He was long of face and short of temper.
Both of which served him well as a reporter for the Sentinel.
I’m sorry to say that more than a few people judged Jared Bendle on his appearance, and it was to their own detriment that they did. I’ve seen him sit outside a house, whittling at a piece of oak and listening to the folk inside talk about what they saw. Whatever information he gathered, he brought back to the Sentinel and wrote up as well as anyone might.
While he could abide being ignored, he couldn’t abide being picked upon, and it was his short temper that saved him in early November.
There had been some trouble with werewolves, and no one was quite certain where they were hiding.
I’d been out searching for the damned things, as had several of the old hands from the Cross Historical Society.
The werewolves found Jared Bendle first.
Or, I should say that he found them.
He was out wandering along North Road, searching for sign as the sun set, and two of the hairy bastards came over the wall at him.
I think, upon reflection, that they might have had him had they not tried to toy with him first. In Jared’s own words, it vexed him.
By the time I arrived, there was little for me to do. He had brained them into submission.
He was standing astride them both, his hands bloody as they gripped a fist-sized stone in each hand. Every time one of the werewolves made a noise, he smashed it in the head.
When Jared saw me, he nodded and stepped back.
My Colts, which I’d loaded with silver for my nightly excursions, thundered, and I killed the sons of bitches. The werewolves shifted into a pair of young men I’d never seen before, and when I looked to Jared, I saw a look of satisfaction on the man’s face.
“They called me an imbecile just this morning,” he mused. “I would have hit them harder if I’d known who they were.”
I nodded.
I would have done the same.
#horror #fear #art
