Werewolf - The Story, Short story I started a while ago Options

[Hasfusel]

Playing the whole Werewolf thing made me want to start writing again, so I started continuing a little short story of murder and wolfish suspicion a while ago. I wrote the beginning parts a couple of years ago then stashed them away for later continuation, and they probably need a lot of rehashing and stuff. Here is the whole thing so far for those who are interested or have nothing to do~

Warning: This was written by Hasfusel who's a bloody perverted manical monster when it comes to writing things.

Werewolf! By Hasfusel
Chapter One
The Shadow of the Beast

The old, weatherbeaten fur trapper crept through the forest, the evening mist curling between the ancient trees. His heart pounded in his ears as he listened for any sound other than the subdued noises of birds in their trees, huddled up for protection against the thing that stalked the woods. He trod carefully around the bracken and moss, careful not to make a noise that could give him away to the creature he was seeking out. All he had for protection were a couple of pistols and a hunting knife, much good they'd do him against the thing he sought. Noticing the broken, savaged body of a fox lying limp against a tree, horribly mutilated by claws and teeth, he wished for the dozenth time he had come better prepared.
Finally, he saw what he was looking for. An entrance to a wide tunnel, set in the forest dirt like a huge rabbit hole big enough for two men to crawl through side by side. This must be the creature's lair, he thought. He shook his head, wondering how any animal could have made such a tunnel, because it looked as if it had been dug using shovels and seemed to be reinforced with sticks that had apparently been cut with a saw. The trapper suddenly felt cold.
But just as he was about to head back to the village and call for help, he heard a low growling behind him and turned.
Then he saw it, head raised as it sniffed the air, half again as big as a man, and twice as strong. He froze, fumbling for his pistols, but too late. It saw him, and leapt.
The scream echoed throughout the forest, to be replaced by a terrible howling. The beast had claimed another victim.

A cold, evening wind swept through the open window of the manor house, ruffling Earl Robert Grey's raven black hair as he sat at the oak desk. He was reading a letter, by lamplight. His deep, dark blue eyes narrowed as they slowly moved across the letter, delivered that afternoon by courier. The letter was in a neat, precise hand. It read,

Dear Mr Grey,
I have heard of the services you offer through a friend of mine, Dr. James Harlow.
I would like to hire your aid in investigating a certain matter of some gravity. At my village, there have been several savage murders.
They began four weeks ago, with the death of some chickens at a nearby farm, their throats slashed and ripped. Of course, we would have been sure it had been a fox, but the hen house they were in had been terribly broken and torn, as if a bear had somehow broken into the farm unnoticed and attacked it. The next day, the three horses the farmer kept in his stables and a few cows in the livestock pen were found as dead as the chickens, with eyes bulging, their mouths foaming and obviously savaged by a strange, violent creature. The odd thing was, there was not enough blood spilt for such violent killings.
We put guards armed with firearms, spears, bows and pitchforks around his farm and the village, convinced that some large, wild creature was near. At first nothing happened, but we heard a cry and gunshot, and as we rushed to investigate, we found two of the farmers that we had set to guard the area killed in the same way as the animals, eyes glazed over with death and slashed, bitten and torn seemingly by some sort of wild animal, mouths open in a silent scream. Again, such a gruesome death would require much blood to be spilt, but there was almost none. It chills my heart to consider that it had been lapped up.
The next day, we sent out the village fur trapper to find what could had killed our friends and the animals. He still hasn't returned, and I fear the worst.
I would like you to come over and investigate these deaths, and find and dispatch whatever is causing them as soon as possible. We will discuss a payment upon your arrival. Please reply to the given address.
Yours sincerely,
Jacob Kildare
Mayor of Stonewall Village
Thistle Street
Stonewall Village
Riverbrook District
Isle Cianme

