FERAL AMOUR

The book Sarah Cayce was reading failed to hold her attention. In the autumn of her years she would usher in the twentieth century alone as she had all the other nights of her colorless life.

Memories of a wasted life gnawed at her soul as sure as any cancer would consume her flesh. Sarah harbored a particular resentment towards her father for dragging her and her mother from their New England home to the Pacific Northwest at the end of the Civil War. Sarah was all that remained of her family.

She lay on the bed in her robe with her back propped up with pillows and a quilt tossed loosely over her legs. In a florid manner, Sarah Cayce was an attractive woman in her middle forties. The demands of keeping on top of farm chores made it difficult to determine her true age.

Sarah's peace was rudely interrupted by a thunderous crash of splintering wood and the agonizing shriek of Sam, the swayback gelding out in the barn. The book dropped from her hand and fell to the floor. Several moments of skin-tingling anticipation passed before she could move. Sarah Cayce sat up on the side of the bed and strained to listen. Her skin became gooseflesh and she felt each hair rise on her nape. A crypt-like silence shrouded the bedroom. Moments later there was a low-pitched guttural bellow, followed by another, and then another.

The somber reality of her seclusion seized Sarah by the throat. It was five miles to the nearest neighbor; even further to the borough. She spent much of the winter wondering if she had made a mistake by not taking an offer from her neighbor, Jeremiah O'Reilly, to sell the place last August.

Sarah jumped to her feet, hurried across the bedroom and removed the double-barreled shotgun from the rack above the fireplace. She broke open the breech of the weapon to confirm that it was loaded. Propping the gun up against the wall, she slipped nervously into her fur-lined boots and donned the cumbersome buffalo skin parka over her night robe, tying it firmly around her waist. She grabbed the shotgun and hurried over to the door. With tremulous fingers grasping the handle, she paused for a moment and pondered if she should do this during the depth of the night. She gazed through her apparition-like reflection on the frosted glass pane of the door.

Sarah opened the door and squinted towards the barn. Sheets of falling snow prevented a clear look. With her right hand on the trigger, and her left holding the gun barrels and the wire handle of a kerosene lantern wedged tightly in between, Sarah started to descend the four icy porch steps. A sudden gust of wind slammed the farmhouse door shut, nearly frightening her clean out of her boots.

She could see the unlit barn ahead to the right about a hundred yards. Partially concealed in the shadows of the night, it looked foreboding and demonic. Sarah maneuvered cautiously forward, wading through the knee-deep snow, wishing that she had taken the time to put on her overalls. She wanted to increase the stride, but her cold-stiffened legs and the deep snow wouldn't permit it. The trod of her boots crunching in the snow was loud. It gave her an eerie feeling of being followed. Several times she glanced over her shoulder to see if something sinister was sneaking up on her from behind.

The night wind howled in a low hypnotic wail and bit at her cheeks and nose. The exposed hand on the trigger guard became numb as she approached the shadow-obscured threshold of the dilapidated barn. Sarah stopped and looked around from side to side and then behind her. No apparent danger manifested itself, but there was a peculiar saline smell that reminded her of the Puget Sound at low tide when the receding sea left behind its refuse.

The cascading snow thickened.
The sudden loud scream of an animal to her right, from the tree line dividing the forest from the pasture startled her. Sarah whirled around to face the cry. A fox, Sarah thought, must have captured a hare.

Above the front entrance to the barn, the loft door had jimmied loose and was squeaking back and forth in the wind on a single hinge. For a moment Sarah thought she saw the dark loom of a great body pass by the opening. The glimpse was so brief she convinced herself it was only her imagination playing tricks on her. Slowly she closed the remaining distance to the anterior door. The wooden peg was still in place, firmly latching the door. She reached for it and then hesitated a moment.

Since she was a young child, Sarah loathed going inside the spooky old barn even during daylight, but at night, it required a special measure of fortitude. A sudden flashback of her father hanging himself in the loft, reminded her why she despised the barn.
"Sam," she called calmly to the horse, as if speaking to a frightened child, "are you all right in there?"

