::@:: Reality of Dreams ::@::

The following is a short story based on the following story seed:

“It is supposed to be nothing more than urban folklore, an old wife’s tale, an analogy to scare bad kids straight, but with the body count rising perhaps there is truth to the legends of ‘The Black Wolf’, or is someone using the sudden popularity of the tale to cover something more sinister?”

Its nothing amazing but its a story, of sorts. I had a limit of between 2000 and 3000 words (in two weeks) which was actually quite a tight limit for what I had written so I feel like its rushed in places I came in at 2442 words.

Anyway, enjoy.

The Black Wolf

The night was cold and crisp, the clouds turned to a multitude of shades of amber. They moved hurriedly over the city awash with neon and fluorescents, the harsh shadows carving the streets into a mosaic of hidden dangers. ~A lone hooded figure walked through an empty car park near the monolithic high rises he called home. His hood was firmly pulled over his face, a scarf covering what little chance anyone could have had to make out any of his features. He walked with an arrogant swagger, confident in his youthfulness and apparent invulnerability to not only danger but of the law.

The night had made way to morning, the sun would soon be rising again. The hope it should bring had long since died in these streets. Gangs were the rule and the authorities seemed impotent to them unable, or unwilling, to do anything to stop the violence and the escalation. The figure was almost home, when something behind him caused a shot of cold primal fear to burn through his body. He picked up his pace. Again another noise, clearer this time, scrapping noise like claw against tarmac. Turning swiftly and pulling a knife in a clean and well rehearsed motion he came face to face with emptiness. Laughing off his nerves he turned back to his route. It was then he felt the multiple sharp points dig into his side.

Morning came, as did the police, to another body on the estate. This was the fifth in as many days. Each killed by what looked like a large dog, or at least made to look that way. After the second one they found it impossible to keep the rumours from hitting the presses. Everything from masked vigilantes, to a serial killer, and even some that said it was the Black Wolf reclaiming its territory. Peter Woods did not prescribe to that theory, a couple of his fellow reporters in his office did, but they also believed in the yeti and the Loch Ness monster.

As Peter began to look into the murders the more he became convinced that it was a vigilante, or a group of them, using the folk tales of the Black Wolf to clean up the estate. In an interview he had carried out a month or two back with Michael Denver, the leader of the most vocal residents rights group in the estate, Peter had jokingly said, “Perhaps the Black Wolf will come back and get rid of them for you?â€? Mr Denver had smiled and said that the Black Wolf was nothing more than a piece of folklore from before the city came and since the Wolf has found peace it couldn’t possibly return. Something about the way Mr Denver said that sounded warning bells in Peter’s mind when the killings started.

After the third gang member was found dead, his throat ripped out and his chest torn open by what looked like a huge dog, he knew something was amiss. For once thing wolves had been extinct in this country for about a hundred years. Peter then decided to do some investigation, that was after all that is what he was supposed to do.

He spent two days looking through the legends and myths of the area to see what all the different versions of the legend said. Almost all of them, from the multitude of sources were frighteningly similar and only the smallest and most seemingly unimportant of details failed to match up. What he did find out was the base thread of the legend was always the same.

A man loses his family and everything to evil men who have terrorised the land, broken and distraught he cries out for vengeance under the light of the full moon near the winter equinox, the spirits of the land hear his cries and the cries from all the spilt innocent blood and grant him vengeance as The Black Wolf. A huge wolf the larger than a man, darker than midnight, and faster than the human eye. The Black Wolf would take its vengeance and then disappear, presumably taken away by the spirits.

Peter had just finished digesting all this when the call came in about the fifth body, Al “Terry� Terrence, a known trouble maker who had repeatedly managed to get away with major jail time usually by lack of evidence. In fact his most recent was a near fatal attack on a young kid in the estate who had tried to stand up for himself. So Terry and a few of his mates decided to teach him a lesson. The kid is still in intensive care in a coma, but “no one saw anything� and there was not enough evidence to convict him or his mates.

Rather than trying to force his way to get a look at the body, or to get some pitiful statement from the police he instead quietly listened, trying his best to catch little piece of information. He couldn’t get much as the Police had made sure the cordon was large enough that it was almost impossible to overhear anything. It was a bust, none of the other reporters were getting much either so like a few others he decided to start interviewing the growing crowd of onlookers.

It was the usual tale, no one saw anything, “it couldn’t of happened to a better personâ€?, those comments always rubbed Peter the wrong way. He had been a tearaway when he was younger and got into some serious trouble but cleaned up his act and now has a good job and a relatively happy family life. He always held that no one, no matter who they were or what they did deserved to have their life ended by another. He was about to give up when he saw at the edge of the crowd was Mr Denver.

“Morning Mr Denver.�

“Ah, Mr Woods, another tragic waste of life, isn’t it?â€? His mouth said sorrow but Peter was sure his eyes were telling a different tale.

“It always is. I presume you saw and heard nothing?�

“I was away at a conference about renewing urban trouble spots.�

“Was it interesting?�

“Why yes, it was good to hear of ways we could try and change this estate and turn it from a place where darkness thrives to a glorious beacon in the city.�

“I’m sure…â€? Before Peter could continue Mr Denver’s phone rang and so he excused himself walking off a distance. He seemed agitated and annoyed by the call but covered it well. He then walked away phoning someone else. The wind changed direction briefly and Peter caught the phrase, “five for five.â€?

