Hellhound
You never could know what was in the woods just beyond the treeline.
Folk went missing all the time; it was no different in New River Gorge National Park. There was no shortage of explanations for it: bears, bobcats, or maybe they just got lost. The forest had a way of swallowing people up – bones and all. Course, the locals enjoyed a story or two of what could really be going on, you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who couldn’t tell you a tale of wildmen stealing babes from their cradles. Most dismissed these as tall tales, stories to keep the kids from wandering too far out of sight – good for a campfire but not much else. Stories like this had been around since people had lived there.
Though in recent years a new story popped up, and this one seemed a little different. Folk spoke about deer found dead, killed by a predator, seemingly, but not like one anyone had ever seen. Reports of fast, large shapes, a blaze of orange hair and fur, running through the trees. It moved like a man sometimes, a dog another, and it killed with a savagery said to be straight from the fiery pit.
The locals named him the Hellhound.
Winter was coming soon, and he needed to prepare. This is all he thought about. Food. Eat. Survival. He could smell everything, hear everything. Birds fluttered between the branches around him, opossums scurried nearby – the life of the forest had grown used to him and paid him no mind now.
He dipped his face into the cold stream and sucked up water; it dripped down his face. His reflection looked back at him, a mess of thick, matted red hair and a beard. Yet peering through were eyes, green eyes, human eyes.
He had a name, what was it?
No name, only hunt.
No, a name, a sound, something that meant me.
Food, need food, need kill. Nearby, not far.
I don’t need to eat.
We always need to eat.
He tilted his head to and fro; he heard the sounds of things moving through the brush. He took a deep breath through his nose, tasting the air. Yes, there, not too far, deer; they wanted to get to the stream but were waiting cautiously for him to move on. But then, to his other side, where he knew there to be a trail, he heard the telltale crunch of boots—people, a family, just a kilometer or so away.
They are the easier kill.
They are not prey.
Everything is prey.
His muscles tensed, he fought himself, his body wanted to move and pounce. Through the fog, he persisted, though much of himself felt lost, this thing he held onto. Bile churned in his stomach, and he nurtured the feeling – it grounded him. He turned away from the trail and towards where he smelt the deer.
He was on her before she could turn to run. He landed on her back, his arms securing her head in almost a choke-hold so he could pierce into her flesh with long canines. She died instantly, eyes still open in a moment of terror before the end.
He sat back on his haunches, licking the blood from his fangs. His body urged him to eat, to feed, and to move on.
No, there are others.
Only we matter.
No.
He pawed at his side, there stuck in what remained of a belt, he found a large bowie knife which he pulled free. With practised, deliberate movements, he cut open the corpse of the doe and separated the meat from the bones. The smell of blood and fresh meat assaulted him, his stomach pained with hunger, his mouth watered.
Feed.
Not yet.
He gathered the cuts of meat, using his jacket as a sack. He then carried these a practised route to a den he knew to be there. Trees marked with scratches and the scent of home guided him there. An alcove carved out of rock, sat next to a small, clear stream; the others had already come out to greet him with tails wagging.
There were five: Conan, Goll, and Oscar were wolfdogs; sons of strays, runts, probably would have starved if they hadn’t come together. Then there was Bran and Sceólang, a pair of large, sturdily built Irish Wolfhounds who had no earthly business being in an Appalachian woods, yet they took care of the rest and seemed smarter than they let on to be.
The three boys crowded around him, jumping and whining for the meat they could smell, while Bran and Sceólang remained attentive and patient, though their tails still wagged. After crossing the stream back closer to the entrance of their den, the meat was distributed evenly, with extra helpings to the small ones.
That was our kill.
There is enough for everyone.
Only we matter.
He sated the hungry voice by biting into his share of flesh. His fangs tore the meat apart like it was nothing, and blood trickled down his copper beard. The beast was satiated, for the moment.
A furry head bumped his arm. Sceólang, she looked at him with large, intelligent eyes. What was the matter? Nothing, why would it be? They were fed, they were safe, they were left alone.
He heard it again, the sound of men, stumbling through the brush. They were closer. Why were they closer? He could hear their voices now, calling, for what? Calling out… a name?
A threat.
No.
