The Wolves of Whiskey Creek

the story of a haunting at a hunting cabin


No one comes here anymore except the mice, the owls, the occasional bear, and me.  They used to come, the hunters that is.  They used to come every winter to hunt the white fox.  They used to come every summer to hunt bear and elk.  They used to come to drink beer and whiskey.  Yes, they used to come but they come no more.  Not since the night when the wolves returned and had their vengeance.

I am Henri LeBlanc, a half-breed born just up this mountain in a tent to an Iriquois woman and the last French-Canadian trapper to work these parts.  It fell to me to keep watch over this hunting lodge and the three hundred acres on which it sits.  The Company pays me a fair living to keep the ghosts at bay and the roof from leaking.

Yes, they used to come here by the hundreds.  Pay their money, kill their game, drink themselves drunk, and then head home with tales to tell.  But that was then.  Now, it's just me .. and the wolves of Whiskey Creek.


The End

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