Robert stroked his rough chin, before folding up the letter and tidying it away in a drawer. He then picked up a sheet of clean paper and dipped his goose feather pen into the pot of ink on the desk, and began to write his reply, beginning by signing his name at the top of the page.
Earl Robert Grey... The title had seemed awkward at first, but he had soon grown used to it. Robert was used to change. He had begun life as the child of a minor nobleman, a nobleman who had become more powerful as he made new friends who were free with their money. Robert had grown up being taught about politics and war by his father, who had wanted his son to follow in his footsteps. Indeed, he would not be disappointed, but before he died and his son inherited his title and his fortune, Robert would be unjustly exiled for a murder he had never committed, the murder of another young man his age. Robert had been drawn into a fight with the unfortunate the day before, over a local barmaid whom each of the two men claimed was his. The fight had started off as blows, but the men had almost resorted to knives, and would have, if they had not been restrained by the other townsmen. Two days later, the young man was found murdered in his bed, covered in his own blood, and pierced with several deep stab wounds. The finger of blame was, of course, pointed at the young noble whom he had fought with so aggressively only the other day - after all, who else had any motives to murder this young man? Robert escaped a lynching only thanks to a large number of expensive bribes made by his father to a few certain people. Instead, he was exiled to the nearby island known as Isle Keronile for two years, where he lived in a farmhouse owned by his father and lived off the land as best he could.
Eventually, the real murderer confessed - in fact, he'd gone to the judge and begged to be arrested, waving the knife he'd used in his face - a delirious madman who had a grudge against the dead young man for some petty reason, and had been driven to break into his house and stab him to death. Robert was brought back to his home, with many apologies from the local council that had condemned him - in fact, they were so embarrassed by the whole affair that they gifted him with a small sum of money.
Robert made his name by organizing a band of mercenaries, who fought against the pirates who had plundered the nearby villages, and recovered many stolen goods and much gold, which had been made from smuggling and large scale theft. His mercenary group, now boasting a crew of fifteen young men, went on to foil the plans of another band of raiders and pirates, who had attacked several trading ships and robbed them of their cargoes of iron, coal and other such ores, intending to use them to forge weapons, which would then be sent off to the mainland and used in illegal activities. More fame and rewards awaited Robert and his company at their return. At the age of twenty-five, he was something of a local hero. A year later, his father Hubert died, and the Earldom of the island passed to Robert, along with a considerable amount of money and a few personal estates.
As Earl of Isle Ellon, he was introduced to the other lords of the Isles, including their head, the Master of Ociania, a first among equals. The Master, a reasonable man named Timothy Bales, had listened to Robert when he told him about the problem with piracy in the region. It was revealed that the attacks were organized by a powerful group known as the Black Hand. These villains, it turned out, were responsible for most of the large scale illegal activities happening in Ociania, and it was decided that an end should be put to them, whatever the cost. Lord Bales funded an operation, lead by Robert, to eliminate the pirates around Isle Ellon. The operation became a campaign, which would prove long-lived indeed. It had taken the better part of eighteen years, but eventually the Black Hand was crushed once and for all, never to return.
Sighing, Robert Gray put down his pen and looked out the window at the darkening storm clouds, while the thunder rumbled outside. Long years had passed since the day that his father had been found dead in his chambers, pale and cold, and Robert inherited his legacy. Robert was forty-three now, and although his years seemed to become more apparent every time he looked in the mirror, he was almost as fit as he'd ever been. This had been achieved by long hours of exercise every day, and had saved his life many a time when being a second too slow would have resulted in being skewered by a rusty sabre or pinned to the floor of a two-master by a pirate's throwing knife.
He smiled, remembering years past, where every day could have been his last. Hadn't it been a lot more simple then? You knew your friends, and you knew your enemies. But now, the political waters of Ociania had grown murky. Lord Timothy Bales had died five years ago, and his successor, William Howard, was a fool, a weak, feeble and greedy man who owed his position to others. Some of the other earls and lords had been revealed as corrupt, and in reality it was they who ran the Isles, whispering to the idiot that thought they were his loyal servants, telling him that they could help him grow even more powerful if he would only listen to their suggestions.
And now there was this business down in Cianme. Robert frowned. It had been two years since his last "outing", where he had fought tooth and claw against some fanatics devoted to sacrificing infants, and survived by an inch. The year before, he had helped liberate a small city-state from some rogue mercenary captain who had grown too big for his boots, and decided that he would run the place with his armed thugs as the law. Yet Robert had overthrown him, and the son of the old ruler had been appointed as the leader of the city, which would quickly recover from the blow. The new ruler had been very grateful, and had gifted Robert with a great deal of money from the city coffers, which he had used to rebuild the old farm on Isle Keronile, where he'd spent his two years in exile as a youth, and had later used as a base against the pirate attacks. He still visited from time to time, bringing back many memories of his youth.