He rose to his feet, signalling the pack to remain there. He stalked through the brush, extremely silent for such a large creature. He could see them now, two adults, a man and a woman. There was the smell of another, one he could not see, a smaller one. A child. They had lost their child.
Something churned within him, a memory, another lost child.
We are not lost.
The woman was crying. He remembered another one's tears. The husband tried to console her. Help would be on the way soon.
He sniffed. She was not nearby; her scent had fled along with… others. Why had he not noticed them? They smelt of sweat, moonshine… and a different sort of hunger.
He retreated now, back to the cave. The pack was inside, he remained by the stream, dipping his face in. Water cascaded down his long ginger locks, washing the blood off of him. He stared at his reflection in the water. He could still remember a woman crying… crying out his name.
No
It was a name… my name.
No
Conchobar
No!
Connor blinked awake, the beast fading into a dream. It was like waking from a fog; everything was sharper and clearer now. Connor, his name was Connor… and he was filthy. He ran his fingers through his hair; it was greasy and tangled in lumps. He huffed and wasted no time in wading into the deep part of the stream, dunking his head in and washing away the layers of grease, dirt, and blood.
He came up gasping for air and felt alive again, his hair cleaner than it had been in months. He waded to the shore, and there was Sceólang again, looking at him curiously. Connor smiled.
“Hey girl,” he said. It was the first time either of them had heard his voice in months, hoarse, deep, but gentle all the same.
Sceólang jumped with excitement, wagging her tail and licking his face. Connor laughed and rubbed her head. The rest of the pack heard the noise and came running, and Connor was nearly tackled back into the water.
They were interrupted by the loud sound of helicopters, and they all dashed back into the cave. They roared overhead; this wasn’t the first time Connor had seen a search like this. Especially for a child.
“Away, away,” he said to the pack. They needed to get out of the area for now. Even if they weren’t responsible, it wouldn’t do for them to be caught out here. Rangers weren’t too fond of wild dogs.
Sceólang gave a final lick to Connors face, and Bran came forward with something in his mouth. At first, Connor thought it was a large stick, but as he took it, he felt the familiar weight. He wiped away the dirt and mud to reveal a leather scabbard.
A gift from an old friend, Connor pulled the sword just an inch out of its sheath. It was as sharp and gleaming as it was the day he was given it.
“Thank you, away now,” he said, and the pack was gone.
The sound of helicopters faded away, and Connor poked his head out. He took the time to wash more thoroughly in the stream, and he even found spare clothes that weren’t so dirty and torn.
Connor strapped the sword to his back and was going to make himself scarce, but something stopped him. The smell of the little girl, the sound of his mother… these things whirled in his mind. There, in a mist-filled sight in his mind's eye, he saw the silhouette of the child. Two men, one clamped his hand over her mouth, and they dragged her away in an instant. Only the tears of her mother as the only evidence she existed at all.
A growl escaped his throat, a sound of frustration and resignation, because he couldn’t run away. Not when he could help. He convinced himself it would be simple, but he knew it could not be. He inhaled the air sharply, and he trailed close to the ground.
The girl smelt of berries and lavender soap. This was masked under the heavy scent of stale moonshine. Such a scent would fade quickly - Connor quickened his pace. He nimbly ran along a game trail, his hands digging into the ground as he hunched over on all fours, his bones cracking and realigning themselves to better fit his body into this movement. In a moment, he morphed into more beast than man, and he bound through the forest effortlessly fast.
The helicopters grew in number: there were people gathering, searching. They were far away from where the scent lay - perhaps they could pick up the trail. But Connor was faster, and this was his forest.
It wasn't the first time folk had intruded in his territory. Vague memories cloaked in mist stirred in his mind, the taste of blood, the screams of dead men. Poachers mostly, but Connor knew there were others, ones that strayed too far, ones that he could not help but lash out at. His heart felt so heavy.
It was needed.
Connor shook his head free of distraction and continued along the scent trail. It was fading and fading fast. Whoever they were attempted to cross a river - potentially to throw off scent dogs. This did little to deter Connor though.
Still the scents faded sharply, and he began to worry he may lose it. That was when he came by a small dilapidated cabin. It was much more than a shed or hunters hut - thin plywood walls and a rusted steel roof. But the scent led there.
