’s gamekeeper shot him last winter.
“You’re a strange wolf,” I muttered. “You should rip my throat off. Nobody told you that’s what you’re supposed to do?”
The animal yapped and put its heavy head on my thigh. It was comforting.
What would the village boys that attacked me think if they saw us like that? They’d believe it was sorcery for sure. They wouldn’t use their fists anymore, they’d try to set me on fire. They’ve been after me for as long as I can remember. Because of my twisted back, because of who I am, a Renfield of Groton Farm. Renfields are reviled. Drunks and poachers, thieves and swindlers. But my brothers and cousins are big and strong. They’re feared; people stay away from them. I’m crippled. I’m easy prey. All the resentment of the county is piled on my miserable head. It doesn’t matter that I never did anybody harm in any way.
Today, the boys had caught me behind the church. I was distracted by a patch of ripe strawberries and didn’t see them. One of them tripped me. I slipped out of his grasp and was up and running before the others could lay their hands on me.
“Ren, Ren, run, run,” they chanted. “Renfield, run like a lame hare.”
Not so lame, faster than these idiots even with my crooked back, courtesy of my father who threw me from the hayloft. I’d landed bad, over the plow. He left me there, mangled. Eight days before somebody came. By then, it was too late to fix anything, and I never stood straight again. There was talk in the village of how I drank rain water and ate bugs to survive. What would they have done in my place? They should have given me a ribbon for being resourceful. Instead, they throw mud at me, rotten apples, and cow dung.
There are many bad people in this blighted village. My father is one of them, and the gamekeeper who killed my dog.
Running all out, I stumbled on a root. The fall knocked me out. The boys kicked me and threw stones, like they do to sinners in the Bible. That was the first time I passed out. The sun was almost gone when I woke up. I crawled into the forest. Nobody goes into the woods after sundown. Creatures roam there that will devour your soul and turn you into a demon.
#
Here I am, mauled, with a wolf for sole company. The animal will eventually grow an appetite.
“If you’re not planning to feast on me, Wolf, maybe you could bring me something to eat. A rabbit would be nice.” A rabbit to feed a lame hare.
I get a growl in response, and the beast nestles more comfortably, with its head on my stomach. I’m used to the smell now, and the roughness of the fur doesn’t bother me. Summer nights can be cool. The warmth is welcome. The pine needles are more comfortable than my lice-infested pallet under the farm’s eaves.
#
The pain isn’t gone in the morning, but it’s no longer a vicious tear, more a low pulse deep under the skin. I’m afraid to look at my body. All I see is dirt where my trousers were ripped, and brown stains on my shirt that must be blood.
The wolf is nowhere to be seen. Where it used to lie, there are flattened leaves and a dead rabbit to prove that I didn’t dream the animal’s presence.
I don’t mind the raw meat. It tastes better than the moldy bread at the farm. Better than what I caught in the barn.
The sun is still low on the horizon, but the village is awake. The men will soon leave to go to the fields. The women will make a beeline to the well. I can hear their voices in the distance and bursts of laughter. I need to move before the boys come back to look for me.
I struggle to lift myself up and sit against the trunk of the nearest oak tree. I hurt all over. I have to find a place to hide, deeper into the woods, and I can’t leave traces. Except the blood from the dead rabbit. The boys might think it’s mine and that the ghouls that inhabit these parts have taken me.
What comes after today, I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it.
I’m exhausted and thirsty when I find the fallen tree at the edge of a narrow stream. It is so rotten that my hand punches through the bark without resistance. I spot a hole underneath, barely big enough for me to slip in. I dig in the loamy soil to make room. It’s wet, but I need the water. It’s like those days in the barn when the rain was the gift of life from heaven. Now the stream is my savior.
I swear the village boys won’t surprise me again, but I fall asleep, despite my resolution to remain alert.
The shrill voices of the boys wake me. They’re screaming, noisier than a pack of dogs on the hunt. They’re excited. They found a trail. They yell: Boot prints. Those aren’t mine, I’m barefoot. Soon the boys sound farther and farther away, and I drift back to sleep.
