Le diable au clair de lune

Note: This is for a Halloween newspaper contest, where I was commissioned to write the death of a Canadian trapper who wandered too far away from the French fort Ouiatenon in 1750 Indiana. It is unfortunately short, because I am only allowed to write a two-page story. Critiques and feedback are encouraged; I want to win!

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Le diable au clair de lune

My breath is white as it tears from my mouth, but sweat glows on my chest, neck, and face. “You’ll make a beautiful coat,” I whisper, the words bringing me confidence as I corner the anxious stag between two stands of trees. My numb hands fiercely grip a wire snare. The beast stares at me with black eyes. Its fur is silver amid the cobalt autumn air, the bows of its pale antlers are branches of ivory.

Fear, brewed with the thrill of the hunt, writhes in the pit of my gut. The blush of life from Ouiatenon is no longer tangible and I am revisited by native skin-walker legends and tales of the devil in the wilderness. I am frightened at the thought of how far I’ve followed the stag into foreign land. Nonetheless, my pride is a callous that dulls the throb of terror and the sharpness of the frigid wind. I cannot return to the fort empty-handed, not without the pelt that will yield so much coin.

In the blaze of the fat amber moon, I see a rusted leghold trap almost entirely concealed beneath fiery fallen leaves. Its iron is rusted—surely it has been here for years, abandoned by a hunter long ago. Keeping my eyes on the deer, I step around it. Losing a foot out here would be the death of me.

The hart trembles as I creep towards it—I can hear its lush pulse in the thin, icy air. Tightening my grip around the wire, I ready myself to loop the snare around the animal’s neck. It watches me with an odd, dark serenity. A malicious pleasure. Surely, I’m going mad from the cold. The tension is finally severed and the stag’s knees suddenly buckle. It falls upon the leaves, its great head and antlers scourging the dirt. For a moment, I’m convinced it has been shot. I hastily scan the bruised expanse of woods, but only stillness meets my eyes.

Breathless, I turn back to the deer to see it has been consumed with terrible convulsions. Its skin crawls over its crackling, popping bones, and its belly begins to swell. I am rooted to the ground, confusion and queer fascination urging me to see what is to be conceived from this nativity.

To my horror, its gut bursts apart and a vile stench possesses the woods. From the carcass, a spout of black blood is expelled, sweeping over the leaves like a shadow. Bile clings to my tongue and I stumble backward only to hear the telltale sound of iron snapping shut. The jaws of the leghold trap slice through the leather of my boot and my leg is ridden with raw, hideous pain. A ragged yell claws its way up my throat and I crouch to free my foot. Blood spills over the trap, painting red my fingers that tremble with iciness and desperation. I yank on the trap, only to find that it is anchored to a birch with chains.

I lift my frantic gaze to see two dark, twitching hands emerge from the deer’s hide. They draw back the covers of skin and are followed by a head, neck, and shoulders.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!

Indeed the foul hands of insanity construct this vision of a monstrosity slithering out from a stag and sprawling over the ground. I behold it entangled in the hart’s entrails and every remaining scrap of courage forsakes me. The abomination that rises from the mess of the deer’s corpse is a man only in form. He is tall, reedy, his dripping skin as black as pitch. His blistering eyes are alight with hell and his lipless mouth splits apart to reveal a fearsome, jagged grin.

“Someone! Help!” The hoarse, tattered words are swallowed by the forest and I am mocked by the echoes of a man crying to be saved. I clench my teeth and pull on the trap, prepared to rip my foot from my body if it costs me my life. The devil is naked, shuddering with a sinister glee. The moonlight paints his insidious leer a blazing copper. In a guttural voice, he moans, “You will make a beautiful coat.” But I scream, if only to avoid hearing those terrible words.