The Witching Hour Book 2: Moon Bane
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Nate Fitch
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Dr. Alex Castillas, a war-torn state epidemiologist, finds herself stranded in Damonburg, Pennsylvania, after a storm traps her in the isolated mountain town. Called to investigate a mysterious disease outbreak, Alex is cut off from the outside world with no supplies, no phone, and no escape. A pregnant young woman, left in her care, suffers under the eerie moonlight, her condition worsening with each passing hour. As midnight approaches, Alex realizes the source of the outbreak and the woman's pregnancy are intertwined—both tied to a ferocious werewolf lurking in the shadows, hungry for blood.
Prologue
Book 2: Moon Bane
“Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster…for when you gaze long into the abyss. The Abyss gazes also into you.”
Friedrich Nietzsche
Nephastor Settlement
Pennsylvania
1693
The southern ridgeline of the Allegheny Mountains was ablaze. Shouting could be heard from clusters of Englishmen, although the local colonials could not understand a word of it. They could only watch on in horror as their forest burned in the fires stoked and started by one man’s pursuit of monsters and demons.
This one man, this so-called Sheriff of Dark Hollow, was determined to rid the land of what the locals had failed to: the mark of the beast.
The Protestants had arrived earlier in the week, coming from the northeastern pass around the lake. They arrived through fog and mist, carrying swords and rifles on horseback. The Protestants had been led to Nephastor by a native guide, one of the members of the Lenape tribe whom they had paid in gold and furs.
Not that the native needed or requested them, for the Lenape were just as furious over the recent evil that had descended upon their land.
The village sheriff, Sheriff Bendorf, met with the red-bearded Englishmen as they flooded the settlement on the break of dawn. Knowing some English, he did his best to learn of the reason for their arrival to the settlement.
The English referred to one man as their leader, pointing to a stern-looking man sitting perched upon his saddle with a clay pipe affixed in the corner of his mouth. They called him Reverend Jeremiah Talbot, the Sheriff of Dark Hollow.
He was cloaked, and fixed upon his head was a wide-brimmed, tall-crowned capotain hat with a thick, black leather belt and copper buckle. The very kind that they had seen English Protestants wearing when they arrived in the New World.
Where most Puritans wore plain, matching garb, this Reverend Talbot did not. His clothing resembled a uniform more than everyday garments.
His capotain hat was decorated with religious iconography. Metal pins of crosses and white stitching bearing words of scripture could be seen ascending to the top of the stovepipe crown. A small hard-cover book—a holy bible—was fixed into the buckle of his hat as well.
Under his cloak could be seen a thick leather vest, buckled in place by three belt straps. Sharpened wooden stakes, flasks of black powder, vials of holy water, and finally silver musket balls all lined the front of his weathered brigantine.
The sheriff of Nephastor approached the large black horse and greeted the fellow lawman in broken English. The reverend took a long drag from his clay pipe. The burning tobacco emitted a bright orange glow which reflected off his miscolored pupils.
Sheriff Bendorf could see that the reverend had an almost solid white glass eye. A long scar cut across his face through the eye socket and past his mouth. All the signs were present, and the reverend’s purpose was clear as day.
This Puritan was a witch hunter. The witch hunter faction had grown popular in the New World, especially in English Puritan colonies. Forged in Great Britain, where the witch is most despised, these pious killers would take to the most haunted of domains in pursuit of their prey.
The witch hunter was led by an unwavering faith. Their hand was guided by God. Their sole purpose was to see any land rid of a plague, the plague of witchcraft and devil worship.
With barbaric methodology and cruel implements of torture, a witch hunter was a deadly individual. The German settlers knew of these Englishmen and thought little of them, as did the Romani settlers—though with even deeper disdain.
The witches of the gypsy caravan were seen as wise women and healers. If this bloodthirsty hunter would threaten the livelihood and safety of their revered wise women, Bendorf knew the Romani would revolt without hesitation.
Before Augustus could question the witch hunter further, Reverend Talbot spoke first.
