Roy heard a howl followed by a cackle off in the distance from where he entered the village—whether it was man or beast, he wasn’t sure. He froze, and held his breath momentarily to listen. After a few seconds of silence, his ears detected the sound of snapping wood. Connecting the origins of the noises, he could tell that whatever was out there had followed him to the village, but had strayed from his path soon after. Roy gave the intelligence of… whatever it was… the benefit of whatever doubt still lingered in his head, drawing to the conclusion that the first noise was intentional; however, the second noise was most likely a mistake. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the noise-makers made their move.

     The night following the execution at the village crossroads, while the rest of the village was sound asleep, two unexpected visitors arrived at the door of Hadley’s cabin.
     The rumble of the iron door knocker sent a tremor through the walls, invading Roy’s receding consciousness. As the front door opened, the exchange of air pressure jarred Roy’s bedroom door open a sliver, and a beam of candle glow shot through the moonlit blue of his room and into his eyes. This was a beckoning he couldn’t refuse. Roy crept towards his bedroom door and stood silently.
     From the darkness, Roy watched as his father greeted Councilman Rojj Bannajan and Cleric Harold Westerend with cold discontent. Their company didn’t last long, and with the exception of the cleric blessing the walls of the cabin and Bannajan checking the windows every few minutes, whatever was discussed was done so with low voices and discretion. As the two men set back out into the night, Hadley locked the door, and glanced to his son’s bedroom with what Roy felt was direct and knowing eye contact. As his father snuffed out the lights, Roy slipped back into bed.
     Roy was awakened the next morning by his father calling for him from the dining area. The sky outside was as still and dark as it was when Roy fell asleep. This was an unusual break from Roy’s typical morning routine, and he knew right then that it had something to do with the company from the night before.

     Roy ate breakfast as he watched his father clean a pair of long rifles along with his hunting pistol, which until then, still harbored a few dried drops of Clifford Farelhorn’s blood. To Roy, it looked as if his father had finally decided to bring his son along on his daily hunt—that was until the old man placed a small security trunk in front of Roy’s plate, opened the lid, and revealed a rolled sash of leather that Roy recognized with a dumbfounded expression on his face. It was because of this heavy roll of leather that Roy’s father hunted alone, Roy had always thought—it was because of the row of blackened hunting daggers, slotted in their sheaths, and rolled in the confines of this leather sash.
     A few years earlier, around the time of the year’s first snow, while hunting with his father, Roy exhibited his knife throwing technique—a skill that he had secretly developed using the sash of throwing knives in hopes of winning over his father’s typical dissatisfaction. Roy seized the opportunity to draw a knife from his coat when he noticed a lone stag aloof and grazing on a patch of low tree branches. If he couldn’t blame the throw on the cold, he would’ve blamed it on his father’s presence. Roy’s throw was a miss even before his release, catching the target in its left front hoof and not between its left eye and ear, as Roy had intended. The look of doubt and disgust on his old man’s face was one that Roy would never want to relive. To Roy’s surprise, but not so much to his father’s, the stag fell to the ground head first, as if the knife had found its intended target. Immediately upon hitting the ground, the animal’s body bloated, and hardened into a gray cocoon of ash before chunks of the dead animal cracked, crumbled, and trickled away into the wind.
     “We’re not hunting today, are we, father?” Roy asked before taking the last bite of his breakfast.
     “No, son,” The old giant replied.
     “Is this anything to do with Bannajan and Cleric Westerend coming over last night?” Roy continued to probe for answers.
     “So, you were awake.” Roy’s father said as he fastened the tie on his supply bag, “What did you hear?”
     “Nothing,” Roy replied, “I didn’t hear much. Was about yesterday, wasn’t it?”
     “Yes, it was.” His father answered.
     Suddenly it all became clear to Roy; the execution, last night’s visit, the guns, the knives—no doubt, the knives. They were going hunting, as a matter of fact. Just not in the traditional sense in which a man hunts for food. There were more of them out there like Clifford Farelhorn; more empty, soulless ghouls.
     “Why did they ask you to do this?” Roy stiffened in his chair.
     “Did you hear us, or not?” The old man chuckled to himself, knowing that his son was not a fool. “In times like these, we do what we’re told, ‘less you want to keep looking on for another place to live.”
     Roy’s father finished securing the last of his equipment and turned to his son, who was still sitting at the table in his pajamas.
     “Consider today a lesson in our people’s history.” The old giant spoke in a hollow tone, “Now, get ready. I’ll be waiting outside, getting the motor ready.”