(pencil; 2001)

It was the century before the automobile was invented. A monstrous bat's coming was foretold in local lore. He appeared once every generation, for just one night. Anyone who did not hang a wreath of herbs could fall victim, and there had to be the correct herbs, a combination that somehow kept the beast at bay.

Long ago, monks on the mountainside made sure the formula for the wreaths was not forgotten by carving it upon a great stone. Rain pitted the granite, though, and the shapes of the letters was growing corrupted. There had once been many of the monsters, and the monks had fought them.

Now only one remained. It was white as the moon and they called it 'Frostfang,' for it came when the harvest had been gathered, and the frost was upon the stubs of the wheat.

In the morning, one wreathless door would lay in splinters. Inside, white leg bones with tatters of red flesh would be found scattered. The skull would be in pieces like eggshells, the rich and juicy brain eaten. It was said that he preferred women to men; they were fattier. Nine victims had been women; only three, men.

The monks begged the villagers to put the wreathes up. "Frostfang is coming!" No one could doubt it, yet, one door was without a wreath.

That belonged to the 17 year old Oorram. His widower father had been the previous victim. Like his father, Oorram was round of face, with thick thighs and a stocky body, and a gut that hung out just a little over his belt. He walked with a slight waddle; he was not known for running fast.

This young man was, however, known for his skill at smithing and carpentry. Fine threads criss-crossed the entryway. If broken, they would let swing many chains with barbed hooks and bells.

On the night in question, Oorram sat himself in the hardwood chair, a crossbow across his lap. The tip of the quarrel was made of silver. Beside him stood a sizable box on a tripod. Inside was a sheet of copper coated in silver. Not only did Oorram intend to shoot the beast, he hoped to take its picture...