The moon, heavy and swollen with the impending perigee, cast a cold, silvery glow over the desolate landscape of Gévaudan. Beneath its light, the village and the surrounding forest seemed alive, not with the whispering of the wind or the rustling of trees, but with a darker presence—the eyes of wrath, watching, waiting.
For over three years, the Beast of Gévaudan—La Bête, as it had come to be known—had terrorized the land. It was no mere animal, no ordinary predator. Descriptions of it varied, but all agreed on one thing: it was massive, unlike any wolf or bear they had ever encountered, with eyes that burned with a malevolent intelligence. It moved with unnatural speed and was as cunning as a human. A creature that was not a wolf, but a monster that defied the natural order.
After months of devastation, King Louis XV finally summoned his royal hunters. They would rid the kingdom of La Bête, or so they thought. Among those chosen was Jean Chastel, a hunter of renown, known for his unparalleled marksmanship. He had heard the rumors—whispers of the creature's ferocity—and understood the gravity of this task. But Jean was no ordinary man; where others saw terror, he saw a challenge. And he would rise to meet it.
The hunters gathered at the royal hunting lodge, each one armed to the teeth. They were ready to face what had become the stuff of nightmare, their nerves steeled by a mixture of fear and honor. But Jean, ever calm, stood apart from the group. He adjusted the silver bullets in his pouch, a gift from the church, blessed by a priest who believed that only silver could end the curse of La Bête. He was prepared—he had to be.
That night, the hunters ventured deep into the forest of Gévaudan, where the trees grew thick and the underbrush tangled. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and the faint stench of death that hung in the air like a cloud. They had set their trap, and all that was left was to wait.
Suddenly, a rustling. The wind stopped, and the night was still. Every man's heart skipped a beat. The creature was near.
Jean raised his musket, steady as ever, his finger poised on the trigger. In the dense underbrush, movement. Low growls. Then—a scream. The air was shattered with the sound of claws tearing through flesh.
La Bête erupted from the darkness, its massive body crashing into the hunting party with a terrifying speed. It was an abomination, a blend of human intelligence and animalistic ferocity, with fur as black as the void and eyes that glowed like embers. It moved faster than any wolf, its limbs powerful and predatory.
Jean fired first, the silver bullet slicing through the air with a shriek, striking La Bête in the shoulder. The beast howled in agony, a sound like nothing from this world—more like the scream of a man driven mad. But it did not fall. Instead, it lunged at the nearest hunter, tearing him apart in a blur of blood and fur. Another shot rang out, but the creature was too quick. It danced around them, its claws raking across armor and flesh alike.
The air was thick with the scent of blood, and panic spread like wildfire. The hunters scattered, but they were no match for La Bête's speed. One by one, they fell—the beast was unstoppable, a whirlwind of death. Its claws raked across the flesh of the royal hunters, and its jaws snapped like a vise, breaking bones and severing limbs.
Jean was the last man standing. Calm, calculated, he tracked the beast's every movement. His musket was already reloaded, the next silver bullet ready. La Bête paused for a moment, its gaze locking with Jean's. It studied him, its eyes intelligent and calculating, as if it knew it had found its equal.
But Jean did not flinch. With the steady hand of a master marksman, he raised his musket again. La Bête charged, faster than before, but Jean was ready. As the beast leapt toward him, Jean fired again. The silver bullet pierced the monster's chest, just below its heart. The beast staggered, a bone-chilling howl tearing from its throat.
For a moment, the world seemed to stop. La Bête stood there, its breathing labored, eyes filled with rage and something else—a flicker of fear. Then, with a final, defiant roar, it turned and fled, leaving a bloody trail through the forest. The sound of its retreating steps faded into the night.
Jean stood there, breathless, the weight of what had just happened pressing heavily on him. His mind raced. Had he truly killed it? The silver bullet had struck deep—yet there was no guarantee. The beast had vanished into the forest, wounded but not defeated.
He turned to the remaining hunters—three, including himself. Their faces were pale with shock. They had survived, but at a great cost. Jean, however, was determined. He knew he had done what no one else had been able to do. He had wounded La Bête. He had to return to the king. He had to make them believe.
But not all was as it seemed.
