"The Society" -- July 19

Word count: 2000

The Society

Abel Wilkins’s flat was in total disarray. Undergarments and scientific equipment littered every available surface. Two large rucksacks stood open near the door, filled with instruments and surrounded by piles of messy clothes.

Wilkins emerged from an inner room, aggressively flattening a telescope and muttering to himself.

“A disgrace; they’re a disgrace. They are a blot upon the good name of science.”

He flung the telescope into one of the bags.

“I’ll show them a disgrace!” he shouted. With the intention off his chest, he stood over his rucksacks, muttering under his breath as he catalogued their contents.

The door inched open and a young face with a patchy beard inserted itself into the scene. “Sir, the train—”

“Ah, Caleb.” Wilkins beckoned the young man over and handed him an assortment of tools wrapped in a leather roll. “Hold these.”

Caleb lifted the flap to peek at the tools with a puzzled look. “Sir, the train leaves at 8:15 tomorrow morning.”

“Good.” Wilkins took the roll back and deposited it in the rucksack. “You bought tickets, of course.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Now, the cameras.” Wilkins held up three cases containing bulky travel cameras and their equipment.

Caleb sighed and took the cases from Wilkins to pack into the bags.

****

“Sir, what, exactly, are we looking for in Germany?”

“My dignity,” Wilkins muttered.

“Sir?”

Wilkins leaned on the railing, looking out at the skyline of the German port as they approached. Salt spray dusted his face.

“The Society says my creature cannot exist; well I know it does. No matter what they say.”

Caleb raised his eyebrows. Wilkins went back to staring over the railing.

“I know it’s out there,” Wilkins muttered. “I can feel it in my bones. Can’t you?”

“No,” Caleb said, leaning his chin on the railing. “What does it feel like?”

Wilkins gave Caleb a look and moved several spaces down the railing. He refused to look at Caleb for the remainder of the passage.  

Those nincompoops at the Society thought they knew everything—but it was out there. He had seen it. And, by Jove, he would show them they were wrong. They would be begging to reinstate him as a member in good standing.

As the boat drew nearer and the tangle of black forest surrounding the little port town grew thicker and thicker, Abel Wilkins bared his teeth in a slow smile.

He would teach them to expel him.

****

Wilkins strode down the crooked village street, squinting at haphazard house numbers with a much-worn paper in one hand and a field bag bristling with pens and instruments in the other. He’d left Caleb at the inn, waiting for breakfast. Caleb was far too addicted to comfort and pleasure to make a good Society member—or even scientist, though it didn’t take much in the way of brains to become one.

Wilkins spotted the broken steeple first—the numbers on the church were hidden beneath a thick carpet of ivy that crawled up the wooden side. As he approached the door, he stepped carefully around the holes in the dusty, spiderwebbed porch. A thin track, smooth and clean from street to door, marked the path of the faithful.

Wilkins shoved the paper into his pocket and pushed on the door. It was locked. He frowned and knocked. As he waited, he straightened his coat and tie.

He knocked again.

Finally, the door rattled. It opened and a tall, spare old man in a tall white collar leaned out.

“My apologies; I—”

Wilkins gave his most charming smile as the priest cut himself off.  “Good,” he said. “I was just about to look for the back door.”

The priest opened and closed his mouth several times.

“I believe your town archives are located here?”

The priest finally managed a “Yes.”

“May I see them?” Wilkins shouldered past the priest. “Thank you.”

“I’m…” The priest stared. “I’m sorry, can I help you with something?”

“Yes. I’m looking for your archives. I understand they are open to the public?”

“They are.”

“And they are located here?”

“They are.”

“I would like to examine them.”

The priest shook himself and gave a thin smile. “All right. You are welcome. Follow me, please.”

Wilkins followed the priest past ragged tapestries, damp stone, and an ivy-covered stained-glass window into a tiny room lined with heavy wooden cabinets. The priest fumbled with a key on a sparsely furnished ring and began unlocking cabinets, revealing stacks of bound books and papers.

“And what are you looking for in our archives?” the priest asked as Wilkins deposited his bag on the table in the middle of the room.

Wilkins pulled out a few notepads and a pen case. Choosing a notebook, he opened it and handed it to the priest.

“Ever seen one of those?”

The priest dropped his key ring back in his pocket and reached for the notebook. He pulled the page close to his face. Wilkins studied him.

The book hit the floor before Wilkins could reach out and catch it. The priest stood petrified with his hands extended, eyes wide.

“So you have seen it!” Wilkins leaned in, his eyes flicking to the book on the floor to ensure it was all right.

The priest lowered himself to the ground and gathered up the loose pages, tucking them back into the cover with small, precise motions. “Why do you have this?” he asked.

“Have what?”

The priest handed the book back to Wilkins. “It’s a local legend. I didn’t know it had gotten beyond the village.” He smiled, showing all his teeth. “Unusual to get a request about such a silly piece of lore, that’s all.”

Wilkins tucked the book back into his bag. “What can you tell me about it?”

Among his open cabinets of moldering books and crumbling papers, the priest looked at home, like a ghost among the relics of his past life. He riffled through a stack of papers in a cabinet. “It’s really just a local legend. I don’t know why you’d waste your time looking.”

