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Speaker 1: The Thing in the Forest by Bernard Capes. Raven speaks

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into the snow locked forests of Upper Hungary steel wolves

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in winter, but there is a footfall worse than theirs,

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to knock upon the heart of the lonely traveler. One

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December evening, Elsbett, the young newly wedded wife of the

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woodman Stefan, came hurrying over the lower slopes of the

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White Mountains from the town, where she had been all

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day marketing. She carried a basket with provisions on her arm.

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Her plump cheeks were like a couple of cold apples.

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Her breath spoke short, but more from nervousness than exhaustion.

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It was nearing dusk, and she was glad to see

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the little lonely church in the hollow below the hub,

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as it were of many radiating paths through the trees,

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one of which was the road to her own warm cottage,

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yet a half mile away. She paused a moment at

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the foot of the slope, undecided about entering the little, chill,

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silent building and making her plea for protection to the

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great battered stone image of our Lady of Succor, which

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stood within by the confessional box. But the stillness and

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the growing darkness decided her, and she went on. A

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spark of fire glowing through the presbytery window seemed to

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repel rather than attract her, and she was glad when

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the convolutions of the path hid it from her sight.

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Being new to the district, she had seen very little

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of father rule as yet, and somehow the penetrating knowledge

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and burning eyes of the pastor made her feel uncomfortable.

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The soft drift, the lane of tall, motionless pines stretched

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on in a quiet like death. Somewhere, the sun, like

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a dead fire, had fallen into opalescent embers. Faintly luminous,

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they were enough only to touch the shadows with a

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ghastlier pallor. It was so still that the light crunch

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in the snow of the girl's own footfalls trod on

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her heart like a desecration. Suddenly there was something near

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her that had not been before. It had come like

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a shadow, without more sound or warning. It was here

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there behind her. She turned in mortal panic and saw

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a wolf with a strangled cry and trembling limbs. She

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strove to hurry on her way, and always she knew,

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though there was no whisper of pursuit that the gliding

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shadow followed in her wake. Desperate in her terror, she

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stopped once more and faced it. A wolf? Was it

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a wolf? Oh? Who could doubt it? Yet the wild

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expression in those famished eyes, so lost, so pitiful, so

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mingled of insatiable hunger and human need, condemned for its

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unspeakable sins to take this form with sunset and so

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howl and snuffle about the doors of men until the

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blessed day released it. A werewolf, not a wolf. That

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terrific realization of the truth smote the girl, as with

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a knife out of darkness. For an instant she came

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near fainting, And then a low moan broke into her

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heart and flood it with pity, so lost, so infinitely hopeless,

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and so pitiful. Yes, in spite of all, so pitiful,

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it had sinned, beyond any sinning that her innocence knew

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or her experience could gauge. But she was a woman,

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very blessed, very happy in her store of comforts and

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her surety of love. She knew that it was forbidden

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to succor these damned and nameless outcasts, to help or

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sympathize with them, in any way, But there was a

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good store of meat in her basket, and who need

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ever know tell? With shaking hands she found and threw

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a sop to the desolate brute, then, turning, sped upon

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her way. But at home her secret sin stood up

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before her, and, interposing between her husband and herself, threw

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its shadow upon both their faces. What had she dared?

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What done by her own act, forfeited her birthright of innocence,

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by her own act, placed herself in the power of

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the evil to which she had ministered. All that night

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she lay in shame and horror, and all the next

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day until Evan had come about his dinner and gone again.

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She moved in a dumb agony, then driven unendurably by

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the memory of his troubled, bewildered face. As twilight threatened,

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she put on her cloak and went down to the

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little church in the hollow to confess her sin. Mother,

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forgive and save me, she whispered as she passed the statue.

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After ringing the bell for the confessor. She had not

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knelt long at the confessional box in the dim chapel,

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cold and empty as a waiting vault. When the chancel

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rail clicked, and the footsteps of Father Rule were heard,

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rustling over the stones. He came. He took his seat

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behind the grating, and with many sighs and falterings, elspet

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avowed her guilt, and as with bowed head she ended.

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A strange sound answered her. It was like a little laugh,

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and yet not so much like a laugh as a snarl,

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with a shock, as of death. She raised her face.

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It was Father Rule who sat there, And yet it

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was not Father Rule. In that time of twilight. His

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face was already changing, narrowing, becoming wolfish, the eyes rounded

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and the jaw slavered. She gasped and shrunk back, and

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at that, barking and snapping at the grating with a

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wicked look, he dropped, and she heard him coming. Sheer horror,

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lent her wings with a scream. She sprang to her

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feet and fled, her cloak caught in something. There was

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a wrench and crash, and like a flood, oblivion overswept her.

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It was the old, deaf and near senile Sacristan who

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found them lying there, the woman unhurt but insensible, the

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priest crushed out of life by the fall of the

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ancient statue. Long tottering to its collapse. She recovered for

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her part. For his no one knows where he lies buried,

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but there were dark stories of a baying pack that night,

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and of an empty, blood stained pavement when they came

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to seek it for the body, and of the thing

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in the forest.