Sarah expected no answer and got none. Putting her ear to a crack in the door, she tried to listen above the soft caterwaul of the wind. She could barely make out a faint, but rapid dripping sound coming from inside the barn.

Sarah removed the dowel and let the barn door slowly creak open on its own and then stepped through the entrance. Something torrid and loathsome like the fetor of gangrene permeated the air and filled her nostrils. The rankness was nauseating. She fell to her hands and knees and began choking uncontrollably with dry heaves.

Grasping a timber for support and fighting the urge to vomit, Sarah pulled herself up. Only then did she see a portion of the side wall ripped away that was large enough to drive a buckboard through.

Cocking both hammers on the shotgun, she had a chilling awareness of another presence. Sarah's deepening terror was made all the worse by the poor visibility inside the catacomb-dark barn. Quickly she turned about to face the dripping sound. Holding the lantern up, she dared to scan the limited range of its weak light.

Never before had she known such unnerving fear. She became short of breath and her mouth was as dry as venerated ash. Her heart palpitated laboriously. Every fiber of her existence told her to run, but the false kind of courage that comes from having a firearm in hand, prevailed.

Onward, ever...so...slowly Sarah Cayce inched towards the dripping sound, weapon at the ready and the lantern hanging from her left arm. Ever present was the fetid stench and the urge to throw up. Nearly half way inside the barn she stepped on something wet and squishy that made a sickening sound. Her heart nearly ceased when she saw it was one of many gobbets of flesh strewn about. A few feet ahead she saw a massive puddle of gelatinous blood glistening in the faint light of the lantern. She held the lantern above her head, searching for the source and discovered the slow seeping of blood came from in between the boards which made up the loft floor. Bewildered and confused, she knelt down for a closer look at the black-as-pitch pool of arterial fluid. The image of several bits of hair and hide drifting about in it made her gag and turn away.

Too late, she sensed a fleet, catlike movement above and behind her. Too late, she knew with nauseating certainty she was not alone. Terror as deep as Hades' pit tightened the flesh across the backside of her neck and sent cutting chills trailing down her spine.
Sarah Cayce did not see the huge taloned hand reaching down from the loft until callous, bony fingers were upon her, probing her, squeezing her left arm and shoulder. Sarah felt searing pain as the bones shattered like fine china. The lantern slipped from her grip. The shotgun fell from her hand and discharged into a bale of hay.

She felt lightheaded and queasy as it hoisted her up into the void. The waning lantern faintly reflected the murderous glint of two large baleful eyes and the enamel sheen of serrated teeth. Its breath was hot and reeked of rotting flesh.
Sarah tried to scream, but the noise only froze on her terror-contorted face and never escaped beyond her lips. As it pulled her closer and closer to its mouth, the floor of the loft gave way a foot or so with a jolt. The beast swayed backwards and released her, as it needed both of its hands free to regain its balance.

Sarah fell to the floor on her backside. The wind knocked out of her, she reached for the fading lantern. The pain from the compound fractures in her left shoulder and arm was agonizing. Every effort to move was like being sliced with a knife.
The lantern slowly became brighter, dimly illuminating the monstrosity salivating above her. Never in her worst nightmares she had seen such an awful creature. The withered visage was bare and looked almost human, resembling a man of immense age. A sequence of black veins wormed their way underneath the facial skin and disappeared into its short stocky neck. A shudder of fear and terror seized Sarah.

Man-shaped in most respects, its body was covered with dark, dirty, gray hair. The beast just hunkered there at the edge of the loft, squatting on its heels glowering down at her. It made a queer low cooing sound and then hissed angrily.
It moved along the lip of the loft with the quickness and fluidity of a stalking animal, never taking its eyes off her.
Sarah saw the shotgun lying on the floor a few feet away.
She crawled on her side towards the weapon, dragging the lantern along as she went. The pain was unbearable as the splintered bones in her shoulder cleaved the flesh.

The creature leaped down from the loft and landed on all fours as quietly and as graceful as a cat, five or six yards away from Sarah. It sat there on its haunches, watching her with no apparent concern she might escape. It picked up off the stable floor several strands of straw soaked with Sarah's blood and sniffed at them. A primordial urge it had not felt in eons began to stir within and heat the blood in its veins.
It no longer thought of Sarah Cayce as a potential meal.

