The sky would be lit with the echo of fire.

“Banish this evil from our realm for ever more, oh Lord, and aid us in our quest to battle the source of the curse that has inflicted our people.” A murmur of synchronized voices repeated the incantation after the priest. The fire spread, and wails of pain erupted from the prisoner. His legs began to blacken, and soon shrunk and curled. A stench of seared flesh permeated the air around the throng standing by to witness and take part in the ceremony.

“My Lord, this demon has taken the lives of seven of our loved ones.” Passion filled the priest’s voice as he spoke. “Without mercy he ripped the flesh from their bones and consumed it, staining his vile fangs with the blood of the innocent. Give us your blessing, Lord, as we grant this incarnation of utmost evil leave from this world. May the pain from these flames be but a glimpse of the eternal fires raging in the Hells that await this man. May we all rest easily knowing that this man has been punished for betraying the love of our God.”

“Praise be to our God,” the crowd chanted. “Praise be to our God. Praise be to our God.”

“Praise be to our God,” a lone man chanted with them, softly. “Praise be to our God,” his mind laughed with him.

You know, you should confess. I mean, you’re going to be discovered sooner or later anyway. Don’t you think it would be best if you absolved yourself of your sins before they kill you?

“Praise be to our God,” he mumbled. The screaming had ceased. Not much was left of the corpse at this point; the fire had even nearly burnt itself out. Words quickly began to die on peoples’ tongues. The deed was done; everything else was left to Our God. People wandered off, faraway looks in their eyes. No one actually liked seeing a man put to the flame. Torched was a better word. The man soon joined the others, and the corpse was left alone, blackened scraps of something silently flapping in the wind.

Benjamin, the man’s name had been, before today. Today and for a time to come it would have to be something else, just as it had been so many months ago when he had witnessed a ceremony of a similar kind, and months prior to that a similar ceremony. Every place he went a new wolf hunt began, and he was forced to leave. He simply couldn’t risk staying. With each passing moment, he more and more clearly envisioned him tied to that stake, the fires consuming his flesh while his cries of agony echoed over the heads of the spectators and into the lands beyond. The real victims weren’t those he had killed; they were those the denizens of every thorp and hamlet he lived in put to the fire, as they called it. Those deaths were his real sin, he supposed, but what could be done?

You’ll go to the Hells for thoughts like those. Give up, for the others’ sakes. It’s the right thing to do.

“Benjamin, you are a pious man,” a voice said suddenly from his side. An old woman was speaking to him, her head wrapped in a dirty shawl, her body clothed in rags. Tears stood in her eyes. “Will you offer a prayer for my son’s soul? Can you bring yourself to do such a thing?”

The man stared into her eyes, examined her face, committed it to memory. “I’m sorry,” he replied. “I must be going.”

A low moan escaped the woman’s mouth as the man turned and walked away, his eyes set on the road before him. Someone would find his house empty of himself, his things still placed as they had been, no sign of a struggle, and they would believe he had been spirited away. Just another aspect of the plague of curses spreading throughout the land.

A plague that, for a time, was called Benjamin.

“Moon’s gonna’ be full tonight,” a person was saying as Arthur walked by. The name would feel strange on his tongue for a few days, but such was the way of things, he supposed.

If it happens during the full moon, why don’t you go away? Lock yourself in a building somewhere far away, or flee to the deep woods. Why don’t you do that, and spare their lives?

“Excuse me, sir. Do you know of a place a traveler could stay for a night?”

The person looked toward Arthur, raising an eyebrow. “A traveler, you say? These are dangerous times to be traveling in. I was just tellin’ my friend here about the werewolves that’ve been popping up all over the countryside. You know anything about werewolves, traveler?”

You should tell someone. If you told someone, it would be out of your hands, finally.

“No, I don’t,” he replied. “What about a place to spend a night in?”

The peasant frowned at this dismissal, but nonetheless directed Arthur to a place he called The Townhouse, a bit further down the road, turn left at the village square, and it’s right next to the church. Arthur thanked him and continued on his way. The village wasn’t much to look at, but that might have been for the better. The less recognizable a place, the less he would miss leaving it. People often passed him a wary glance as he strode by, suspicious of the stranger wandering about during this time of deadly curses. Let them think what they would. Most of them would probably be dead soon, anyway. In regards to that, as well: such was the way of things. It certainly wouldn’t be his fault.

You can prevent it, you know. Why do you choose not to? I simply don’t understand your logic. Could it be you no longer believe the Priest’s words? You no longer believe the words of God?

Surprisingly, a smiling face greeted him at The Townhouse. He thought of smiling back, but he had forgotten the feel of his own face. “I’d like a room for the night,” he said to the corpulent woman who greeted him.

“Of course, sir. Of course. You’re my first guest in quite some time, actually, what with the curses and all. You can feel safe here, though. It’s been sanctified by the church. The only way any werewolves or vampires can get in here is if I let them in.”

Yellow eyes glowed in the moonlight. Smells of flesh were everywhere, delicious flesh, wonderful flesh. The moon gave him strength, but it made him so hungry. It called to him, told him to feast, to consume. Blood already stained his hands, coated his claws with its thick iron scent. Red drool slipped from the corner of his mouth. The woman who lay in front of him looked so tranquil. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was slightly open, as though moaning with a soft kind of pleasure. He placed a furred hand on her belly and pressed down with his fingers. Blood began to flow, and the woman opened her eyes, looking shocked. He ripped out her throat before she could scream. Terrified eyes watched him as he pulled out her innards with his claws and teeth, the woman’s blood flowing freely, soaking the bed beneath her. Soon, the eyes rolled back and the jaw went slack. Eat it while it’s still warm. That’s the best. Once it starts to get cold, just move on. You only have one night, after all.

