Hunting's End

Paul came over to see about the ad for my guns.

“All of them?” he asked.

“All of them,” I said.

“But I don’t understand,” he said. “You’re one of the most avid hunters I’ve ever known. Why in the fifteen years I’ve known you I don’t believe you’ve ever missed a hunt.”

I tried to avoid his questions but Paul was a concerned friend and he persisted—so I told him.

“Paul,” I said, “I recently came to an understanding about myself that has turned me around about hunting. You see I never really liked the outdoors much. The chill of an early morning duck blind, or the bugs and sticks that can get into a sleeping bag when you’re camping just don’t fit my idea of luxury. Nor is it the trophies. Sure, I have the buck on the wall and the pheasant on the table in the corner but that’s not it. It wasn’t the meat either. I just don’t care for the taste of game of any kind. No, Paul,” I said, “It was the killing that gave me a thrill. If I could blow a rabbit into a puff of nothing and bits of fur, or drop a buck from mid leap—that’s what did it for me. That’s what gave me power. It made me like some sort of god. They were nothing. I could kill them in an instant.

“Then one day, recently, I was out after elk. I was walking up a road and some movement caught the corner of my eye. I turned to look and it appeared to be some sort of burlap bag that was rolling and folding as it was blown by the wind. For some unknown reason there was wrongness to it. It sent cold chills up my spine but I dismissed it and thought to myself, What some people won’t bring into the mountains and just leave, and I continued walking up the road.

“About three quarters of a mile farther on it was there again; this time in the middle of the road--rolling toward me—and against the wind. The chill that I had felt earlier now washed over me completely and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end, but I stood my ground. I had my power. I had my rifle.

“As the thing moved toward me it began to change shape. I could see that it was not burlap. It seemed to be some sort of animal. A head began to form on one end and it started to rise up.

“Then suddenly I could see that it was not a single animal. I could see bits of torn fur and bloody feathers, and I realized that it was an amalgamation, a coalescence of the ghosts of all the animals I had murdered. ‘Yes, Paul,’ I said, ‘murdered!’

“It stood up on its hind feet like a bear. It had hard eyes, and long ears, and curved horns like a goat. Its upper arms ended in taloned claws like those of a bird of prey.  As it came toward me the odor of rotting flesh engulfed me.

“I fired my rifle at it. Nothing happened. I fired again--and again--and I realized I was jerking the trigger on an empty gun. I turned to run. I tripped and fell headlong. My rifle skittered off the road into the woods.

“As I tried to scramble to my feet a strong taloned claw grabbed me by the shoulder and raised me up. The other hand entered my body as if it were no more substantial than water. It grasped my heart—and began to squeeze. I blacked out.

“The next thing I knew I was sitting in a psychiatrist’s office sobbing and babbling about animal ghosts. She said, ‘You’re making some good progress, Mr. Smith. I think you will be able to go home soon. And I suggest when you get there you should find a different hobby.’”

As I ended my story I picked up a rifle I thought Paul would be interested in and as I turned back to him I saw something move in the corner. It was there again. In the corner of the room, pulsing slowly and beginning to move toward me. I thrust the gun into Paul’s hands. “Take it Paul,” I said, “take them all. Sell them. Give the money to some wildlife fund. And Paul, when you’re hunting, before you pull the trigger, ask yourself—Why?”