The Wild Hunt

By Jared Sandman

THE HUNT HAS BEEN SOUNDED

The ghoulish horsemen of the Wild Hunt are cursed to ride forever as part of the Furious Host. Criminals and sadists in life, their savagery knows no bounds in the aftrelife. Their leader, the hellish Lord of the Hunt, has come to reclaim what was stolen from him so many decades ago . . .

A TOWN FROZEN IN FEAR

The village of Wodanfield doesn't celebrate the holidays. Its citizens stay locked indoors during the yuletide. Only a few are old enough to know why, because they remember the evil that is returning. When Erik and Allie Herne move to Wodanfield, they consider the natives' odd habits to be charming small-town quirks. Until their neighbor, Ivan Hertz, reveals the truth . . .

A PAYMENT IN BLOOD

As mutilated corpses stack up and the body count rises, the Hernes become aware they're connected to the ongoing violence. Because now the Host is after Allie, and they won't stop 'til she's dead. Forced to transform herself into a warrior from a bygone era, she confronts the undead menace. Only then does she realize there's no escaping . . .

THE WILD HUNT

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jared Sandman
• Release date: Jan 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781476312941

Jared Sandman

Jared Sandman was born in Canton, Ohio, in 1985. He began selling his first stories professionally while in high school and wrote his first novel upon graduation. (That book, BLOOD MONEY, sits in a desk drawer where it will never see the light of day.)LEVIATHAN was his second attempt at the long form, which he wrote two years later. This was followed by THE WILD HUNT, DREAMLAND, THE SHADOW WOLVES, BLACKSTONE and FLASHBACK. He's currently working on his eighth book.Jared lives in Los Angeles and can be reached through his website, www.jaredsandman.com. Follow him on Twitter @JaredSandman.

Book preview

THE WILD HUNT

Copyright © 2010 by Jared Sandmann

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © by Noah Bradley. Visit www.noahbradley.com to view more of his artwork.

Also available in print from Createspace, Amazon, Barnes & Noble or direct from www.jaredsandman.com.

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * *

The Hunt Has Been Sounded

The ghoulish horsemen of the Wild Hunt are cursed to ride forever as part of the Furious Host. Criminals and sadists in life, their savagery knows no bounds in the afterlife. Their leader, the hellish Lord of the Hunt, has come to reclaim what was stolen from him so many decades ago . . .

A Town Frozen in Fear

The village of Wodanfield doesn’t celebrate the holidays. Its citizens stay locked indoors during the yuletide. Only a few are old enough to know why, because they remember the evil that is returning. When Erik and Allie Herne move to Wodanfield, they consider the natives’ odd habits to be charming small-town quirks. Until their neighbor, Ivan Hertz, reveals the truth . . .

A Payment in Blood

As mutilated corpses stack up and the body count rises, the Hernes become aware they’re connected to the ongoing violence. Because now the Host is after Allie, and they won’t stop till she’s dead. Forced to transform herself into a warrior from a bygone era, she confronts the undead menace. Only then does she realize there’s no escaping . . .

The Wild Hunt

* * *

THE WILD HUNT

JAREDSANDMAN

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

WODANFIELD DIDN’T CELEBRATE Christmas. That was the conclusion Erik Herne reached as he drove through the rural town with his wife. There was no hint that the year’s most popular holiday was a mere three days away. Shops back in Minneapolis had their seasonal wares on display since before Thanksgiving. The buildup to Christmas seemed to get longer with each passing year. Here in Wodanfield, however, the couple had yet to spot any stringed lights, festive lawn ornaments or a single wreath.

I bet they’re Jewish, he said.

Who’s that? Allie asked. Her gaze was trained out the passenger’s-side window.

"Everyone. That’s the only thing I can figure. Not a snowman or Christmas tree in sight."

I don’t think Minnesota has an overwhelming Jewish population. Maybe if we were in Boca Raton.

I’ll never spend another Christmas in Boca.

When Erik was in high school, his mother sent him to her parents’ house in Florida for the holidays, an annual trip that he dreaded. Christmas in the Sunshine State felt forced, empty. Winter in Florida was as hot as Minnesota in summer. Sans snow, hot cocoa or sledding, the twenty-fifth of December lost its majesty.

Hmm, Allie grunted. It was something she said to substitute for speaking when conversation lagged or she didn’t feel like talking.

Don’t be like that.

Like what? she asked.

You haven’t said a thing all day that wasn’t monosyllabic.

Would you rather I wax poetic?

"Anything would be better. I don’t understand why you’d hate somewhere like this."

I spent four years here and thought I’d put it behind me.

