Black Ghost- A Lone Howl Halloween story

By President Loki

One

Although Quiet had never been able to retell them herself, she had always loved hearing ghost stories. Well, not quite ghost stories… coyote packs didn’t tell ghost stories, for they found the affairs of the non-real supernatural world pointless to even acknowledge, so they never retold them. That was for the wolves to recite to their pups. Coyotes only told stories that were real: stories that had real proof of their existence. Memorable tales to warn coyotes of the cruelness of the world, such as the Blood Sky, the Bone Beast, and Death Claws. Quiet was just under a year old and nearly fully grown, and she still enjoyed hustling her way into the warmth of the pup den and listening to her own mother, as well as others, tell the pups stories. No one minded when she did so; coyote packs were all about family, all about closeness. And with her unfortunate disability that made her unable to speak or make a sound, the pack was happy to include her in other activities.

“The Black Ghost,” Quiet’s mother, Gentle, was saying, “is a wolf who can’t speak. He haunts the packs of wolves who have angered him, sometimes killing their weakest members in revenge for his exaggerated life. You may sometimes hear him called the Plague. The wolves believe that he’s the source of sickness and unfortunate health, but we know differently. And some stories even say that he’s invisible.”

“Because he’s a ghost,” one of the pups, Obvious, said judgmentally. He lifted his nose blatantly into the air, sniffing incredulously. “Ghosts are invisible.”

Ghosts aren’t real, Quiet wanted to say, but was disagreed with by her nonexistent vocal cords. She shifted her paws, looking down at their dusty brown color. She was so… so plain. So basic, boring… so pointless. Sometimes she wondered why she was even on this earth. For punishment? What had she done? And who could be punishing her, if ancestors didn’t exist?

Gentle shook her head softly, smiling at the pup. “You’d think so. But ghosts don’t truly exist,” she corrected in a gentle voice. “He’s called invisible because he’s a black wolf: he can hide in the shadows. He isn’t a ghost at all, just an old, old wolf who happens to be a cannibal.”

“A carnival?” Giant imposed, tilting his wide head in confusion. Gentle chuckled, shaking her head. “Cannibal,” she informed him. “A wolf who eats his kind.”

A chorus of tiny pup voices, all shouting “Ew!” simultaneously, was what urged Quiet to make her way out of the den. Even when she was still young, the stories had become watered down. Turning, she made her way in the direction of the forest, her tail swishing behind her. She let out a silent sigh, a puff through her nostrils, as she slid through the browning ferns and vanished into the trees.

The overhead canopy had recently turned from a natural green to brilliant gold and mud brown and the blazing brightness of red and orange, a sight that had never before assaulted their forest. The leaves broke from overhead branches and spiraled down onto the walking paths, stiff and crunching upon impact. It was an amazing spectacle, one that Quiet couldn’t keep her eyes away from. The air had grown cooler, chilly winds sweeping cold nights into their camp and blowing the blazing-colored leaves off of the trees. Any chance that she could get, Quiet would be out in the forest, looking at the beautiful trees. It gave her a sense of peace, a sense of calmness in all of the chaos in her life. And, out in the quiet forest, she wasn’t the only thing that was silent. The trees were still and solemn, the wind whooshing by with barely a whisper, keeping her in a mute company.