Several days later, Robert Grey was holding the railings of the old wooden ship, the Swift Seabird , that he and his trusted friend, servant and former fellow mercenary Harley had taken passage on, as the wind blew through his black hair and he watched the sublime evening sky. His blue eyes surveyed the beautiful scene before him, the sun setting over Port Gallose in the distance. The peninsulas in these seas were all that Robert knew of the world, all he had heard of. All anyone had heard of. True, some explorers had returned from expeditions across the seas with tales of strange lands filled with giants and other incredible creatures such as the warlike goblins and the fabled Lizard Men, but nobody believed those except the children who listened to them as they were told around the fireplace at night.
All that was known and charted were the large islands making up the continent of Ociania. Fertile Isle Ellon, the ancient home of the Grey family, ancient Isle Keronile, covered with streams, white rocks, and green vines, thickly forested Isle Cianme, the beautiful, misty and mysterious Isle Asilen, famous for its old, stone ruins, the small Isle Halgrim that was full of mines for precious gems and metals, and the huge, mountainous Isle Ociandre, where the capital city Port Damos was, and where forests, mineral deposits, fields, cold rocky plains and hills were scattered around. Beyond that, beyond the immense Blue Sea, was unknown to man.
Harley, a tall, greying man who had walked with a stick ever since his leg had been crippled by a pirate's pistol shot, limped over to Robert. Harley was the last remaining member of Robert's original crew, who had liberated the islands from piracy what seemed so long ago, and now he worked for his former captain as a manservant and agent.
"The captain said that with a good wind, we'll arrive at Isle Cianme in a day or so. He said it'll take a further day to get from the port to Stonewall Village by road". He sniffed, indicating what he thought of the captain, who had earlier woken him up from his rest by shouting loud orders to his men. "You'd better get some rest soon, Robert. Traveling on those rough country roads can get tiring."
The captain, a slight fellow with a patch over one eye, understood that Robert was going over to Cianme to investigate these deaths the mayor of some small village had written to him about. The Earl of Ellon was well known for his mercenary days, and it was said that he would still (occasionally) set out to go on another adventure along with some friends, sailing off for a month or two, and returning with a fresh set of scars and a full purse as often as not.