This doesn’t seem like a bad place. Erik viewed the town through the eyes of a tourist, a visitor from afar. The streets were unfamiliar to him, the people strangers.

"Places aren’t bad, she said. They’re only reflections of the people who inhabit them."

So you’re saying the folks here are awful?

That’s not what I mean.

I’d just like to know why you —

Forget it.

We’ve been handed a golden opportunity, one I don’t want to squander.

"I said forget it."

He immediately dropped the touchy topic. Erik wondered briefly whether she had been taking her medication. That could explain her combative mood. He quickly chastised himself for thinking such an unfounded thing.

They had arrived in Wodanfield on Monday afternoon, five days ago, and her disagreeable disposition hadn’t changed since first hearing of her uncle’s death.

Initially Erik blamed the grieving process. Uncle Jerome had helped raise Allie and her sister after their parents died. Erik gave his wife enough space to work through her emotions. He expected a deluge of mourning and instead received a trickle. Allie’s former psychotherapist once told him that grief manifested in different ways for different people. Some individuals outwardly sobbed, while others kept their feelings locked inside. He assumed Allie was one of those whose grieving process was more internalized.

He’d tried on a couple of occasions to cultivate a safe environment where she could share those bottled sentiments with him. Much to his chagrin, the plan always backfired, and she’d become more withdrawn and defensive. In the four years he’d known her, only one of them as man and wife, he’d never seen her act like this. It wasn’t normal for Allie to be so introversive, and that concerned him.

Silence descended on the car like a thick fog. The sun was blinding this time of year, so low on the horizon. Vehicles passing on the opposite side of the road were nearly invisible, no more than moving shadows.

The winter had been relatively calm thus far. No blizzards had yet blown through northern Minnesota. The same held true in Minneapolis, where they’d spent the last two years living together in a duplex. Their landlord had pressured them to sign another twelve-month lease, which left Erik ambivalent. He wanted to move somewhere cheaper, even if that meant finding a smaller apartment. When they learned Allie’s uncle had bequeathed his farmhouse to her, the decision was made on their behalf. Allie wanted to stay at the duplex while they renovated the residence. Erik argued it made more financial sense to move into her uncle’s home. If it wasn’t condemned or hazardous, why spend the money each month for rent? Especially since they were saving up to start a family.

Erik was more excited to leave the city than his wife. Despite her qualms, being first-time homeowners was simply too fortunate to pass up. The landlord wanted them to vacate by New Year’s Day; the Hernes had their belongings packed by mid-December and were out of the apartment by the eighteenth. That had been their first night in Wodanfield, and they’d since taken three trips back to Minneapolis to retrieve their personal effects. The final items that remained were major furnishings, and those had arrived by moving van that morning.

Look forward to sleeping in our bed? he asked.

Yeah, those sleeping bags have thrown my back outta whack. It’ll be nice to have a regular mattress again.

They were driving from nearby Thief River Falls, where they’d picked up paint and plumbing fixtures at Home Depot. Erik had a three-page list of items that needed to be fixed in the aging farmhouse. Most were minor repairs: a hole in the plasterboard above the laundry room, a few cracks to spackle over in the basement foundation, mousetraps to set in the attic. However a few projects required major work.

While remodeling an entire kitchen or re-roofing a house would intimidate most men, it didn’t faze Erik. Construction jobs had been scarce recently and it would be therapeutic to stay busy, if only for their own benefit. Of course he’d rather make money than spend it. There were enough punch-out projects to keep him occupied through the rest of winter. The real work would begin after the spring thaw.

Allie didn’t want to stay longer in Wodanfield than necessary. A good six months’ worth of work on the property would increase the resale value and add instant equity. By the end of next year, they expected to have flipped the house for a significant profit. Erik estimated they might make north of two hundred thousand dollars on the real estate listing, between the structure itself and the surrounding acreage. That amount of money would be more than adequate for relocating anywhere in the country Allie desired. She had mentioned how much she loved New England. She’d never visited the East Coast, only saw photographs in magazines with titles like Vermont Cottages and Maine Destination.

Where did you put those Christmas boxes? Erik asked.

Which ones?

Three of ‘em, I think, all marked X-MAS on the side.

I saw them somewhere, maybe the dining room.

The farmhouse was littered with unpacked cardboard boxes filled with everything from clothes to books to dinnerware.

Do you wanna put up some of the decorations?

It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?

There were more pressing matters at hand. Next year perhaps, if they were still in Wodanfield.

"It’s never too late for Christmas. This is our first holiday in the new place. It’d be downright wrong not to celebrate."

If you want, knock yourself out.