No one was here, Connor would have smelt them immediately, but they had been here recently. He pushed open the plywood door; the floor was scraped and dirty, Connor knelt to the ground now inhaling; he ran his hands along the markings in the wood and held his ear to the ground. Senses and sights swirled in his mind, of things he did not see but happened not long past.
They stopped, the girl was making too much noise; she was a fighter. One of them wrestled her to the ground, frustrated, his sweat dripped onto the floor and he spat in anger. The other chastised him and took a bottle hidden under some rags, chemicals that stank — they rubbed into rags and pressed into the girls mouth; she choked before passing out.
She was thrown over a shoulder, they argued some more as they exited the shack. Connor skulked their trail, it led until the trees thinned and gave way to an opening with a gravel road where a truck awaited. The girl was tossed in the back and the truck took off down the road.
Connor traced the faint depression of tire tracks in the gravel. In a vehicle they were long gone with little hope of anyone finding them. The sharp talons on the end of his fingers displaces the gravel as he pulled his hand along it. His mind focused in on the scent and tracks - his prey was getting away.
Heading straight they'd likely be heading towards Mt. Hope, they would want to offload their catch as quickly as possible. There was plenty of warehouses in between here and there; ideal for such things - Connor would have to move fast to catch them.
A memory floated in his mind, and he moved from the road just off into a small depression in the ground. There covered in plant growth was an old Ford Bronco, its owner was long gone — a pang of guilt followed this memory but Connor pushed past it. He pulled the growth free from the vehicle and with ease he pulled it out of the ditch and onto flat ground.
He squeezed into it, the truck not really designed for someone his size. The keys still hung in the ignition, Connor stared at them for a while trying to remember how these things worked. He turned it one way, there was some beeping and the lights turned on, then he turned it the other way and the engine spluttered and whined. Black smoke spluttered from under the hood and it kicked up a noise something fierce.
Eventually with a screeching and whining noise the engine spun to life, Connor gripped the wheel — he'd seen people do that — he looked down at the pedals and pressed his foot into one of them. The vehicle immediately lurched backwards and slammed roughly into a tree, the back window cracked.
"Oh," Connor said. He looked around, there was some sort of lever, it was pointed backwards. He gripped it and pushed it forward with a grinding noise, he pressed the pedal again and the truck lurched forward. Connor slammed roughly into the steering wheel, the horn sounded loudly.
After much trial and error Connor had the thing jerking and bumping down the road at a steady pace, it wasn't terribly fast but it was faster than Connor could run for this long of a distance. It was a mercifully straight road from gravel to paved backroad.
He still had their scent, and even in a car his mind wouldn't let the trail go. Though her was so focused on it that he'd forget what he was doing and nearly drive right off the road. It was a losing battle, and somewhat inevitable when he ended up slamming the front of the truck none too gently into a utility pole.
Connor sat there for a moment before heaving a sigh, he squeezed himself out of the truck. He stuck his nose into the air and took heavy gulps of air, he still and them, in the shadow of his mind. But it was weak, he growled to himself in frustration. Saliva foamed in his mouth and dripped down his long canines, his fingers flexed and his claws extended.
Ours. Prey. Hunt. Nearby.
He sniffed the air again, it was faint, faint enough that most would have missed it. But he didn't. Seven now; the scent had thickened — sweat and oil, beneath it a fragile flutter. The girls heartbeat trembled in the distance, barely aware, but frightened.
The sound of her pulse guided him from the road and into the trees, each footfall grew more quiet and deliberate; branches slipped by him silently. He crested a shallow rise and came to see a warehouse, its windows leaking pale beams of light into the dark. The sun had long since died, the moon now rose above full and illuminating the land in silver glow.
Something inside him shifted, hunger reared its head. The Hunt had begun.
He descended the hill in long silent bounds, his feet landed softly, his breathing slowed. When he reached the outer wall he felt a familiar slip, like stepping back into the dream; and now the beast was awake. Hot blood moved beneath his skin, his mouth filled with saliva; he swallowed against it and tasted shame.
Just the barest moment of resistance, fear, but his muscles were already coiling and he leaps high and he caught the edge of the roof with inhuman ease. He pulled himself up and lay still for a moment listening — inside he could hear speaking, boots against concrete, a nervous laugh, the click of a weapon being adjusted.
