The Werewolf [COMPLETE]

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He shouldn't be awake. It was more than just a feeling, or an intuition, or an assumption in the back of his head; it was a truth. An undeniable and unquestionable truth. He shouldn't be awake.

His brain fired up immediately and his senses were instantly alert. He didn't panic, he didn't allow his heartbeat to quicken or his breath to grow shallow. He considered the situation with cold calculation before acting in any way. He needed more information regarding his condition. Spreading his fingers, he ran them on the surfaces around him, patting, tapping, touching everything falling under his hands. Covers, pillows, bed. He was in his bedroom. Concluding from the lack of reaction to his movements that he was alone, he confidently opened his eyes. The room was dark, no rays of the morning sun seeped under his locked door or between the thin slits of the wooden boards barring his windows. A single source of light came from his bedside table, where his alarm clock glowed in a weak red artificial light.

11:49PM. Too late to fall asleep and too early to wake up. Something was wrong. There were no reasons for him to be awake. The last day had already ended and the next hadn't begun yet. There were no reasons, but one.

He sat up slowly, his members rigid and his gaze fixed on the door. His hand pulled open the drawer of his bedside table and searched for his revolver. It was empty. His eyes darted in shock to the piece of furniture, forgetting the door at once. He rummaged both hands in the small drawer, yanked the small drawer out completely, shook the small drawer with frenzy; but nothing fell. It was empty. His revolver was gone. He couldn't explain how or when, the door was locked, the widows were blocked, his house was barricaded. He had fallen asleep with a gun by his side, he couldn't wake up without a gun by his side, not when no one could have entered and stolen it. Could there have been an opening that he hadn't secured? Could he have forgotten a lock or a board somewhere? Or could someone have broken through–

It sounded like thunder crashing down on the roof. It felt like ground shattering underneath the house. The building shook to its foundations, reverberating the blow through the walls. His thoughts died away. He couldn't waste more time on vain interrogations and suppositions. Someone was trying to get into his house. The noise, the vibration– it came from a blow, a blow on the front door. He couldn't stay in his room. He had no weapons and no protection, he was just a sitting target, waiting for them to reach him and kill him. He had to get out.

He wrenched a wooden board out of the window frame with his hands solely and threw it down in a hurry, already turning to the next. The plank hadn't touched the floor that the same deafening noise echoed again and the same violent vibration quaked again. And again. And again. The front door was being battered under the blows, it wouldn't stand against the strikes for long. He had to get out. The second and the third board fell in no time next to the first and he yanked the window open in a hasty jerk. He looked back only once, glancing at the chair wedged just under the handle of his bedroom door; it was his last defence, the hammering had stopped, the front door had yielded, his bedroom door would also yield, there was only this frail chair left. He had to get out.

He jumped out of the window and fell into the cold night. He ran toward the front of his house, knowing they wouldn't follow this direction. His eyes fell on the main door. He stopped. Long deep slashes scarring its wood, the lacerated door was hanging precariously from its hinges. Such gashes could only have been made by the blade of a knife, but longer, the blade of a sword, bur stronger, the blade of an axe. It could only have been an axe—

A blade sliced through the air. It wasn't a knife, it wasn't a sword, it was an axe. Drops flew to the walls and to the ground. They weren't drops of tears, they weren't drops of rain, they were drops of blood. Something round fell to the ground. It wasn't a boulder, it wasn't a ball, it was a head.

A Villager was dead.