“Pray tell me, Sheriff, dost thou know of why we came to thy settlement?” The reverend’s voice was coarse. When he spoke, it was as if sandpaper were being rubbed against dry brittle wood.
Augustus shook his head.
“Nein, mein Herr. What brings your kind here to Nephastor? We have no need of your services, English.”
The reverend took another drag of his pipe and blew the large white smoke from each of his flared nostrils in silence before speaking once more.
“You have no understanding of what brings us to your village. You are a fool and a liar. Have you and your kindred not been stricken by the mark of the beast? Our guide has said otherwise. He says that our suffering is your own. More so, that our suffering is your bidding.”
As he spoke, the faint exhalations between words escaped through his pipe. The stoked tobacco would ignite and reflect hues of bright red and orange off the reverend’s glass eye.
The glowing marble gave the witch hunter a demonic visage from the shadow cast over his face from under the wide brim of his leather cap.
Augustus knew that what the reverend had spoken of was not far from the truth. Beads of sweat pooled on the furrows of his brow as the sheriff stood silently in thought.
He knew his words needed to be chosen carefully. Nephastor did not have the manpower or weapons to defend themselves from such heavily armed intruders.
He was also responsible for the Romani, who although not present, would also turn to violence if their people were threatened with harm.
The sheriff’s lack of a response brought discontent from the mounted reverend who gripped his reins tightly. The sound of tightening leather from the stitched gloves over the reverend’s balled fist brought a slight flinch from the now timid sheriff.
Wiping his brow with his sleeve, Augustus rested his forearm on the grip of his flintlock pistol and looked to the looming witch hunter.
“My quarters are over yonder. Come with me, and we will speak in private. Lawman to lawman. Tell your English to stay put and leave my people be. There is no need for bloodshed, Englishman.”
Augustus led the witch hunter’s horse through the village and toward his cabin home. On the hill overlooking the town was the newly built cathedral.
The Reverend Talbot looked up from under the brim of his hat to gaze upon the grandiose structure at the tolling of the great bells from within. He was mesmerized at seeing such a structure, as there had not been such a building yet in the log and thatched roof hovels of most colonial settlements.
The strange structure only roused more suspicion from him, but he kept his mouth shut. Dismounting his horse, the reverend followed Sheriff Bendorf into his home, shutting the door behind him.
Augustus offered the witch hunter some mead, which the man refused. The sheriff took a seat and offered one to the reverend, another friendly offer which he coldly declined.
The Reverend Talbot instead turned toward the stacked stone fireplace at the end of the cabin and began to slowly approach the warm hearth. His riding spurs jingled loudly with each step from his heavy black leather riding boots. Mud broke off and scattered across the clean wood floor.
Reaching the mantle, the reverend bent down and held his gloved hands toward the crackling fire from within the hearth. A cloud of white smoke rose from his nostrils once more as he addressed the sheriff with his coarse voice.
“You can spare me your deceits, Sheriff.”
Augustus placed his mug of mead calmly upon the tabletop before him as the witch hunter spoke to him.
The Reverend Talbot reached over and removed the fire poker from its stand and jutted the wrought iron lance into the blackening logs of the fire. “I know that the beast comes from your village.”
Sheriff Bendorf leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table, running his hands through the thick black hair of his head. “What beast do you speak of, English?”
A loud crackling came from within the stone fireplace as the reverend stirred the logs with the poker. The flames rose to a higher spire, casting a long-reaching shadow of the crouched witch hunter across the wood floor of the small cabin.
“The good Christian people of Blackwater Post sent a single rider to Dusk Hollow two moons ago. The rider was brought to my quarters, as my flock knew I was a witch hunter in my youth. The rider spoke tale of a great fanged beast.
“A wolfish creature that walked upright like a man. That this devil descended upon their homes at the twilight hour and slaughtered many children. Slaughtered and ate them, gluttonous and snarling.
“The men were called, and they tried to fight the devil, but alas, it was too strong. Killing more and eating more until the passing of the full moon came to its setting. It ran off into the depths of the forest, but not before it took with it two crying babes. Not yet weaned from the teat, they were.”
