The Fallowing – The First, Part I


Novel: Occult adventure

There’s a bar in Carrington called The Oar.  It was once a posh hotel smack dab in the middle of what was once the city.  Now it was cracked and broken, the topmost windows gone, the HOTEL sign split in half.  But the inside was warm enough so long as you kept yourself in the lobby-turned-bar, and inviting enough so long as a few of what remained of the townspeople were gathered there.  And there were always townspeople in the bar.  Which made sense – Carrington was well-known for its beer, the only thing they had to trade, even if they did have to bring in hops and grain from the next town over.

Continue reading “The Fallowing – The First, Part I”

The Fallowing – Prologue

I’m taking a break from my real novel and writing this bit of weirdness.  It’s not going to be great literature, and that’s fine.  I just need to write something lighter for now.

Novel: Occult adventure

I was already in Carrington when he found the wolf.  It had been dead two days, but the cold had preserved it and no new snow had fallen over it.  No creature had picked at the remains, save the one that had brought it down.  No crow or cat had thought it fit to eat.  The body drove away all scavengers.  It was as if something had been left with it, some residue or stain as clear as the red left on the snow, if one was perceptive enough to note it.

He knelt beside the carcass, looking it over.  There was no mystery as to how it had died, no gunshot wound or disease to find.  It had been ripped apart while its heart was still beating.  Feet and legs were stripped.  Chest cavity gaping open.  Genitals removed.  Blackness and bone where the eyes once were.  And flesh torn from the muzzle, the lips, the gums.  He ran a finger along here, tracing the wounds.  Bitten and chewed off and edged by ground meat.  He reached between the teeth and pried the jaw open with the sickly cracking of ice formed from blood.  He looked into the maw and smiled at what he found.

Though to tell the truth, he rarely smiles.  I doubt he would have spent one on a dead wolf.  Let’s say…it was his tribute to it.  If he did smile.

He rose and looked to where the tracks of a wolf, oddly spaced and somehow the wrong size, headed east away from the scene.  It was at least a day’s walk to Carrington, but the tracks would lead him there.