Night Howl Read Online Free Page B

the road from the east. It was a cross between a collie and a shepherd and even though it had been forced to live as a scavenger, it still had firm musculature and good size. As soon as he confronted it, he recognized its hunger and its antagonism. It had become a creature of violence, driven by fear and desperation, suspicious of everything.
    It was angered by its own needs; it despised a body that called for food and water incessantly, a body that demanded warmth and comfort. There was no pride in its gait. It was always stalking, clinging to the side of the road, prepared at any moment to flee in any direction. Its eyes were filled with terror; they were wide, maddening. Its coat was mangy and dull and its ears were turned down, flopping loosely about to signal its sense of dejection.
    The dog was instantly aggressive, expecting a challenge and an attack. It snarled and braced itself in readiness. He studied it carefully and silently and the dog sensed his extraordinary perception. This confused and frightened it. It was as though it had come upon a man with a club, a superior antagonist. It realized it was in some greater danger and moved aside. Then it began to whimper and plead. He could have killed it, cut it up in seconds, but instead he chased it off. He was quick to make it understand that this was his territory. The stray had no claim to it; it had no claim to anything but its own constant thirst and hunger; it had no stomach to fight for causes; the concept of loyalty to master and land was long gone from its consciousness. It ran as though it had seensome ghost of itself, and it didn’t pause to hunt from any garbage cans along the street.
    The day King had attacked Bobby, he was across the street in the shadows of the forest observing. He saw how helpless the boy was, and he saw how frustrated the man had become. He enjoyed every moment of it because he had designed it and it had happened just as he had foreseen it. The pleasure of accomplishment was extraordinary; it was greater than anything he had known before.
    He hadn’t even minded what resulted when the men with the guns arrived. He didn’t care about the dog; he had used it, just as the men had tried to use him, just as they used other animals. Most often, from what he had seen, these animals would die too. The men weren’t terribly saddened by that; they expected the death. This foresight was part of their intelligence. And so was all this part of his intelligence. He had winced when the shot was fired and the dog fell to the side. He had watched it jerk about spasmodically and then die, but he had watched with a scientific curiosity and not with a sense of compassion.
    Afterward, when they had taken the dog away and night had fallen, he went down to the house and sat by that section where he knew the little boy to be. He called to him as the dog had called, and the boy appeared in the window. He wanted the boy to come out; he wanted to take them out of the house, one at a time, and the boy would be the easiest to get. He wanted to begin with him. The boy didn’t come, but he sensed that he was close to coming. He decided he would go back and try again.
    There was no moonlight, but the overcast couldn’t prevent him from feeling the warmth of its glow, as it could prevent men. It was as though he could see through the clouds. It wasn’t cool for him and it wasn’t dreary. He wore the darkness like a second coat. Forhim the night was filled with excitement; his body tingled from his extrasensory perception. His ego made him defiant and he stepped out onto the road, unafraid.
    He wasn’t discovered.
    He went back to the barn behind the old man’s farmhouse and he crawled into a warm corner where he slept, dreaming of success. Before morning, the moon broke free of the clouds, just where he knew it to be.
    At forty years of age, Sid Kaufman considered himself in the prime of his life. He told himself that he was in better physical shape than when