“Humor me. Please.”

“There’s—there’s really nothing to tell.” The priest took a handful of yellowing papers from the shelf and laid them on the table. From another cabinet, he took an ornately bound book and set it on top. “This is all we have. Humor yourself, if you like.”

“Thanks,” Wilkins said, leaning over the papers and setting his notepad and pens aside.

“Whatever you do,” the priest said, pausing to look back at the door, “don’t waste your time in the woods looking for it. I think you’ll see why.”

He disappeared. Wilkins watched him drift into the main body of the church, padding toward the altar, then turned his attention to the papers.

This time, he wasn’t going home without solid evidence to lay before the Society.

****

“Five sightings. Four within the last four months. All coinciding with the full moon.”

“Sightings by elderly people, and all entirely unconfirmed!”

“Look, Caleb, just give me the light if you aren’t coming.”

Wilkins stood at the edge of the village, facing the woods. He had his notebook in his hands and a rucksack on his back.

“Another sighting won’t win the Society’s approval again.”

“I’m not after just another sighting.” Wilkins waved his notebook under Caleb’s nose. “I’m going to bring back evidence.”

“What, a sketch? The Society would never—"

“You’d never make it in the Society, Caleb,” Wilkins said. He snapped the notebook shut.

“It just doesn’t seem very scientific…”

“You know nothing about scientific!” Wilkins stuffed the notebook into his pocket. “If I’m ever going to get a look at it, if I’m ever going to show the Society what’s what, then it’s going to be tonight. Come, or don’t.”

He took the flashlight from Caleb’s hand and stuffed it in his other pocket. Then he turned and marched into the woods.

Caleb hesitated on the verge of civilization, then followed.

The sun was just going down, and the light slanted in long golden rays between the trees. On the horizon, the moon was just beginning to rise, full and white. Wilkins crashed through the undergrowth ahead of Caleb, flashlight in hand.

Caleb caught up to him. “What are you even looking for?”

“So you decided to join me.” Wilkins stopped short. “Good. I remembered that the cameras are in your bag.”

“Abel, what are we looking for, exactly?”

“I showed you the sketch.”

Caleb let out a deep sigh that fluttered the leaves on the nearest tree. “I didn’t see it.”

Wilkins slapped the notebook into his hand. “Look, then. But keep it down.”

“What is this thing?”

“I don’t know. That’s what makes it exciting.” Wilkins took a camera from Caleb’s pack and checked to make sure it had film in it. He rubbed the flash with his sleeve, cleaning off a speck of dust. “We need to find a likely place to watch for it.”

Caleb put his head down and followed Wilkins as he stalked through the woods.

The sun continued to lower, and the shadows deepened at the base of the trees. The broken spire of the church was barely visible behind them in the deepening gloom when Wilkins signaled Caleb to halt. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

“The sightings all happened within sight of the spire, at dusk,” he said. “Be silent and listen for it.”

The two of them crouched in a tangle of underbrush. Wilkins rehearsed what he had read in the archive papers. He hadn’t found much. Most of the sightings had been reported in newspaper articles buried with the likes of the personal advice columns. The Society would never admit the reports. But they were all consistent:

A figure the size and general shape of a man, with long fur and long limbs and an inhuman face. The favored explanation in the papers was that it was Old Scratch himself come to haunt the forests. It was likely, he knew, some sort of animal. The question was, what kind?

Night descended around them. A nightingale alighted on a branch and sang.

A little after dark, something moved in the silent forest. The sky still had a faint blue glow, but beneath the trees all was gloomy shadow. Wilkins perked up his ears and peered into the darkness.

Nothing.

“Did you hear something?” Caleb asked under his breath.

Wilkins silenced him with a frantic gesture.

It moved again—a rustle, quiet snapping. Wilkins turned the camera over in his hands, feeling for the shutter button.

Into a shaft of lingering twilight, a familiar tall, emaciated figure appeared. Its long limbs were covered with tattered clothes.

Caleb clutched Wilkins’ arm as Wilkins leaned forward in the thicket, squinting at the suspiciously man-like figure.

“It’s just the priest,” Wilkins whispered, barely audible, as the man stepped into the shadows and disappeared.

Caleb’s hand did not let go. Wilkins had to strain to hear his whisper.

“That wasn’t just—”

In a blur of motion, something long and lean and furry leaped out of the trees. A flash went off, illuminating Caleb’s back for a moment as he fled, screeching, into the night. The screams of Abel Wilkins, caught in its grasp, woke the echoes of the forest again and again.  

****

We of the Society wish to officially thank Caleb Payne for bringing to light evidence regarding the disappearance of former member Abel Wilkins. Some doubt has been raised as to the possible identity of the creature captured on the film that Mr. Payne retrieved from the forest where Mr. Wilkins was last seen. However, our members are aware of how often a bear of medium height, standing at full length, can be mistaken as a man. It is the official opinion of this Society, after much deliberation and study, that the creature in question is a bear, and that Mr. Abel Wilkins has likely, to our great regret as a Society, been consumed.