Zaroff the Hunter

Before the Forest, I was a hunter. Or at least I think I was. I’m not quite certain - memories of times before I was damned to wander upon the all-encompassing darkness feel like a fleeting dream. I had a wife, I think. Two - no three - children. I remember dreaming of the day I met my equal. Fantasies of a glorious battle, my entire being pushed to its limits. Slaying a great beast in spite of its terrible wounds upon me, and claiming a trophy that no other hunter could for mounting in my cabin. No matter. One thing I am certain of is that I am no longer the predator in these woods.

Had this Beast had any desire to kill me, I would’ve been dead already. Instead I lie in the cold mud, my ankle broken, my flesh swollen, my blackened fingers unresponsive to my commands. I’ve tried to ignore the question of whether the incessant screams and crunching of bones echoing through the distance are real or the product of a repeated head from a Beast that haunts my soul. There’s no silence in the Dark Forest. When the screaming subsides, the distant sound of mournful singing fills its place. Perhaps if I could find the source - No. I’m so close now.