At dusk, the coolness of the water seeping under the fallen tree breaks my slumber. The forest is quiet in that interval between the daytime wildlife and the silent night hunters. I’m stiff, cramped in an unnatural position. I pull myself out of the shelter.
The wolf sits there, head tilted in apparent interest, watching my efforts. The strange beast shows no aggression. Could it be tame? I’ve never heard of a tame wolf.
“You could help,” I say.
Its head goes down. Am I imagining a smile on its fanged mouth? It waits till I’m free of the hole to come forward and give me another wet kiss. The moon is fuller, and there’s more light than last night. I can see that my rabbit hunter is a girl.
“You think I’m your pup, lady? Where’s supper?”
The she-wolf can decide at any moment to take a hearty bite off me. Instead, she grabs the collar of my shirt and drags me to the stream. She’s strong. We drink, side by side, and I make more noise than she does. We rest there, prone, by the water.
The wolf raises her head, vigilant. She sits on her hind quarters and lets out a howl, long and sustained. Is she calling the rest of the pack for supper time? There’s no answering howl. I feel a cold breeze whistling through the trees. I hear the flapping of velvety wings.
A man’s voice emerges from that cold wind. “What have you got there, Aisha darling?”
The voice is deep and pleasant, slightly metallic, educated, not like the quacking sounds emitted by the villagers. He must be the estate owner. I’ve never seen him. As far as I know, nobody has. I didn’t realize I had covered so much ground in my flight. What is the penalty for trespassing? The man will think I’m a poacher. He’ll call the gamekeeper and drag me in front of the judge.
The wolf barks twice and trots to meet the man.
“You found a lost wanderer, my sweet?” he says.
I strain to see through the darkness. The moon has slipped behind clouds. When the wolf comes back to me, a flame sparks in her eyes, and I see the man, or I divine him, rather. He’s very tall and his costume is borrowed from the night, at one with it. The strange wolf must belong to him.
He gets down on one knee by my side, and a blast of ice blows over me. I can’t stop my teeth from clacking. His face is pale and ivory smooth. His eyes, the same color as the she-wolf, catch mine and I blink under their brightness. His gloved hand touches my chest. The pain is instantaneous and searing. My scream is louder than the wolf’s howl. I’m shivering from head to toe, and I can’t keep the tears from spilling.
The man puts an arm around my waist and lifts me off the ground as if I weighed no more than a dead, skinny rabbit. I’m as helpless as one. I’m standing, yet my feet don’t touch the ground.
“Please, don’t take me back to the village,” I mutter.
He chuckles. “The benighted populace. What’s your name?”
“Renfield. Ren, the lame hare. They hate me.” I spit the words like rancid bile.
“Their hatred is like the rain,” the man says, “it washes away our sins. Let’s go home.”
He whistles, and the wolf takes off through the underbrush. She’s gone in an instant.
“You’re so kind.” I don’t feel the cold that streams from him anymore. “I cannot thank you enough. Pardon me, my Lord, but what should I call you?”
He frowns, thinks for a moment. He lets out a sigh. “Master. I think Master will do nicely.”
The moon chooses that moment to peek between the clouds. Its glow caresses his polished forehead, highlights the proud line of his nose, the ridge of his cheekbones. He raises his face to it and smiles.
I see the sharp points of his teeth, long and lethally capable, like those of the she-wolf.
I know who he is. I’ve heard his name whispered in fear by the fire at night. The undead Lord. Dracula. Master, indeed. And for the first time in my life, I feel safe.
Check out other mystery articles, reviews, book giveaways & mystery short stories in our mystery section. And join our mystery Facebook group to keep up with everything mystery we post, and have a chance at some extra giveaways. Also listen to our new mystery podcast where mystery short stories and first chapters are read by actors! They are also available on Apple Podcasts, Google Play, and Spotify. A new Halloween episode went up this week.
Nice Halloween story! Thanks.