“Mr Wood. I am now prepared to issue a statement if you want one?� The plain clothes policeman waited for Peter to turn round and take the prepared statement which basically said the normal things, that they were investigating, possible gang war casualty, following leads. Peter could almost write it down before the office said it.

Peter decided that tonight he would prowl the estate and see what he could see. He knew the Police would be doing something similar but he just knew they had less motive to catch someone killing gang members as long as normal people were not involved. Although if the rumours were true then they would have to do something quick before the rival gangs in the are either turned on each other in suspicion igniting a bloody gang war or worse united themselves against everyone else.

When night came he saw that a number of others had the same idea. Peter sighed and wrapped his cost around him and found a good spot in the middle of the estate in pitch darkness, he knew from his years of covering the troubles in the estate that no one used this area now, except as a dumping ground. As he waited in the cold, the sky clear and the moon bright and almost full, it looked like his hunches had not paid off this time. Then just as he was about to call it a night at around 2am he heard something approaching. He quickly concealed himself between two rusting seven foot bins and switched his video and voice recorder on.

A pair of hooded figures walked past, muttering to each other about something, then from behind them a shadowed figure crept quickly up on them with surprising stealth and quickness. In a flash the two boys had been knocked cold as the figure pulled a glove from under his jacket and put it on. He was joined by two other figures, and they proceeded to start beating up the youths, Peter didn’t know what to do, if he challenged them he would likely be killed, if he didn’t the two boys would be killed.

Inside his pocket, to try and deaden any light, he opened his mobile and dialled 999, muffling the speaker he tried to make sure that the sounds of the beating were heard, as he did so one of the two youths tried to fight back screaming his head off that he was going to kill them. Peter just stood motionless hoping that somehow the police would arrive in time.

The moments passed slowly every moment caught on film and recorder, every kick, every punch, every slash. It seemed as if an eternity had passed when suddenly the police sprang out wrestling the men and the bleeding youths to the ground. Peter stepped out his hands raised, explaining to the officers what had happened. As he did so he saw that one of the men was Mr Denver, the other were two squadies who used to live in the area but were on leave.

Seven hours later, after hours of interviews, interrogations, watching the footage, Peter was eventually released and allowed to go home. He found out that Mr Denver used to be in the army and the Police thought he cracked after the recent rise attack on the boy, who was his nephew. He recruited the two squadies into helping him, they even had managed to track down that he was at their base the previous night. Mr Denver supposedly denied the other killings saying he would only admit being involved in the one he was caught at and that it was not attempted murder but self defence.

Although some part of Peter was glad the deaths would now hopefully stop, there was something that just didn’t seem to be right. As he tried to get to sleep he went over the night again, it was then he began to think that the others were not beat up they were quickly and savagely cut and torn into. Peter dismissed this as it just being different because they tried to go for two instead of one.

The next evening Peter was woken by his phone going off, his boss wanted him to go to the Police station as they had reports someone had been murdered. Peter tried to get his boss to send someone else but he lost and headed down, moaning all the way about not getting a good nights sleep.

It was only 4am and when he got to the station a crowd of reporters were already there, talking excitedly, Peter was tired he couldn’t focus, he just wanted to sleep. Then the Chief Inspector came out to a flurry of camera flashes and questions, he silenced the crowd and read from the prepared statement. An ageing, thin man, every flash of a camera accented the sharp edges of his face.

“It has been decided that in the interest of openness with the public that the following statement should be given.

This morning at 2am Mr Michael Denver, Private Alistair Carmichael, and Private John Williams, were found dead in their cells. Their throats and arms had been severely slashed. The nature of their deaths and the manner in which they were found is being treated as suspicious as it does echo an on-going investigation.

We are currently investigating and have at the moment no further comments.�

With that he left, the gathered crowd stunned into a virtual silence. Peter walked away, his mind beginning at how the prime suspects in a serial killing case all died in police care in the same way as their victims.

His mind swimming with theories, plans of action, who he needed to talk to, and what sources and favours he could use. As he realised that he had been walking without looking where he was heading he looked around to see himself in the main square of the estate. It was deserted, as he looked around to get his bearings he thought he saw someone in the corner of his eye. As he turned to face them all he saw was a dark underpass with what seemed to be two piercing yellow eyes looking at him. Then as they blinked they disappeared, and only shadow remained.

The killings stopped. The investigation placed the blame of the three deaths in the prison on an inmate who had found his cell door unlocked. The police officer responsible was sacked and a revue of procedures was carried out. Everything seemed neatly tidied up, except for what Peter had seen. He could not explain it away, he had tried, but every night since when he closed his eyes all he saw was the eyes.

Peter became obsessed with the legend and if was true then why did the killing stop and why was Mr Denver and squadies killed as well as five hoodies. It was as he tried to do other work that the answer came. On his desk he saw a report that the kid who got beaten up by the hoodies had died. Peter sank in his chair, then he saw the date, he died the night after the deaths in the prison. Surely he thought this was no coincidence, the five people suspected of beating him almost to death all killed, but as for Mr Denver and the squadies he had no answer perhaps they were judged because they tried to take “credit� for the vengeance by attacking those not marked.

There was no easy answer, no solid clues, it was all myths and legends. Perhaps he was had gone too deep, had become so desperate for an answer to the growing madness in the estate that he was swept along and allowed it all to make a nice simple package, yeah, that was it, it was all just stress and coincidence playing off each other, and nothing more.