And there was the girl again, her heart too fast and too fragile, he could smell her terror and it smelt like food. He moved to one of the roof windows now and he could spot them, the two men who he'd tracked here. Five more now, smelt different, but equally as guilty. They were speaking, negotiating, the words meant nothing to Connor anymore.
He fell forward, crashing through the window in a shower of glass and came to land with a heavy thud right in between the men. They all now looked in fear at his creature of the night who slowly stood up towering above them — a growl echoed from him and the moonlight caught his fangs, his claws, and the glitter of his longsword as it was pulled from its sheath.
Just as one of them had the mind to raise his weapon was when his head was removed from his shoulders. The sword glittered in an arc of steel and blood; Connor followed his own momentum and thrust his off hand forward to grab at the adjacent man. He screamed as Connors claws ripped into his scalp and he was lifted into the air effortlessly and thrown into the three remaining men who were sent tumbling to the ground screaming and weeping.
Bullets were fired wildly and they ricocheted and sparked around Connor, none landing. He stalked forward; and his blade sunk into the nearest man effortlessly — he died with his blood filling his throat in a choking gurgle of a final breath. Connor left his sword in his chest; the second man pulled his trigger again and again his pistol clicking uselessly until Connor shoved him to the floor and snapped his neck with a swift stomp and twist.
The final man had been caught under the man Connor had thrown, his leg broken he was attempting to crawl away. Connor grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him back, the man cried and screamed, fingernails scratching into the floor.
"No, please oh God please no, no! Please!" he begged as Connor took his head in both his hands. His jaw clicked and the boned unhinged themselves as his jaw extended open wide and formed around the man's skull. He screamed and screamed and screamed until Connors fangs pierced through his skull, cracking it open like and egg. Blood flooded his mouth and the sweet taste of flesh graced his tongue as Connor jerked his head away and tore free the man's face.
He chewed once, just once, acting on instinct. The fire in his stomach growled with hunger and urged him to feed; but that's when he saw out of the corner of his eye the smallest light that could be seen in the darkness. Just the barest hint of the moonlight reflecting off of the little girl's strawberry hair, her wide eyes looked at him in fear.
He turned away, in shame. He felt himself tense; his body urged him one way while his mind acting in another.
Eat.
Feed.
Connor pressed his hands into his face, smearing the blood all over himself. He forced his jaw back open and let the flesh, bone, and brain matter fall out. He wiped the blood from his face best he could and turned back to the gril, she still sat there, curled up into a ball, her giant brown eyes staring at Connor.
He approached slowly, trying to make himself smaller. His stomach growled, he was starving — his legs and back tensed, his fingers flexed, he swallowed growls and choked on them.
Pounce.
Prey.
Eat.
It took a long time before he could speak, before he trusted himself to speak. Before he could look at this child and not see food.
"I'm a friend," Connor said softly. "I won't hurt you I promise."
He offered his hand, she stared at it for a long while, despite his efforts there were still flecks of blood on him. Yet after a long moment her small hand took his large one.
She was too weak to walk, Connor carried her like a baby out of the warehouse and away from the carnage. Stopping only to retrieve his sword. She never said a word, only stared up at him with wide eyes like she couldn't tell he was real.Conner walked a long ways back the way he came, it was still dark out yet it was not long before he could hear the distinct sounds of search parties in the distance. They had continued searching into the night, unwilling to accept that the girl was gone.
Once they were close enough for flashlights to be seen Connor set the girl down in the open, she watched him even as he faded away into the forest.
The searchers would find her and her mother would cry and hug her tight. Police would of course ask what happened and eventually they'd come across the warehouse and the eviscerated remains of the men. The girl offered an explanation, but it didn't make sense, because she said the Hellhound saved her but surely that was the work of her imagination.
Federal officials got involved, there were mentions of connections to a trafficking ring yet this talk was quickly snuffed out and hushed. The bodies of the men were collected and no autopsy was ever published publicly, the details of what happened never reached the wider public. Rumours floated about, and internet sleuths spun theories on forums and message boards all of them jumping on every theory imaginable including the girls mention of the mysterious Hellhound.
To the locals and especially the family, they were happy she was safe. And for a while at least they were more cautious and even respectful of the forest, they'd say to give any sign of wild dogs a wide respectful birth and not to hunt in certain areas. But it was not out of fear, it was out of thanks.
