![Subscribe to [Story] The Moan Creature](http://cdn3.kongregate.com/images/feed-icon.png?1295399770){kind=icon}
This might be a short story, or I might turn it into a longer story. Thoughts?
James lay down his gun. The deer had all run away, and it was time to head home after a long day of hunting. Crunching of leaves indicated that it was almost winter, and time to celebrate Christmas and New Year’s with the family.
Examining freshly made indentions in the trees, James concurred that a bear must’ve been through since he had come to the clearing in which he hunted. A few bushes lined the pathway back to his cabin, where his wife would be with some refreshing hot cocoa and they could sit by the fire and relax.
Ever since he had moved in thirty years ago in 1890, the forest seemed to call to him. It made him feel calm. It was as if it was a sanctuary for him to stay whenever he was weary. The deer seemed infinite, and never died down, despite the fact he had gone hunting in these very woods every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday for as long as he could remember.
James trudged through the mud of the path, reminiscing his yesterdays. It had always made the perfect duo; the forest and his warm memories. It was his favorite thing about the week, those three days. And as he headed home, down that long path, everyday, he knew this was where he belonged. He was meant for this oasis.
The next few days had been calm and quite; the normal. But one Saturday morning, as he said goodbye to his wife, Susan, he said, “Bernice, I will never forget you.”
“Who is Bernice?” Susan said.
“Why, you are.”
James looked dazed and confused. Susan tried not to admit that something was wrong, but ever since Wednesday, James had been acting strangely. Then, the whistle for the teapot went off. “Farewell, Susan, I shall see you later for our cocoa.” Casually remarked James, as if nothing had happened.
“The old man must be losing his memory already! We’re fading pretty fast, we are.” Susan said to herself.
Meanwhile, James was headed off with his rifle. Something felt awkward in the air that particular morning. There had been no deer yet, and it was about two o’clock, around five hours since he had left his cabin. And, he had been hearing a strange moaning. “It must be my ears playing tricks on me,” James reassuringly said to himself, like old men do.
He looked behind him. The moan had got louder; no, closer. As he was turning, he began to lose all memory. He had lost all faith in the world, himself and everything. Then, as he saw the creature, his face began to twist and deform. He began to form a puddle of himself. His skin began oozing and turning to watery slime. And before he could make out what was happening, or yell for that matter, the was a loud gunshot sounding noise, and James was never seen again.