That evening, back at Stonewall Village, Jacob Kildare, the Mayor, paced slowly through the darkening streets of his beloved little village, watching the dark clouds herald a storm. A cold wind rippled through his silver hair, making him wrap his warm cloak around him, made of a dyed wool that might once have been green but had been stained grey by weather and time. As he walked through the cobbled road, lined with quiet thatched cottages, all made with the same grey stone and all with little vegetable gardens to the side or to the front, he was deep in thought. The previous month, his old, grizzled brother Abraham Kildare's wife, Edine, had died of the Blackblood fever, a terrible illness which turned your blood black as coal before you died in agony. To top that, a thief had stolen dozens of silver pieces out of the village bank, run by the tall, young Michael Winters and Mr. Sean Mattson, a balding, thin man who always looked like he was cringing slightly due to an crippling illness from his youth he had never quite been able to rid himself of. The massive village blacksmith, Hal Fordsman, had run out of metal and it was two months till the next trading ship from Isle Halgrim arrived. Jack Giles, the elderly grocer, had gone down to his cellars one morning only to discover that all his fruit and vegetables were withered and shriveled. Peter Grimm, the village herbalist, had declared the next day that most his herbs were useless due to the cold weather that had crept into them, killing their strength off.
And of course, there were the murders. Still no-one had an inkling about who - or what - had committed them. It seemed that everything was going wrong. Even James Harlow, Jacob's good friend and the most traveled of all the villagers, feared the worst, and had recommended hiring a certain man called Robert Grey, who was dedicated to solving strange murders and the like. Apparently, the man was the master of one of the other islands, although the villagers of Stonewall had never taken much notice of the world around them. Grey clouds hung ominously overhead, announcing the storm to come.
Sighing, Jacob turned a corner into Mr. Barnaby Brown's baker shop, opening the door and stepping in. "Evening, Barnaby." he said, with an attempt at sounding jolly, to the large, round man with flour all down his apron. The baker was well known and loved by the children in the region for his delicious cakes and pastries, which he was very generous with on occasions. The shop was often filled with smiling infants for this reason, to the joy of Mr Brown and his wife. Their marriage was happy, but childless.
"How are you, then? Everything all right?" asked the mayor. "I haven't seen you for a while."
Barnaby Brown sighed. Despite his normally jovial attitude, Mr. Brown seemed sad. "I'm fine thanks, Jacob." he said, in bass tones. Strange to remember how high the man's voice had been when they had been at the village school together, long years ago. "The weather's taken a turn for the worse, though, and I feel it in my bones. Need anything? I've just finished baking a batch of fresh loaves."
"No, thanks," replied the mayor, his golden medallion of office dangling in his beard. "I just stopped by to have a chat. Everything going all right?"
"No." said the stout baker, sadly shaking his head. "I had to throw away a fair deal of my flour after I found weevils in more than a few sacks. It seems that everything is going bad these days, and if you'll listen to me, I'd say there's worse ahead. Never mind, though. Whatever happens, people will always need bread. How are you getting on?"
The mayor shrugged. "Oh, I'm all right, apart from the odd cough or cold. The weather certainly does get to you, these days. My brother Isaac is visiting soon, I hear. He had some business up in Port Damos last month, but he'll be coming to stay in the village for awhile. Abraham doesn't like him much, and to be honest, neither do I, what with his strange ways and all, though his little contributions every now and again do make a difference. I guess that those little gifts make it much easier to stand him," he said, chuckling.
The baker looked at him, eyebrows raised, and then began to laugh. "I reckon," he said, "that he could be the most vile sort you'd ever clapped eyes on, yet if he gave you a penny, you'd be his friend for life. My dear friend, sometimes I do wonder whether you'd have made a better banker than old Mr. Goodson himself, and all."
The silver bell above the door jingled as it opened and a tall, well-dressed man stepped into the bakery. He wore his brown hair in a ponytail, and a thick leather coat was draped around his shoulders. "Good day, Barnaby," he said to the baker, then nodded respectfully towards Jacob. "Mayor."
"What brings you here, Dan?" asked Barnaby Brown. Daniel Harman, the village pawnbroker, was not known to make social visits unless the recipient owed money or was young and female. He and the baker had been friends once, Jacob knew, but they had grown apart in the past few years. "I heard you had some business up at Port Town."
Dan Harman looked round the shop, and sat down on a small stool by the door. "I'm here to bring news, actually. It's convenient you're here, Mayor Kildare. Your brother Isaac is on his way to the village. I saw him in a tavern in Port Town. He's on his way to pay us a visit."
"We were just talking about him, actually," said the Mayor. "That's old news, but I didn't know he was so close. I wonder if he's heard about the murders."
"Actually, that brings me onto my other piece of news, sir. You know the fur trapper we sent to find the killer, what was his name, Rob Darling? Well, Kane Harlow found him dead in the forest yesterday while he was out looking for herbs for old Grimm. Teresas was killed in the same way as those farmers, it seems. His throat was torn out, and his clothes were all slashed. His clothes were stained red, of course, but he was actually quite clean. Barely any blood on him - or in him, Harlow says - at all. Makes me think of those old werewolf stories they used to tell when we were kids. It chills the bone."
Jacob sighed. "That it does," he said, shaking his head. "That it does."
Thunder rumbled outside as it began to rain.

