I remember the last day of hunting season in 2015, the cold wind blowing the clouds from the valley, the deep green line of pine trees on the hills above and the browns, yellows and oranges of fallen leaves in the valleys. After a disappointing week of no bucks just does and yearlings, this was a hunter's nightmare that kept us awake in our tent during the long nights. Our once in a lifetime trip to the Appalachian Game Preserve ending in a bust. No trophy. No ten point, 36 inch masterpiece of manliness to hang on our wall.
Skeeter and I trudged back to camp and collapsed the tents, rolling up the sleeping bags and scattering the last, stale remains of jerky and biscuits for the birds and varmints. That's when Skeeter grimaced in pain and held his hands to his ears. I heard and felt it a moment later -- an alien, nerve shattering whine that ripped the world to whiteness, pain and unconsciousness.
I collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony. Skeeter was lying on the ground next to me. He opened his mouth and made the sound again, this time louder, and I screamed in a similar fashion as my innards began to twist inside me. That's when I noticed that Skeeter had removed what used to be his hands from his growing ears. He stared back at me with sad Bambi eyes, and I realized the horrible truth. That yearling that attacked us the night before was no ordinary yearling, and we were becoming our own worst nightmare--Weredeer.
Opening: Dave F......Continuation: Janae