Sarah stretched her uninjured arm out to the shotgun. Her fingers were upon it. She could feel the smooth resinous wood of the butt. Reaching further, she felt the hammers. A great surge of hope enveloped her when she discovered that one of the hammers was still cocked.

Sarah sat upright. She could not move her left arm. It throbbed with pain. Blood oozed from where bone fragments jutted through the skin. She pulled the shotgun closer to her by the small of the stock and wedged it under her armpit. The weapon was heavy and clumsy to handle with one hand. Drawing her knees in closer to her chest, she rested the barrels in between them and pointed it at the crouching nightmare in front of her. Whatever this man-shaped creature was, it was unmistakably male. As it squatted there sniffing straw in front of her, the brute's testicles hung down like swollen ripe grapefruit, nearly touching the ground. Sarah aimed the shotgun where it would cause her tormentor the most grief.

"I've got you now...you stinkin' varmint!" exclaimed Sarah, pulling the trigger.
The resounding metal snap of the hammer striking the firing pin echoed throughout the barn.
"Oh my God!" she cried. "No! Not a misfire! Not now!"
The man-beast stood up erect on two powerful piston-like legs and hissed at Sarah. It towered over her by at least twice her own height. Its wonder-provoking physique, denoting unspeakable strength, was dynamic and redwood-solid. Bending over slightly, it opened its arms wide and moved slowly towards her. Its talons were inches long and looked like little butcher knives. Still on her backside, Sarah tried to match the creature's advance by sliding backwards on her behind.

She lifted the lantern over her head by its wire handle and smashed it on the straw covered sod floor between her and the advancing beast.
The kerosene splashed from the lantern and quickly ignited a fire between Sarah and her tormentor. The creature stepped back, shielding its face from the light with its massive hands.
It backed up a few more strides and then turned around and sprinted out of the barn the way it had entered earlier.

Sarah's relief was short lived. She soon realized that she was in danger of burning to death in the barn. The fire had spread to the support beams and into the loft.
Using the shotgun as a support, Sarah rose to her feet. The pain in her left shoulder and arm intensified with each movement of her body. Her right ankle was tender. She limped to the entrance and stepped outside into the fresh cold air. Turning around, she watched the flames overwhelm and consume the barn. The unquenchable inferno illuminated the countryside for miles around.

Sarah twirled around with a fright to face the dark forest.
"You're still out there, aren't you?" she said with unparalleled certainty, "you stinkin' bastard. But you're 'fraid of the fire."
Sarah felt safe near the fire. She hoped that the light would draw the attention of her distant neighbors, the O'Reilly family, or a passing trapper.

Sarah Cayce sensed an urgency to get to the house before the fire died out. She had no feeling in her left arm except for a dull throbbing. Once inside the house, she could reload the shotgun, tend to her injuries and wait for help. She knew deep within herself the awful creature who hurt her was still lurking about, waiting for an opportunity to get her.

The night sky had cleared and the rising moon cast a dim light over the valley. Sarah saw the faint snow-filled imprints of her earlier tracks leading from the house. She started to follow them back, using the shotgun as a crutch.
A little over halfway to the house she stopped. A lump of fear swelled in her throat. Sarah had a chilling sensation that something was coming up from behind her. She was right.

Glancing over her shoulder, Sarah saw the man-beast walking toward her with great strides. The stinking hairy thing closed the distance between them at an incredible pace. It was nearly on her when she tried to swing the shotgun around with her uninjured arm, but it was too heavy and she was too weak to get any leverage. The shotgun fell behind Sarah as the brute reached for her.

It grabbed her by the front lapel of her buffalo skin overcoat and lifted her up to eye level. Sarah spit in its face. A demonic grin appeared, exposing its terrible array of teeth. The hunger in the glint of its eyes was not a hunger for sustenance. Sarah could clearly see the brute had something else entirely different on its feral mind.