Kane Harlow, the village woodsman, hunter and forager, stalked through the forest, the moonlight shining through each crystalline droplet of rain that dripped down, illuminating the bold features of his old, yet still handsome, features. The broad knife that hung at his belt glinted in the pale light of the full moon as he examined the ground with keen, blue eyes. He noticed a large paw print trodden into the soil. He was close to his goal. Almost there, Kane. Just keep your eyes and ears out, he thought to himself. His heart was beating fast with fear and anticipation.
Suddenly, a loud growl rippled through the chilling night air. The hair standing up on the back of his neck, Kane began to climb the nearest tree, a pine. Muffled footsteps faintly padded - padded? Walking through this sort of mulch should at least make a squelching noise! - in his direction, getting louder with each step.
He drew his sharp woodsman's knife, and held himself ready. Suddenly, he saw it, standing upright on its hind legs, sniffing the air hesitantly. It came, staring at nothing with pure, demented madness, over to his tree…
It's there… If I don't kill it now, it'll kill me like it killed old Rob Darling, the fur trapper, and those two farmers, Bill and Ted Redfall. I'll slay it for them, or I'll die trying.
Kane held his knife out in his right hand, point facing down while he clung onto the pine tree with his legs and left arm. Closing his eyes, he leapt down. The knife stabbed into the creature's back.
The creature howled in pain, then twisted round to confront its assailant. Its bright blue eyes, like icy, burning sapphires, were full of outrage at being attacked, shining with hate. It gave an insane roar, teeth glistening with spittle.
The struggle was fierce, but very short. The last thing Kane Harlow ever felt was powerful jaws closing tight around his neck.

They found his ruined body lying on the forest floor the next morning. His eyes were glazed with terror and death. A huge chunk had been ripped out of his side, and he was soaked in his own blood from a dozen wounds. His neck had been savaged, and his entire torso was torn and twisted terribly.
One thing was sure - this was the work of no ordinary beast.

* * *

The following evening, the ship arrived at its destination. The main port of Isle Cianme was small and quiet, and Robert felt calm as he stepped off the gangplank, Harley behind him and grumbling about not having had long enough to rest before being roused to leave the boat. The grey skies overhead forecasted rain to come later that day, and a gentle wind rippled his cloak as he walked along the street towards the inn where his coach would be waiting.
"Robert, what did you say the Mayor of that village's name was?" asked Harley, limping along beside him. His face was set in a frown; he had not enjoyed the journey at all. Sea voyages had never really agreed with him when they were younger, and now he claimed that he'd seen enough of the waters to last several lifetimes.
"Jacob Kildare," said Robert, drawing his cloak around him. It was getting colder. "I wonder who - or what - is responsible for these murders. I hope it isn't like that time with those miners up in Halgrim. Do you remember? We caught the killer just as he was disposing of his latest victim. That madman was tough. He fought with his teeth, I recall. For the life of me, I still can't work out how he managed to file them to such points. Old Jim probably would still have the scars, if it hadn't been for that bandit back in Highvale."
Harley was silent, remembering their old comrade Jim Farling, a former member of the mercenary crew that had died in the arms of his friends, a brigand's arrow in his gut. Jim was one of their toughest fighters, and if he had not been slain that day, many more of their company might have lived in later battles.
"Come on. Let's get there before it gets dark."
They trudged down the cold stone street. The first droplets of rain hit Robert's face gently. Wiping the rain from his brow, he looked up, to see the seagulls wheeling overhead, screeching in their thin, piercing voices. A small, elderly man was sitting on a wicker chair outside one of the neat, whitewashed little houses, smoking a pipe. He stopped to peer suspiciously at Robert and Harley. The sun was invisible behind the thick, grey clouds, and Robert was beginning to feel gloomier and gloomier. There was an atmosphere of depression in this little port town, and everything seemed to reinforce it. Something had happened in this town, Robert was sure, and it hung over the heads of the inhabitants like the stormclouds that were gathering outside.