They don’t have to be up very long, just through the new year. Everything will be down and packed away by the middle of January, I promise.

Despite being raised in a secular environment, Erik’s family had observed the holidays. His mother saw the value of bestowing in her kids the principles of charity and selflessness. It was Erik’s favorite time of year because it fostered a sense of togetherness he aimed to pass on to his own children. It was crucial to impart —

"Look out," Allie cried.

A shadowy form raced from a line of trees to dart across the road. Erik nearly didn’t spy it through the grime-caked windshield. As he slammed on the brakes, the front tires hit a patch of black ice on the macadam and pulled hard to the left. He wrenched the steering wheel right to stop the car from spinning out.

It didn’t work.

The sedan slid off the pavement and lurched into a ditch with a jerked halt. Had there been oncoming traffic at that moment, both of them could’ve lost their lives.

"Shit, Erik said. He pounded the dashboard in frustration then turned to his wife. You all right?"

Allison looked herself over for injuries. She was fine.

The dutiful husband stepped out of the car to check for any damage. The gully appeared as a level sheet of snow, deceptively hiding the ditch. There wasn’t any harm done to either them or the vehicle, so that was positive news.

"What was that thing? Allie asked as she got out of the passenger’s side. It looked like a dog or something."

That was no dog, Erik said, except perhaps a mastiff or dane.

A wolf maybe?

An improbable guess but not impossible for rural Minnesota. He’d seen wolves in the wild before, though not since his boyhood.

Too big.

Erik had seen the form escape over a snowy embankment. There was no doubt it had been a hairy, four-legged creature with a tail. He still had difficulty believing it to be a wolf. The figure was large, the size of a juvenile black bear. He mentioned that fact to his wife.

Aren’t they asleep this time of year? While it was true the bears should’ve been hibernating, it wasn’t unprecedented for a few to waken for a time before going back to sleep. Where’d it go? she asked.

Erik didn’t answer. He scrambled up the slight incline for a better view. Not expecting to actually find the animal, he wanted to know in which direction it had fled.

Here he saw . . . nothing?

A conspicuous lack of anything, including paw prints.

His eyes scanned the snow for tracks. They’d be difficult to discern in the sea of whiteness. You saw it come across here, right? he called.

Allie traced the beast’s route with her finger. It came from there, across the road and over the hill where you’re standing.

That’s what I thought. His pant legs beginning to soak through, Erik trudged back to the car.

We have to get going, Allie said.

Wait a minute, will ya? He crossed the blacktop. "Had to be about here," he said and probed the ground for any evidence. No prints at this spot either, only a pristine blanket of snow beyond the brown sludge cast to either side of the street by traffic.

I’m getting cold, Allie shouted.

Then get in the driver’s seat. I’ll need you to steer. He returned to the car and inspected it more closely. The tires had sunk about a foot into the snow, all the way to the front bumper.

Allie got in and watched him through the windshield.

Okay, put it in reverse, he said.

She shifted gears and hit the accelerator. The engine revved, tires spinning.

"Slowly," he stressed.

She tried again less aggressively. The front wheels dug deeper into the snowbank.

Hold up, hold up. He motioned for her to stop. With his feet he cleared an area behind each of the tires, hoping for better purchase without a layer of snow beneath the rubber. Okay, try it again.

The second attempt proved as futile as the first. After sixty seconds he instructed her to cut the gas. The sedan had moved ever so slightly, and it became clear the only way to get free would be to push the car out of the ditch.

Allie rolled the window down a crack. The dashboard heater was going full blast and she didn’t want any warmth to escape. Want me to call for a tow truck? she asked.

Erik rubbed his hands together to revive the feeling in his fingertips. No, no, no. Each word came with a puff of condensation and condescension from his lips. Lemme try something else. He crouched down, took a firm grip of the front fender with both hands. His legs were spread in a power stance, his elbows bent. I’ll push on three, he said. "I want you to tap the gas gently. One. Two. Three."

Erik pressed hard, put his full weight and energy into his strained arms. Allie tapped the gas, and the car inched backward. "Com’on, he said to coax himself. Little more." His forearms and biceps burned, and his breath came out in quick pants. At last his strength gave way and the sedan fell back into its rut.

"Sonofabitch."

Down the roadway he spotted a pickup heading toward them. Erik watched the green truck pass by, silently cursing the driver for not stopping. Then suddenly the brake lights flashed and the truck pulled off the road. A moment later the driver stepped out and walked up to the car.

Get stuck? the stranger asked.

The front end dipped into the ditch; otherwise, I could’ve gotten it out myself. Erik reached to shake the gentleman’s hand. I’m Erik Herne.

