What It Takes To Believe

Ok guys, you might be asking, "When the hell is DK going to write the continuation of Of Blood and Rain?" I'm really very sorry, but because of the gigantic heap of papers and laboratory reports that I need to work on, I still can't find the time to think of my plot for the next installment. Please bear with me! I promise I'll finish Of Blood and Rain! Soon, I hope!

Anyway, this is going to be the very first horror/mystery/suspense story that I'm going to be posting on this blog. Actually, this wasn't completely my work. My partner and I wrote this story for our English paper. I hope you guys would like it!

He never believed in werewolves.

The sun commanded power over the vast empty sky. Heat reigned. Even in the forest. Hot winds wafted through the thickness of Firs, Cicadas, and Pines, taking fleets of leaves into the brown dampness of the forest floor. As if startled by the intense heat, brittle twigs crackled—snapped—collapsed into the ground. The day was rather fair for him though. It was a fine day for hunters…for him and his father—skilled hunters both.

Rivulets of sweat trickled down the contours of his manly countenance as he helped his father load their bountiful catch of rabbits into an old, worn-out flour sack. He carried the sack upon his right shoulder, the back part of his vermilion-stained arm exposed to the sun. There must be something about dried blood glistening under the sunlight, for when the vermilion stains caught his eyes, they evoked a clandestine desire in him, which was absurd and unexplainable. Perhaps all hunters were meant to feel this desire, he mused. “You know, son, the werewolves in this village are always in urgent need of blood and flesh to feast on. So you better wipe the bloodstains off your arm,” his father said in a low, warning tone that broke his thoughts. “Werewolves are but myths concocted by old wives in their hours of sheer boredom. You needn’t pay any heed to them,” he replied nonchalantly. “Oh but they ARE real, my boy. And should you come upon one of those beasts whose eyes glimmer a deadly scarlet glow under the silver light of the full moon, you mustn’t hesitate. Kill him! For though he may be a man, he shall lose his humanity to the lycanthrope’s extreme lust for flesh and blood. Therefore, at all costs, don’t let him inflict any wound on you!” The young hunter could only snicker at his father’s warnings.

He never believed in werewolves.

If at day the sun is domineering in its regal stature, at night the moon is king. The dark sky, which held hues of black, violet, and gray, could only bow so low to the moon whose majesty illuminates the heavens. Cool winds whistle melancholic tunes into the serenity of the night. The evening air is icy. Even the forest trees shiver from the cold, cold reign of the moon.

He found it very ironic that the proud hunters of his village, though completely geared with their loaded rifles and sharpened daggers, would easily be overwhelmed with fear upon hearing the ghastly howl of a lone wolf at night. As they made camp deep in the heart of the forest for this week’s evening hunt, he could clearly see, with the sharp, watchful eyes of a hunter, how fear would taunt with their features. Brows creased in a frown that showed panic more than vigilance. Beads of sweat trickling slowly down their contorted faces as their bodies grew numb. Burly warrior hands trembling like that of a sick puppy as they clung desperately to their weapons. Dark, raven pupils dilating as the eyes widened in pure horror. It was as if the pride and reputation that they have been trying to uphold over the years suddenly crumbled like leaves against a harsh autumn wind.

“Even you guys are afraid of werewolves?” He asked, breaking the stillness of the night with a voice that held both exasperation and disbelief. When the men remained silent, he decided to continue, “My father also believed that there are cursed men who transform into werewolves when touched by light radiated by the full moon. According to him, they lust for nothing more than flesh and blood…I bet he was also the one who convince you guys into believing that werewolves exist!” Suddenly, one of the hunters spoke, “You never took your father’s warnings seriously, did you?” Upon hearing this, he smirked, his dark, green eyes gleaming with the precariousness of youth as he replied, “Why would I? Unlike you older people, I believe only in what I see. And even if these beasts really did exist—which I seriously believe is impossible—there’d be nothing to worry about. I’ll just have to kill him.” The middle-aged hunter narrowed his gray eyes into slits as he cautioned, “You should know better, young man, than to think that your hunting skills are enough protection against lycanthropes. You can hunt well like your father, but that alone isn’t enough. Don’t get too cocky. Remember that the reason why your father lets you go night hunting with us every week is to hone your still unpolished skills…to prepare you for the evils that lurk in the forest.”

Then, there it was again. The ghastly howl of the wolf. The fear that overwhelmed them. And his voice, once again breaking the silence ensued by fear, “Where is my father? He should be back here with firewood by now. I’ll go look for him.” And before the others could stop him, he’d already ventured deeper into the woods.

The forest air was humid and stale. The icy winds were ruthless. As he hurriedly ran through the gigantic tree, which were like shadows looming over him, the leaves’ guttation in the night had dampened his clothes. He stopped in his tracks. When he heard the crackling of leaves and twigs behind him, he knew. Someone had been following him. No, no, certainly not his father, for his hunter instincts told him otherwise. He turned around, only to look into the eyes of a beast. The color of blood! Dangerous. Deadly. When the werewolf leaped on him, he barely escaped. He scampered away to hide behind a fir tree. With panic swelling inside him, he loaded his rifle with quivering hands. He could hear the werewolf’s furious growl getting louder and louder, rhythmically pacing up with his unsteady heartbeat. Just a little more, he thought as a plan formulated itself on his mind. Just a little nearer and I’ll be able to…! Then, when the horrid face of the beast emerged into view, he swiftly held up his rifle and aimed the bullet right into the beast’s chest. A loud unnerving BANG reverberated across the forest.

On the ground, his father’s body lay, sprawled in a pool of blood. His chest was heaving laboriously for breath, his once clear emerald orbs turning cloudy, his once strong hands limp on his sides. “F-Father?” He couldn’t believe it! All this time, the werewolf that for him only existed in tales was his own father. The village’s greatest hunter. The one who never failed to end his day with warnings about lycanthropes.

His father, mustering all the remaining strength he had, whispered, “I’m glad…that your hunting skills have now improved. I…wouldn’t want to die in the hands of other hunters. To die in your competent hands—in my son’s hands—was the only thing this cursed man could hope for…! Thank you, my son, and forgive me for this curse…” Then, closing his eyes, he succumbed into eternal sleep.

The young hunter could only weep. He had killed his father, a werewolf, but his own father nevertheless.

Suddenly, the truth of his father's curse weighed down on him. He looked at his arms , now darkening with thick rough hair. Then, he raised his hands in the air and under the gentle glow of the moon, he saw that his fingers had turned so calloused, his nails so long and claw-like. Exactly like that of a beast whose eyes glimmer a deadly scarlet glow.

And that was when he started believing in werewolves.