The Ivy Bush Inn was a tall, stone building with a thatched roof and a stable. A little smoke rose from the stone chimney, curling against the grey sky. The sound of laughter could be heard from inside, and there was someone playing a flute, a welcome break from the subdued gloom of outside. Robert opened the thick, iron-studded oaken door and walked in.
Inside, the building was well lit, by wax candles and a torch in a bracket against the wall. The hallway was furnished with a rich, red carpet. A well-dressed, portly man with close-cropped brown hair was seated at a desk. He looked up as Robert entered, Harley behind him.
"Ah, you must be Earl Grey! Welcome, welcome. Your carriage is waiting in the stables, ready for tomorrow, as ordered. Would you like perhaps a meal before you retire tonight? The cook's made roast mutton and vegetables. A good side of mutton's hard to come by these days, what with the cold and the wolves and all, and-"
Robert cut him off. "That will be excellent. Thank you, Mr..."
"Hewlett, sir. Thomas Hewlett, at your service. Please, please, come into the common room. There's a fire burning in the grate, and there's a good musician come down from Richmond Hill, paid a load for him, but the lads like him, so it isn't a waste. Follow me, sir, if you will."
The innkeeper led him into the common room, which was mostly full of burly men in coarse clothing, sitting at tables, drinking and laughing. The man who had been playing the flute had stopped, and was now sipping a mug of beer at a table. A warm fire blazed merrily in the hearth. Robert was seated, and Thomas directed Harley to the rooms they had been allocated before returning to him.
"Most who stop off here are local men, sailors and fishermen. It's nice to get new customers now and again, it gets boring seeing the same faces over and over - it's a welcome break, and a surprise too, having two groups of strangers stop by in the last week. I-"
"What other group of strangers?" Robert interrupted, suddenly interested.
"Someone important, over from Ociandre, so they say. Kildare, I think he said his name was, and there were a few others with him. They left yesterday, in fact, just after the pawnbroker from Stonewall Village - that's where you're going, isn't it?" he added, with a hint of curiosity in his voice.
Robert nodded. "I am, but I'm afraid it's confidential buisness, you see."
"Oh, well," said the innkeeper, barely masking his disappointment. "Say, do you play chess? Only we've got a nice set, I bought it last year when the traders stopped over from Ellon, and that's where you live, isn't it, and oh, what did Marie want me to ask again, oh yes, is the weather nice over there? It may be winter, but it's always cold and wet here, whatever the season. Even in summer, we only get a bit of sunshine, and even that's been filtered through the clouds, and-"
Robert settled down in a comfortable chair at a table. "Yes, thank you," he said. "So, that meal...?"
Thomas Hewlett laughed. "Oh, sorry, sir, forget my own head next, don't I go on, only there's not many capable of a decent conversation round here, and all, so I suppose I do get somewhat carried away, you being an educated gentleman and all that, so yes, I suppose, I might talk too much when we get a visitor like you, so-"
Robert inwardly groaned, while smiling patiently. He supposed that the innkeeper was right about nobody being capable of a decent conversation with him, because it was unlikely that anybody would be able to get a word in edgeways.
"-and, oh, yes sir, that dinner, I'll go and get the maid to bring it right away, no sense in letting a good meal go cold, what with a good side of mutton being so hard to find, what with all the hungry wolves around these days, and aren't they bold these days? Only a week or two ago we found the shepherd dead in his cottage up on the hill, the door had been broken in and he'd been savaged something dreadful, only they tell me there wasn't much blood, which was strange, and all the sheep were either dead or missing, and-"
Robert sat upright. "What did you say?"
"I said, sir, they got the old shepherd and his flock. We started to get worried when he didn't come down to sell his lambs at the time he normally does, so we sent a few boys up to see what had happened, and his door had been broken in. There he was, lying dead in the ruins of his cottage, his throat ripped out, and you'd have expected him to be covered in blood, but there wasn't that much. As if the wolves had lapped it all up, and I thought, how strange that the wolves killed the farmer but didn't eat all the sheep, because lots were dead but not eaten, as if they'd been killed for nothing, or their blood, because as I said most of it had been lapped up, dreadful business, enough to make your blood run cold- err... are you all right, sir?"
Robert was staring up at the innkeeper, his face white as a sheet. "Harley, come here. I think we've found something important."
Thunder rumbled, and the rain began to patter against the window. That night, Robert awoke to the sound of the wind howling outside. And he shivered, despite the fact that the room was quite warm, because the wind carried the voices of wolves.