Donald Zimmer, the stranger said. Wish I had my winch with me. I’d be able to pull you free in a jiffy.

Between the two of us, we should be able to dislodge it. Erik pointed to the driver’s side. My wife, Allison.

Donald nodded at the woman, who waved in return. He took a moment to inspect the bumper. All right, let’s get this back on the road.

Erik took the same stance as before. Donald had a different approach, facing away from the car and digging his boot heels in the ground as he gripped the fender behind his back.

Are you both ready? Erik asked.

Yeah, Donald said as Allie nodded in approval.

"Okay. Push."

The pair grunted while they funneled exertion into their hands. The car moved a fraction and fell back. We may have to rock it a bit first, Donald suggested. He shifted around to mirror Erik’s posture.

Push up then let it slide back. If we build enough momentum, that could work.

Erik relayed the strategy to his wife. When we push, tap the accelerator; when we stop, lay off. Allie signaled with a thumbs-up.

Both men braced themselves for a final push. Using this new method, it took several minutes to work up the sizeable amount of thrust required to free the car. At last the back tires rolled onto the blacktop and the front ones found enough grip to escape the gully. The car fished sideways and Erik lost his footing for a second before recovering his balance.

Allie backed the car to the proper side of the street and lowered her window. "Thank you," she called.

Donald said, No problem.

Really, how can we show our appreciation? Erik asked.

Don’t worry ‘bout it. A few months ago someone lent me a spare tire when one of mine blew out. They told me to pay the good deed forward. Maybe you’ll help someone in need down the road.

That sounds fair, Erik reckoned. He shook the man’s hand again before Donald started away. Say, you haven’t seen any wolves ‘round these parts, have you?

Wolves? Not since the eighties. Why’s that?

Some animal came bounding outta the woods and ran in front of us. That’s actually how I lost control of the car. We only caught a glimpse of it.

Which you believe was a wolf?

Some kinda canine, big damn thing. Moved like a dog anyway.

The redness in Donald’s cheeks waned. He muttered, That’s dandy.

Erik couldn’t remember the last time he heard somebody say dandy, a word from another age, foreign to the modern zeitgeist.

Donald’s gaze went to the timberline then back to his truck. Listen, I gotta get movin’ along. The missus will holler at me if I’m late for supper. In truth Donald Zimmer wasn’t married. Suddenly any excuse to leave seemed preferable to staying put.

Allie’s the same way. I should let you go. Thanks again.

Donald turned on his heels, made a quick stride to the pickup.

Erik found the man’s reaction a bit queer, though nothing too out of the ordinary. Except that look on the man’s face puzzled him. He couldn’t quite define it — alarm perhaps? Or dread.

Erik joined his wife in the car, happy to be where it was warmer. He thawed his frozen hands in front of the dashboard heaters. Homeward bound, he said.

You wanna drive?

No, I’ve had my fill for the day.

Through the side mirror, Erik observed the pickup pull onto the road and head west toward Wodanfield. For an instant he saw a dark form atop the snow embankment where they’d been. The same black figure they had witnessed before. And it was watching them drive away.

CHAPTER TWO

THE NAME ON the mailbox read Stockton. Every time Erik drove by he was reminded to change it to Herne, and in each instance — like a doddering Alzheimer’s patient — he forgot until the next time he saw it. The property itself included almost two dozen acres, twenty of which were arable. Jerome Stockton never tilled the soil, so it was still rich with nutrients.

A barn used to accompany the two-story farmhouse. All that remained of it was the cobblestone foundation. It had been razed fifteen years ago after a lightning bolt caught the building ablaze. The rest was woodlands, birch and evergreens mostly. A few century-old oak trees punctured the open air of grazing pastures, their branches barren for winter.

Allie parked next to the house and popped the trunk. Don’t forget the stuff in the backseat.

After they unloaded their shopping haul, Erik mentioned the Christmas decorations again.

There are better things we could do, Allie told him. The carpet in the back room ought to be ripped up. I have to unpack and wash every glass and dish we have. She gestured to their queen-sized bed, in pieces at the foot of the steps. And the bed needs to be reassembled.

I knew you’d understand, Erik said and kissed his wife on the cheek before disappearing into the living room.

Allie fixed an early dinner of chili and cornbread while Erik scoured the house for his Christmas boxes. Since her husband insisted on spending time outdoors, he might as well have a hearty meal in his belly.

Within an hour Erik had eaten and found himself nailing carpet tacks along the front eaves of the porch. Spaced eighteen inches apart, they were perfect for hanging strings of miniature lights. Erik didn’t worry about the inevitable increase in their electric bill. He’d only keep them on from sunset to bedtime, five or six hours each night.