The meat grew cold. He decided to move on.

Morning brought awful news for the people of the village; eight of their fellows were dead, having been ripped apart and eaten the night before. Werewolf was on everybody’s tongues, and a search began. Arthur decided to join in the search himself, though he knew he would never find anything. No one would, really, but someone would claim to, and again a false culprit would be sacrificed.

“It had to have been him!” the person who Arthur had met walking into town yelled, pointing a grimy finger at him. “He comes into town, and the next morning eight people are dead! It’s got to be him.”

“Jared, you know that’s impossible,” someone retorted. “Miss Holly is still alive. Why would he pass up the owner of the place he’s staying in? You know she sleeps right there, just outside of the main hall.”

“But, who else could it be?” Jared sputtered, looking wild-eyed.

“I don’t know, Jared. You seem pretty quick to blame people, yourself. It’s kind of suspicious, how you point out somebody else just like that. Almost like you’re trying to draw attention away from yourself, don’t you think?”

Jared’s eyes widened with fear as heads turned his way. His mouth gaped. He took several steps backwards. “What are you saying?” he cried. “Are you trying to say that it was me? That I’m a werewolf?” Jared knelt in the center of the road. “No!” he yelled. “It wasn’t me! You can’t believe that!”

“Jared, calm down,” someone else said. “He wasn’t serious. You’ve lived here your whole life, and this is the first werewolf incident ever. I don’t think it could be anyone from this village.”

Arthur ignored the commotion; something else caught his attention. Standing in the space between two houses was a young man with ruffled hair falling over his face, shadowing it. His hands were curled as though he were suffering from a great pain of some kind, and his chest rose heavily with each breath. He raised his eyes quickly, showing a flash of yellow, and darted off into the darkness. Arthur couldn’t help but feel taken aback. He didn’t expect to actually see him. At least, not yet. That must have been some kind of sign. It had to be.

“Traveler? You see something?” one of the townspeople asked.

He turned away from the alley. “No,” he replied. “Nothing important. Just a stray dog.” He supposed it wasn’t a complete lie.

But it was still a lie.

The towns-person eyed him warily, but turned away, probably thinking to continue searching in a different spot. Arthur watched him for a moment. Would he do the same thing? Sacrificing so many to save so few? The person turned to give him one more glance, and Arthur turned away. It was time to move on again, he supposed. At least he’d be able to stay in the next place for at least a month. He shook his head; he was everybody’s enemy, really. But... was it really so few?

Lycanthropy was a trait that could be passed down from father to son, father to daughter, mother to daughter, mother to son. When a child was born with this trait, that child’s soul was immediately targeted by the Devil: the one who ruled over the Hells. The Devil would push the child toward the violent side of his nature, until the child could no longer control himself. Every full moon, the pain of the transformation would awaken a rage inside of the child, causing a chain reaction inside his mind, until all semblance of normal thought would be erased and replaced with the Devil’s taint. The child would go berserk and kill everything in his path, without mercy. Arthur only survived because he was a man of God. He had protection.

If only there had been some sign before it got to that point. The Priest would have been able to help. But it was too late, and now here you are, in the same place you were back then; searching vainly for something that can’t be found. You can’t even communicate with the boy anymore! It’s foolish to try bringing him back to the light. You know it.

Clouds shrouded the world in their shadows. The small light from Arthur’s fire was the only thing visible for miles. He sat close to it, but somehow he couldn’t stop himself from continuing to shiver.

So many people dead because of your selfishness. Yes, he’s your son, but is he worth all of them? How could he be?

“It’s not just him,” he muttered. A cold breeze pushed the fire toward him, making him lean backwards to avoid being burned.

You’re worried about that village of them? They’ve held out this long, haven’t they?

When a real werewolf is killed, its true form is what is seen on the stake. If people see a real werewolf, the hunting will become serious: no longer this silly game of chasing phantoms being played right now. The world’s werewolf population would be decimated: even those who can control it, like the people in the village where he met his wife.

But wouldn’t it be better if they were all gone? Think of how many future lives would be saved if the trait of lycanthropy was eradicated. The Devil would lose his control.

Is there a difference between killing those people and letting other people die?

So what, then? You really think you can somehow save him? The Priest told you it was impossible.

How could anyone expect him to kill his own son? The boy would never understand. Rage against him would consume everything, and everything Arthur had done up until this point would be lost. If he could find some way to bring the boy’s soul back from the Devil’s grasp, none of that would have to happen.

But why not hide during the full moon, at least? Fewer people would die that way.

The only place to go was the country, and that would mean that he would be subjecting the farmers and their livestock to the werewolf’s wrath. Decimating the crops would bring famine, which would result in more deaths than one night of murders.

Is that so. Then, what do you have to do?

What....

What did he have to do?

A peal of thunder struck.

What did he have to do? That... was a difficult concept. Arthur stared into the fire. The old question had lost its magic with him. What he had to do was what he had to do. If that meant combating the Devil himself, he would do it. Maybe that was the answer: combating the Devil himself.

He remembered the old woman’s face. “Will you offer a prayer for my son’s soul? Can you bring yourself to do such a thing?” she had said. He hadn’t ever answered her.

Why is that?

Because... her son didn’t need his prayer. The old woman did, for allowing him to be taken. That was why he never answered her. But she had no idea that that was the case. How many were like her in this world? She was condemned without realizing it. Just like his son.

Then you know what to do.

He pulled a knife from his pocket and unsheathed it. The blade glinted in the fire. He took a deep breath, drawing deeper with the shock of the pain. Warmth flowed down his legs, soaking into his clothes, turning sticky. Why hadn’t he thought of this earlier? Combating the Devil....

For the first time in years, the man smiled. Now all he had to do was win.