Jacob Kildare glared at the stormclouds as if it would make them go away. Another man had died, and what was more, Jacob had spoken to him only the day before.
A farmer had discovered the broken body of Daniel Harman in his field that morning, near the road that led to Stonewall. His skull had been fractured, his neck snapped, and there were large claw marks across his chest. His leg appeared to have been chewed, and his clothes and the surrounding stalks of maize (most of which had been broken or flattened) were spattered with dried blood.
Jacob turned the corner, and set off down the path towards the village bank. Only the previous day had Kane Harlow been found dead on the forest floor, savaged and mutilated beyond recognition. People were beginning to become terribly afraid. Michael Winters, Harman's friend and associate and the man in charge of Stonewall's financial affairs, had spoken up, claiming that the village ought to have a proper watch and that the mayor ought to do something about the fact that men were getting killed, laying the blame on the Mayor whose duty it was to promote and protect the interests and lives of his people. The whole situation would not be improved by the presence of Isaac Kildare, who grew more unpleasant every time Jacob saw him. He would bring a gift of much needed money, and then spend the rest of the week telling anyone who would listen how the Mayor of Stonewall needed him, how he was such a fool that he could not handle the affairs of his village without financial aid from outside, how they should all be more grateful. It made Jacob sick. Isaac Kildare seemed to make everyone sick after a while, and it wasn't just because of his lack of a winning personality. Something felt wrong about that man, men who knew him decided when he wasn't around. People felt uneasy in his presence, whatever the situation. When a man shook hands with Isaac Kildare, he would unconsciously wipe his hands on his sides afterwards, and then count his fingers.
And the people Isaac brought with him were far from pleasant. Jacob still remembered the man with the very long teeth, and the way he would grin when Jacob was talking. It was not a friendly grin. Things had sometimes gone missing when Isaac's friends were in town, but Jacob didn't like to discuss the matter with his brother, who had an awful temper, especially when he felt he was being accused of something. Even as a child, Isaac had always had the worst rages, Jacob remembered. Abraham, his other sibling, had been afraid of their eldest brother. When Isaac got angry, things got broken. He'd once knocked down old Mark Giles, who ran the grocery store in those days.
Well, that was then and this is now, thought Jacob. I should forget the past. If it wasn't for Isaac, the village would be half the size it is today.
He still wasn't happy with the oncoming arrival of his brother. He sighed, shook his head, and continued on his walk. It was not long before the thought struck him like a hammer blow.
The killer is one of us.

Leave comments etc. if you deign to tell me how awful it is or some such thing.

[Saffy]

My god.

tl;dr

[Hasfusel]

What? Don't make fun. Anyway it took a whole ten minutes to copy and paste it and add the italic tags because I wasn't bothered to re-format and attach it, so please don't just remove it and be a lobster.

[Harvest Sprite]

To be quite honest, as I was reading this, although there is almost no correlation, I imagined there being a very sweeney todd like show of werewolf, and the last minute of it is a piano solo, the villagers having killed themselves and the wolves left the village, the voting box for lynchings on a stool in the town square with a spotlight on it. And then there is a blackout.

I am a very visual person. D;

[Hasfusel]

Fear not, I'll find a way to fit that it somewhere. Who'd be playing the piano though? Although it could be a danse macabre.

[Toaster Boy]

Yeah, I'm with Saffy. Wow.

tl;dr = too long;didn't read.

[Hasfusel]

Well screw you. It's not THAT long. It just looks like it. Would it really make a difference if I just posted one paragraph a day?