While he spread the lights, Allie came out to comment on his work. I don’t know who you’re trying to impress. We don’t have any neighbors.

They’re for us, Erik said as he descended a ladder, which leaned against the overhang. A private light show for you and me. He walked to the side of the house and plugged a pronged outlet into a covered electrical socket. Multicolored lights suddenly flared to gaudy brilliance. Whaddya think? he asked.

I like the white ones better. They’re more tasteful.

It’s lucky no one else can see them then, Erik said with a goofy grin. She frowned at him. Cheer up. He fell backward into the snow, kicking his legs and waving his arms to form an angel in silhouette. "’Tis Christmas. Be of good cheer," he said in a thick cockney accent.

Allie laughed and turned away as her husband tried to pull her to the ground beside him. She escaped his clutches and darted off. He jumped to his feet and chased her across the lawn, pelting snowballs at her.

Allie ran from the driveway to the tree line. She scooped up handfuls of snow to lob at Erik. One lucky shot clipped him in the chest. He returned with two more, one that hit a tree trunk behind which she hid.

"I call a truce," Allie yelled.

Your surrender’s denied. I accept nothing less than full conquest.

She took off her fuzzy white cap and waved it as a sign of peace. A moment later she came into view, hands in the air. I give up.

Any treaty must be sealed with a kiss, he said.

That can be arranged.

Erik walked toward her, arms outstretched for an embrace.

She pounced while his guard was down, hurling one snowball after another from a secret cache at her feet. He was hit several times before dropping to his knees.

This battle to you, he cried in melodramatic fashion, but the war is far from over.

Allie bent to kiss her husband on the forehead. All’s fair in love and war. Time to go inside.

But I’m not done, he said as he got to his feet. Think you could gimme a hand with the final decorations?

Allie glanced at the dimming sky. Better be quick. I don’t want to get caught in the dark.

Last night had been the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. From here the amount of daylight would increase incrementally through the spring. The sun now began to set about four in the afternoon; by five o’clock there was full darkness. Allie remembered that impenetrable blackness from her years on the farm. To this day the nighttime unnerved her, one of the reasons she preferred the city. At least light pollution ensured it was never fully dark in Minneapolis.

The sun dipped low in the west. Erik guessed in twenty minutes it would be too dark to stay outside.

You stake the yard sign by the driveway. I need to drill a screw in the front door so we can hang a wreath. Those are the last two things we need to —

"Ssh, Allie said, index finger to her lips. Did you hear that?"

Erik shook his head. He listened intently, ears trained for any exotic sounds. The only thing he heard was the breeze blowing through the brittle branches of the forest.

After thirty seconds he said, It’s the wind.

"No, not that. Listen."

He humored his wife for another minute before his patience ran out and he began hiking back to the house. The crunch of snow underneath his boots was the lone noise he perceived. We need to move — Before the sun sets Erik was about to say when the words caught in his throat.

A long, wailing cry echoed in the woods.

"What is that?" Allie asked.

It went on for several moments, a pained howl that echoed from all directions.

Sounds like a dog, Erik said.

Or a wolf.

Probably someone’s bloodhound treed a raccoon or something. I think we’re in deer season, so hunters and their dogs should be out in force.

Or it’s the same animal that ran across the road, he thought. Whatever that creature had been — an oversized mutt or bear cub most likely — it had been left miles behind.

Let’s finish up, he told Allie and put his arm around her waist as they walked to the farmhouse. It was a gesture of affection . . . as well as one of protection.

* * * * *

Even with his ample construction skills, it took Erik more than an hour to assemble their bed. Earlier he discovered he hadn’t yet unpacked his tool kit and didn’t know in which of the many boxes it had been stored. After finding it (in a box marked KITCHEN of all things) he proceeded to refit the headboard together with the box springs and footer. The last step was to tighten the shoulder brackets so the mattress wouldn’t fall through. With Allie’s help they replaced the queen-sized mattress on top, which she then fitted with bed sheets, blankets and pillows.

Pleased by her husband’s progress, Allie later made him a cup of hot chocolate, his favorite winter beverage. She searched the house, mug in hand, until she located him in an upstairs bedroom. Erik sat cross-legged on the floor, boxes opened in a circle around him. He held a ceramic figurine of Santa Claus, part of a holiday collection his mother had bought him one Christmas. The statuettes represented Santa’s various guises from around the globe: Saint Nicholas, Pere Noel, Father Christmas, Sinterklaas, Julenissen of Norway and Germany’s Weihnachtsmann.

"Look, I found the