No Neighbors Here

Trevor's hands were tied tight to a splintered wooden chair. Each movement drove another shard of wood into his skin. His legs were bound too, cutting off any hope of escape. Above him, a hole in the roof spilled in the last rays of sunlight, blinding him as dust floated through the air. He coughed, tasting grit.

He could barely see the room around him – just the faint beam of light spotlighting his helpless body. His head throbbed. When he reached up as far as the ropes allowed, he felt a swollen lump near his temple, sticky with dried blood. Crimson droplets freckled the floor beneath him.

What happened?

The front door slid open with a mechanical groan. Heavy footsteps echoed closer. A stench of moonshine and cigarettes filled the air, making Trevor gag. He hated the smell of smoke, but he had no choice but to endure it.

“Howdy,” came a deep, gravelly voice.

The man stepped into the light – tall, broad, dressed like a cowboy straight out of an old Western. A battered hat shadowed his face, and in one arm he cradled a shotgun. In the other, a cigarette glowed red at the tip, briefly illuminating his gray-streaked beard and crooked teeth.

Trevor flinched as the man exhaled a cloud of smoke toward him.

“What do you want?” Trevor demanded.

“That ain't much of a greeting, partner,” the man said with a smirk. “Figured I'd bring you somewhere safe for a little chat. Better here than out in those woods you were prowlin'.”

“I'm your neighbor!” Trevor snapped. “You kidnapped me off my own property, you son of a-”

“Whoa there.” the man cut him off before the curse could finish. “I ain't got no neighbors. And surely not some fancy city boy like you.”

He flicked ashes onto Trevor's trousers. Trevor tried to brush them of but couldn't move his arms.

“I just moved in.” Trevor said.

“Bull.” The man took another drag. “Ain't no one moves in 'round here without me hearin' about it. And what's a fella like you doin' wanderin' the woods in a suit?” He jabbed the cigarette toward Trevor's chest, letting more ash fall.

Trevor clenched his jaw. “Stop it.”

“Or what?” The man's grin widened. “You gonna sue me, city boy?” He chuckled low in his throat.

Trevor studied his captor – broad shoulders, corded muscle, the look of a man who'd worked the land all his life. He wouldn't stand a chance in a fight. Best to stay calm.

“Look,” Trevor said carefully. “If it's money you want, I have plenty. Let me go and we can work something out, Mr...?”

“Filgan. Arthur Filgan.” He extended a hand, then laughed when Trevor couldn't return the gesture. “Rude not to shake, ain't it?” Guess they don't teach manners in the city.”

“What do you want?” Trevor repeated, voice shaking. Through the hole above, the setting sun dimmed to red. A raindrop splashed onto his cheek. The storm was coming.

Arthur's tone turned almost philosophical. “What does any man want? If a man's got no hunger, he's already dead inside.”

Trevor frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Arthur circled behind the chair, boots thudding against the warped floor. “Don't play dumb. You know exactly what I mean.”

“I don't. I'm just your new-”

Arthur shoved the lit cigarette into Trevor's neck. Trevor screamed as the searing heat burned through his skin.

“I told you boy,” Arthur growled. “You ain't no neighbor of mine. Word gets 'round these parts, and I ain't heard nothin' about you.”

Trevor gasped through the pain. “Maybe your rumor mill's just slow out here!”

Arthur dragged the cigarette down Trevor's neck, leaving a smoking trail of agony. “You'd best not get smart with me. Whether you live or die tonight's up to you.”

“What do you want?” Trevor stammered. Rain began dripping through the roof, hitting his face and mixing with blood.

Arthur glanced upward. “Storm's comin. Good. Means we're almost outta time.”

“Time for what?”

“You know darn well.” Arthur said. “Two of my best hounds went missin'. I heard 'em yelpin' out there in the woods – and then I see you, covered in blood, struttin' through the tress like nothin' happened.”

“I was attacked - “

“My dogs don't attack nobody unless they're trespassin'!”

“I wasn't! I own the house!”

“You keep sayin' that. Don't make it true.”

“Listen,” Trevor pleaded, “my car broke down. I was walking home from work, all right? My phone died – that's why I couldn't call for help.”

Arthur grunted, unimpressed. “Well, ain't you just full of bad luck tonight.” He lit another cigarette and rested the shotgun against his leg.

“Check my coat pocked,” Trevor said. “You'll see my phone. It's dead!”

“I ain't fool enough to get close,” Arthur said. “Not with the moon comin' up.”

Trevor blinked. “The moon?”

Arthur laughed, a low, rumbling sound. “Don't play dumb, boy. I know what you are.”

He slammed a fist into Trevor's face. Pain exploded behind Trevor's eyes, and his mouth filled with blood. He spat, missing the floor and staining his shirt instead.

“You're insane!” Trevor gasped. “What are you talking about?”

Arthur leaned close, smoke curling around his grin. “Where are my dogs?”

“I don't know!” Trevor wheezed. “Something attacked me out there. I fought it off – then you showed up and knocked me out cold!”

Arthur's eyes narrowed. “Convenient story.” He blew another cloud of smoke into Trevor's face. “Those hounds were my boys. My family.”

“I didn't hurt them -” Trevor stopped mid-sentence. His eyes caught a deep cut running along Arthur's forearm – a jagged wound he hadn't noticed before. Arthur followed his gaze and smirked.

“Lookin' at my scar?” Arthur asked, rolling up his sleeve. “Got that fightin' off a trespasser. Big bastard. Hairy. Looked like a wolf, but taller. Meaner.” He took another drag. “Sound familiar?”

Trevor's stomach twisted. He remembered slashing his attacker's arm – but it hadn't been human. Too fast. Too strong. He blinked, staring at Arthur. For a split second, the man's pupils flashed yellow in the glow of the cigarette.

“What are you looking at boy?” Arthur muttered, flicking the cigarette onto Trevor's shoe. “Moon's risin'. Guess I better get ready.”

He pumped the shotgun, the metallic click echoing through the barn. “I ain't the kind of man to shoot a person, but you ain't no man, are ya?”

Trevor's pulse thundered. The dropped cigarette was still smoldering – burning through the rope around his ankles. Arthur didn't notice, too focused on the storm and his delusions.

“I'm not what you think I am,” Trevor said quietly.

Then he kicked upward, striking the shotgun's stock. The blast fired into the ceiling. The wooden chair shattered as he hit the ground, pain stabbing his spine. Rain poured through the new hole, drenching them both in a silver flood of moonlight.

Arthur roared and lunged. Trevor tore through the loosened ropes just as the light hit his face.

A deep, guttural growl filled the room.

The two collided, and a gunshot thundered through the forest. Then – silence. Only the steady drumming of rain on the roof.

When dawn came, the barn was empty except for a twisted, bloodied corpse and a shotgun lying beside it. The body was too mangled to identify.

No one ever found the other man.

But sometimes, late at night, the farmers say they still hear howling in the woods – and the echo of a man's laughter carried on the wind.