With all the strength she could summon, Sarah swung her dangling legs backwards like a pendulum and then forward, driving both feet as hard as she could into the groin of the man-beast. At first there was no reaction. She thought her efforts were in vain. But then the ridiculous grin suddenly disappeared from his face. His eyes widened by almost twice their size. He dropped her into the snow and placed both hands between his legs; he fell to his knees and began howling in pain. Even on his knees he was taller than her. Sarah stood up, backed away and pulled the shotgun from the snow. She wanted to throttle him on the head with the barrel of the shotgun, but realized that she did not have enough energy to hurt him. Instead, she chose to make good her flight to the house. As Sarah hobbled away, the creature tried to stand up, but fell off to one side, still howling and continuing to hold his hands between his legs as if trying to make the pain go away.

After Sarah climbed up the front porch steps, to her great satisfaction, she saw the man-beast was still lying in the snow howling in agonized spasms. She entered the house and locked the door behind her.
"Got to reload! Got to reload!" she muttered to herself, jerking drawers out from an old roll-top desk, dumping the contents out on the floor.

At last she found an unopened box of shotgun shells. She looked up and out the window. The howling had ceased and the brute was gone. Hurriedly she ripped the top off the box. It slipped from her grasp and the cartridges spilled onto the floor. Sarah knelt down and grabbed a pair of them. Breaking open the breech, she ejected the spent cartridge and the dud. She could not see light through the barrels. Both were plugged with snow and debris from the barn. Had she fired the shotgun in that condition, it would have blown up in her face for sure.

Exhausted, Sarah sat down on the floor adjacent to the fireplace and rested her back against the wall. She banged the gun barrels on the stone frame of the fireplace several times, dislodging the crud stuck inside. After inserting two fresh rounds, she placed the business end of the firearm between her feet and snapped the breech closed with her right hand.

She pulled the lapel of her coat back and tried to look at her shoulder and arm to see if there was anything she could do for her injuries. The bleeding had stopped, but broken bone had sliced through the skin in at least two places.
Sarah slipped in and out of a fitful dream-state. Uncertain if whether she wanted to unload both barrels on the brute, or if for some other incomprehensibly dark and inner awareness, she longed that he would appear through the door.

As sudden as sin and as if from nowhere, he was standing over her, hunched, as the room was not vast enough to give his massive surreal physique proper scope. It seemed as if for one moment she was alone...and the next, he was just there. The callous night wind howled through the open door and dimmed the light. She pointed the weapon at his chest. A fool blinded by love could not miss at that range. He made no effort to thwart the threat.

At daylight Sarah awoke with a start. She tried to get up, but was unable.
"Hello in there!" yelled a man's voice from outside. "Are you in there, Sarah Cayce?"
"Yes! Yes!" replied Sarah. It was Jeremiah O'Reilly. "I need help! Please help me!"
The door swung open and O'Reilly stepped inside, a beaver skin overcoat covering most of his stocky frame. Drool in his whaler's beard had turned to ice and hung from the whiskers like diminutive Christmas tree ornaments. Two of his teenaged sons were standing behind him, gawking, trying to look inside.

"What has happened here?" he asked. "The fire from the barn lit up most of the valley."
She didn't answer.
O'Reilly saw the blood-soaked left sleeve of Sarah's coat. He knelt down and lifted the front of the coat. He cringed when he saw several pieces of jagged bone that had sliced through the shoulder and arm portion of her nightgown.

"The bone is stickin' out," Sarah said.
"Yes, I can see that."
"I think the bleeding has stopped."
"We have to get you to town right away, Sarah Cayce." The urgency in his tone was evident.

O'Reilly buttoned up her coat and motioned to each of his sons to give him a hand.
"We'll put you in the sleigh and take you into town," he said. "A woman alone out here is not good. Will you reconsider my offer?"
"No," she said, smiling. "More than ever...no."
O'Reilly was taken aback. In all the years he had known Sarah Cayce, he couldn't recall a single time he had seen her smile.

The man-beast stood concealed in the tree line, watching the horse-drawn sleigh leave the farm. His survival instincts cried out that he flee to the safety of the high country, but a much stronger, primeval inner urge demanded that he stay...and wait for her return.