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too much for me.” You shake your head and drop another piece of wood onto the fire. “So who does the choppin’ in your story?”
    “Sometimes it’s me. Sometimes Dad. Sometimes it’s nobody, and the allibeaver infects everybody at the camp, who then go home and infect more.”
    Another thudding sound echoes from the woods.
    “Maybe it’s the allibeaver,” John Luke says, only half-laughing. Great minds think alike.

    Do you and John Luke try to find what’s in the woods? Go here .
    Do you stay by the fire and go to sleep? Go here .

THE HUNTER

    YOU WAIT A FEW MINUTES and hear the wailing sound again. This time it’s farther away from you, deeper in the woods. You follow it.
    You’ve hunted animals many times at night, so this is no different.
    The trail leads you through the trees and over a hill. It’s cooler outside now and the sky above is clear, allowing enough light through the treetops that you don’t need to use your flashlight.
    The animal scream rings out again. You’re getting closer.
    You keep your rifle pointed in front of you, not wanting to be caught off guard by some kind of rabid beast. You imagine the headline: Duck Commander Phil Robertson Attacked by Wild Animal in the Middle of the Night .
    At that moment, you make out another sound, distinctfrom the first one. It’s a deep, heavy panting sound, almost like a big dog.
    Or how about a wol f ?
    You look at the moon and notice it’s full. You didn’t realize this earlier.
    The howling surrounds you again. This time it definitely sounds like some kind of wolf. Except it’s more intense than any wolf you’ve ever heard.
    The bushes in front of you shake with a wild, loud scampering noise.
    Then . . .
    Something rushes at you from the right. Attacks you. Crashes into you, bites your right forearm, and forces you to drop the rifle.
    But you manage to pick up the weapon again and fire at the big, hairy beast. Once. Twice.
    Yet it’s gone.
    The pain in your arm is intense. You touch it with your left hand and can feel the warm blood.
    You use the flashlight to survey the land around you. But you don’t see or hear anything.
    You better go get this wound treated.

    Do you go to the hospital just in case you need a rabies shot? Go here .
    Do you bandage the wound at home? Go here .

STAGED

    YOU FINALLY MANAGE TO WIGGLE the blade out of the trunk. It’s more than just a knife   —you’re holding a machete in your hands. “Look at this. It’s gotta be about an eighteen- or twenty-inch blade.”
    As you turn the machete to examine it, you see something you wish you would have noticed sooner. Something red.
    Something that looks exactly like blood.
    And it appears to be fresh.

    It takes about ten minutes for John Luke to locate where the blood might have come from.
    “Hey, Papaw Phil. I think I found something.”
    John Luke is standing near the outdoor theater with seats in a half circle descending the hill. He points to the stage,where oftentimes a worship leader speaks to the campers and leads music. Lots of songs and prayers have been offered up from this little section of the world right here.
    “Do you see that?” he says.
    Both of you walk down the hill and step onto the wooden platform.
    Sure enough, there’s some type of animal in the middle of the stage. And it’s not moving, even when you poke it with the machete.
    You’ve seen plenty of dead animals before, and so has John Luke, so the sight doesn’t gross you out. But you are a bit fascinated with why this particular one might have been left here. Is it a message?
    “Well, can’t just leave this thing in the middle of the theater,” you say. “Let’s clean it up and head back . . . after we’ve secured the perimeter.”
    Before leaving, the two of you search the stage for a few minutes but can’t find any other clues.
    Eventually, you give up and tell John Luke to deposit the animal in a nearby garbage can. “Don’t get guts on you,” you warn John Luke.