Augustus clawed at the back of his skull with his dirtied nails and fingers. The itching grew with each passing moment he did not confess the truth he repressed to the witch hunter.
The Reverend Talbot toyed with the logs once more as he continued his tale.
“When the lad finished his tale, I said many prayers for the boy but sent him on his way with nothing more than God’s comfort over the foul evil that had befallen his settlement. You see, Sheriff, I am a man of reason, not easily moved by emotion and irrational ideology. This story of devils and demons sounded like heathen Catholic banter. The kind spread in the black forest of your homeland. The only devilry I had seen in my youth was that born from witchcraft.
“Women who lay with incubi and succubae, who wield the pentacle star and whisper foul incantations under dark skies in mockery of our good Lord. But no beast can they send, for what foul devilry would our benevolent maker allow on his creation if it not be from his hand?”
The reverend dropped the poker onto the warm hearth with a loud crash. Rising to his feet, Talbot thrust his clenched fist upon the mantelpiece.
“It was foolish of me to be so blind. For in my ignorance, this devil soon descended upon my own settlement soon after. It came in the night. Yellow-eyed and silent.
“I was woken from slumber to the sound of screams. I grabbed my blunderbuss and hatchet and made for outside, only to see the remains of neighbors and friends scattered across the muddied earth like butchered swine! The devil moved like the wind, it did. Dashing on all fours before rising to feet to attack like a giant man.
“I fired a shot, but it did nay but a scratch to its demoniac hide. My hatchet did less to harm the thing. With one swipe, the devil took my eye. Then, it entered my home and took my wife and firstborn son.”
The Reverend Talbot turned from the fireplace to face the now sickly-looking sheriff. Thrusting back his cloak with a sweeping wave of his gloved hand, the witch hunter drew a stake from its sleeve and slowly started to approach the dining table.
“The pain drove me to my past, Sheriff. I tracked the devil to Penn’s colony. I consorted with Catholics and gypsies.
“Learned of the devil that ye call ‘werewolf.’ That witches can give men the gift of beasthood, so that they may prowl the wilderness, spreading fear and terror in the name of their dark lord. Well, Sheriff, it ends here.
“I came here to purge your lands of both beast and witch. By fire and by brute force. No longer will your devil, your fiend, slay the innocent and feast on human flesh. You will tell me who this devil is, where I can find this coven of snakes. If ye hide the truth from me, I swear on our Lord God that ye will face a fate far worse than death!”
The reverend leaned over the sheriff and thrust the wood stake deep into the dining table and through the center of the sheriff’s hand. Augustus cried out in pain as blood dripped through the hole in the table.
Talbot grabbed the sheriff by his shoulders and jerked him around so the two stared at one another in the eyes. Talbot looked like a feral beast. His clenched teeth showed through parted lips, highlighting marked canine teeth.
Foam saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth as his clay pipe fell to the floor below.
“Give me a name, Sheriff!”
Augustus clenched his eyes and screamed out a single name into the stifled air of the log cabin. A single name that echoed outward from the confines of his cabin into the surrounding village and forest beyond.
“Vonn Stumpfer!”
***
The relinquished name was all the witch hunter needed to begin his horrific hunt. Death swiftly descended upon the isolated settlement in the form of an unholy crusade. Talbot was no different than the beast he hunted with righteous impunity.
The reverend put women to the pyre by the droves, German and Romani alike. First, there was the raid on Vonn Stumper’s estate. When the young Johann was not found, the witch hunter took to torture and murder to get answers on potential hideouts in the area.
The days passed in rapid succession. Each pass of the sun led to a new phase in the lunar cycle. The waxing gibbous turned to the waning crescent, the cycle growing ever closer to the next full moon.
Ceaseless and unending hunting had led the witch hunter to nothing but a cold trail. The only thing remaining was the looming Allegheny mountains to the settlement’s northwestern border. If the devil would not be found, then Reverend Talbot would have to smoke him out of hiding.
