ii. prey

There was a splash of red in the front field. Even in the pale light of dawn it was visible from as far away as the porch steps, a dark, rusty stain on the pale pastels of a summer morning.

It happens sometimes. One of the herd will stay out too late, stray too far and be lost to a wolf or coyote that braves the fence line for a meal.

This, however, was not like that. Those unlucky few dragged off and eaten at the edge of a pasture never had many remains, as the animals who captured them always made the most of their meal, killing quickly and eating all they could, never lingering.

This was the scene of a massacre. The other animals huddled in the barn, the sheep all closed in together by the far wall, our donkey eyeing the door warily, protectively standing guard over her charges. In the field, tufts of fleece floated out like dandelion seeds, drifting along on the wind to settle like snowfall. The dead sheep lay splayed open like something had torn into it over and over, spreading its entrails like webs across the ground.

What creature, we wondered, would do such a thing?

Our mother fretted about a wolf or coyote with rabies, but we knew better. We had heard the stories of the monsters that lurked in the woods, had told some ourselves, whispering them like secrets as we dared each other to venture deeper into the treeline, aware of each set of foreign eyes as its residents gazed upon us, hidden by branches and bushes.

Our sheep was the first victim, but certainly not the last. Neighbours shared stories of sheep and goats slaughtered, of guard dogs and barn cats gone missing in the night. Our mother set new rules for us, altering our long established boundaries from their usual wide range to the small, safe space of our yard. We played on our often neglected swing set, eyes fixed to the treeline in the distance as our legs pumped us closer to the sky.

When the second sheep was slaughtered, it was done right in the barnyard. Its small body had been scattered, torn like tissue and dispersed just as easily, the red of its blood permanently staining the well-worn earth of the yard. The sheep shivered, traumatized and refusing to leave the barn, some bearing bright red claw marks marking narrow escapes, and our donkey curled up next to them, exhausted from fighting the beast off from the rest of the flock.

All the local farmers began watches, waking early to go sit in their barnyards with their shotguns, hoping for a chance of killing the monster that hunted our herds. Children and pets were encouraged to stay indoors, and we tried to coax Cat close to the house, leaving extra treats for her, hoping that this would prevent her usual wandering ways and keep her safe.

No amount of pleading would convince our mother to keep her inside with us, as she was a barn cat, and we had allergies, so we explained to Cat the nature of the beast that preyed on us, telling her of the danger and warning her to stay safe.

She disappeared the next day. At first we did not worry too much, as this was her nature, but as the days past and more neighbours lost animals to slaughter, Cat remained gone, perhaps never to return. Where would we be without our staunch familiar, who followed us down so many forest pasts searching for great adventure?

Our mother refused to let us search for her, telling us it was too dangerous, and that Cat knew the way home. We built an alter in the backyard for her, Cat's favourite things piled around a badly sculpted clay model of her atop a large stone, and hoped that this effigy would somehow call her home.

The beast continued to terrorize the county, never seen but in glances. People reported wolves, coyotes, even bears, spotted out of the corner of eyes, and always with a feral, mangy look about them. Yet still no one had managed to get a real sight of it, much less slay it. The only evidence of existence was the violence that it left, a wake of blood and fear to mark where it had been.

On the night of the thunderstorm, while tucked in our beds, we heard our horse scream. She had broken through the fence and into the yard, the donkey and sheep following after her, all braying and bleating and stampeding madly.

We were hustled out of bed and into coats and boots, then urged to run and close gates to the road and the forest, keeping the animals from running into the danger of traffic or the woods while our parents attempted to wrangle the frightened animals back towards the barnyard. The booming of thunder shook our very skin, and the lightening seem to fall close enough that it might strike us at any second. We thought perhaps it must have struck within the barnyard itself to have scared our horse so badly that she ran straight through the fence, uncaring of the wires that had surely cut at her.

We were each stationed under one of the large trees in the yard, from which point we were to shoo straying sheep back towards the herd as our parents attempted to direct it. It was from this station that I saw them: those bright yellow eyes, low to the ground, watching the madness from the far side of the barnyard.

I knew at once I had seen the beast. I tried to shout to my sisters, but my voice was lost to the din of the thunder and the unceasing fall of rain. I could do nothing but stare, backing up until I was pressed right up against the tree, watching the monster at it watched me, eyes seeming to glint with amusement at my fright.

I do not know how long I was locked there, frozen by its gaze, until it finally turned and disappeared into the sheets of rain that obscured the front field. As we were ushered inside and told to towel off while our parents made quick repairs to the fence, I walked in a haze, barely noticing as my sister rubbed a towel over my head, looking at me with worried eyes. I do not remember changing pajamas and climbing back into bed, only that I somehow arrived there to stare at the ceiling as I spent the rest of the night counting the beats between thunder and flash in an attempt to distracted myself from those mad yellow eyes that had stared at me like I was prey.

It was only when the storm broke, the thunder having grown more and more distant until fading entirely, that I finally drifted into an uneasy slumber, certain that even now I was being hunted. When the morning came with no new deaths in the barnyard, I knew that it was because the beast had already selected its next victim.

Now I was eager to be housebound, not even wanting to stray too far into the yard, worried that the second I let my guard up I too would be snatched and torn, left scattered across the grass for my family to find. I told my sisters about the beast and its eyes, and we spent hours gazing from the windows of the house, trying to catch a glimpse of the monster that was hunting me. Every journey into the outdoors was swift, even the journey from house to truck a careful venture, plotted and scouted before the undertaking. Reports from other farmers continued, but our flock remained untouched, the beast unwilling to settle for lesser prey from us.

It was mere days later that we heard it, our breakfast interrupted by an unnatural sound coming from the side field. It was an explosion of noise – yowling, growling barking yipping screeching – and while my sisters reported there was no clear view from any window, I did not even bother to get up. I knew what it must be. The beast had come for me at last. I trembled in my seat as the noises grew louder, and despite our mother’s assurances that whatever was outside could not harm us, I knew it was only a matter of time. Surely walls were no barrier to a creature who could make such noise. What good would my father’s shotgun do against so supernatural a beast?

Then just as suddenly, the noises stopped. We sat in unsure silence, waiting for a sign of what had happened, and what had ended it. When my parents finally ventured out to investigate, they found a dead fox in the field. It was scratched but not mutilated like the others, and my parents concluded that it must’ve encountered whatever was killing the animals, and put up enough of a fight to scare it off before succumbing to its injuries.

As soon as I saw its yellow eyes though, I knew it to be the beast that had terrorized us. Though larger than your average fox, it was still just a small, mangy looking thing. I wondered at how so little a creature bring so large a reign of terror, and at what had finally put a stop to it.

Sure enough, a week past, and no one reported any new killings. The fox-beast had been slain, I had been saved from its thirst for prey. Everyone relaxed their guard, surprised but pleased by the sudden end to the killings, not knowing like we did the true identity of the monster.

It was not until well into another week of the peace that it happened. Appearing on our porch one morning, our beloved Cat returned. She was thin and weary, missing a chunk of ear and her beautiful face marred with a large, gashing scar. As she purred in greeting, winding her way between our ankles, I scooped her up and cuddled her close, uncaring of allergies, and whispered praises into her brave little body. Cat had not fallen victim to the beast after all, but had listened to our warnings and disappeared to stalk it.
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We had told her of the danger that had hunted us, and she had made it her prey.