Torches and pine tar were gathered, and on the night of the next full moon, the forest was set ablaze. The faint strands of orange that flickered from the setting sun were rapidly replaced with roaring spires of raging flames. The pine trees were quick to ignite as the area had not seen rain in some time.
The light from the burning forest was like that of the sun itself. The people of Nephastor thought the Englishmen to be mad, a devil on his merit. Deer, birds, and rodents fled in wild panic from the destructive inferno that engulfed the mountainside.
Game animals that would have fed their children and elderly were burned to cinders before their very eyes. What the werewolf had not taken from them, the werewolf hunter had. A thousand curses, uttered in the tongues of German and Romanian mouths alike, were cast upon the blood-drunk hunter of devils and beasts.
Reverend Talbot cared not for their peasant trifle and pleas. He was blind, fueled by his eternal rage and desire for vengeance against the Devil of Penn’s Woods.
As the sun finally gave way to the darkness of night, a reverberating and unholy howl answered the first light of the full silver moon.
The witch hunter laughed maniacally at the cry of the wolf. Grabbing his silver-coated rapier from its scabbard, the witch hunter ordered his men to ready the traps and take position. Ropes were pulled tight, counterweights were set, and freshly dug holes were covered with burlap and earth.
The reverend would have his titanic clash with his coveted foe. Pulling back on the firing hammer of his blunderbuss, Reverend Talbot scanned the forest with narrowed eyes in search of his prey. There, amongst the crumbling cinders and ash of burning pine trees, he saw the familiar sight once seen months prior.
A pair of amber eyes, glowing through the dark.
“Come ye devil and face thy mortality. Ye will pay for what thee hath done, may God guide my hand. And harbor no pity nor grant ye no protection from his righteous arbitration!”
A single boom echoed out over the Allegheny valley, followed by the wrenching sound of a musket ball ripping through beastly flesh. An ear-piercing roar answered the volley, followed by the harrowing scream of a witch hunter as fangs tore through his flesh.
His men fired another volley of black powder shots followed by a poor attempt to corral the monster into one of their many traps. It was in vain. With their stalwart leader mortally wounded, the Puritan force was slaughtered with ease.
Sheriff Bendorf ran from town, weapons clutched in his sweat-drenched palms. He had heard the roar of his once-friend turned beast and thought of the senseless destruction brought on by the secrets kept by the coven. A coven he swore to keep secret.
His conscience was strained, and guilt had driven away the fear of turning on his coven members. He would finish off the beast and bring peace back to the colony. Maybe then, he thought, would God forgive his damned soul.
Bendorf sprinted through the tree line in search of the werewolf menace. After a few dozen more yards, he had finally found what he was searching for. The great beast loomed over the motionless body of the witch hunter.
Augustus pulled back on the flintlock and raised his weapon.
“Johann!” Augustus shouted at the monster, which forced the creature to whirl around and face a new challenger to his domain.
The werewolf snarled and roared at the sheriff.
“Das muss enden.” Augustus closed his non-dominant eye and aimed at the heart of the beast.
“Auf wiedersehen, mein Freund.”
The shot tore through the heart of the werewolf. But it was able to gain ground enough to deliver a serious wound to the gallant sheriff.
Augustus was sent flying backward into the trunk of a charred pine tree. The collision rendered him unconscious upon impact.
Clouds formed overhead in the night sky. Soon, a torrential rain began to fall.
The raging forest fire was soon quenched by the storm. The wind also picked up, howling over the valley, and spurred on by what locals believed to be the shrill cries of chanting women from high above in the mountain’s peaks.
The naked, lifeless body of Johann Vonn Stumpf was soon found by locals, lying between the nearly deceased bodies of Sheriff Augustus Bendorf and Reverend Jeremiah Talbot.
A hooded woman in black ordered a group of Romani men to gather the bodies and take them to the church.
A bolt of lightning lashed out across the clouds of the raging storm above.
No burial or funeral pyre was given to Johann Vonn Stumpf. The pregnant woman with dark hair ordered the men to leave his body where it lay.
The men grabbed the two living yet wounded men and carried them off, only uttering a simple phrase in return.
“Yes, Alina.”