The king received Jean's report coldly, dismissing his claim. "It is nothing more than a wounded animal," Louis XV scoffed, refusing to believe that the creature had been slain. "Return to your hunt, Chastel. We do not need your superstitions here."
Jean was stunned. His victory—his certainty that he had killed La Bête—was dismissed as nothing more than a mistake. But one of the other hunters, Peter, was not so easily dissuaded. He could not accept that La Bête had simply vanished. So, in secret, Peter tracked the creature's trail deep into the woods, determined to see this through to the end.
Peter's journey took him into the heart of the forest, where the trees grew thick and the moonlight barely filtered through the canopy. After hours of searching, he found what he was looking for—a house on the edge of the woods, where the sounds of a man crying out in agony pierced the night air.
Peter hesitated, his instincts warning him that something was wrong. He crept toward the house, but before he could reach it, he saw it—La Bête, standing at the doorstep, watching him with those burning eyes. The beast's lips curled into a twisted grin.
"You are foolish to follow me, mortal," La Bête growled, its voice low and guttural. "I am immortal. Under the perigee, I shall heal. I will spread, and when I return, I will devour you all, starting with you."
The creature's words were filled with a cold certainty, a promise of doom. Peter froze, paralyzed by fear. La Bête's form shifted—its monstrous body twisted and contorted as it struggled to change, the painful transformation a reminder of the power the creature wielded. But, under the perigee, the beast could not remain human for long.
La Bête roared in frustration, its body rippling with the agony of transformation. But Peter, terrified, could do nothing as the creature lunged at him with brutal speed.
The battle was brutal.
Peter fought with everything he had, but La Bête was too powerful. The creature's claws slashed through his flesh, each strike sending waves of pain through his body. Twelve claw marks, deep and jagged, tore into Peter's chest, raking across his ribs. La Bête's jaws sank into Peter's shoulder, ripping through muscle and bone as if he were nothing more than prey.
Peter screamed, but his voice was drowned by the beast's deafening growl. With each attack, Peter felt his life slipping away. The pain was unbearable, and yet, as he looked into the beast's eyes, he saw something else—a hunger, a promise that this was just the beginning.
As La Bête stepped back, its form shifting back to its monstrous state, it glanced at Peter one last time. "You will become one of us," it whispered. "The curse of the perigee will take you. You are already mine."
Then, with a final, cruel laugh, La Bête vanished into the night, leaving Peter broken and half-dead on the forest floor.
Unbeknownst to La Bête, however, the creature had already infected Peter. The bite, the blood, the curse—it had taken hold of him. As the perigee waxed and waned, Peter felt his body changing. He was becoming a Beast.
And with that, the terror of Gévaudan would continue, not just with La Bête, but with its new spawn—the Beast within Peter, who would soon spread its curse across the land.
As Peter lay in the cold, damp dirt of the forest floor, his blood staining the earth beneath him, he could feel it—a deep, gnawing cold that had nothing to do with the night air. It started in his chest, like ice creeping through his veins, then spread out through his limbs, making his fingers and toes tingle with an unnatural sharpness.
His body trembled, his breath shallow, as he struggled to push himself up. The pain from his wounds was overwhelming, but it was nothing compared to the horror bubbling in his gut—the feeling that something inside him was changing. Something wrong.
The voice, low and rumbling, seemed to fill the air around him, as though it was coming from the very earth itself. It was La Bête, though not quite. It was a voice that resonated in his head, as if the monster's words were now carved into his mind, etched into the very fabric of his being.
"You will become one of us, Peter. It is inevitable now. The perigee has chosen you. You will be reborn, stronger, faster, and unyielding... You will devour them all... starting with your own kind."
Peter's stomach lurched, a sound like bones snapping twisted his insides as his chest tightened, heart pounding erratically. His breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale a painful effort. He clutched at his stomach, feeling something shift beneath his skin—bones, muscles, flesh contorting, reshaping.
He gasped in agony, trying to scream, but his voice was caught in his throat, unable to break free. He could feel his eyes burning, his vision blurring with the intense pressure building within him. His hands clenched into fists, the claws digging into his own flesh. And then, his skin—a sickening ripple spread across his face, as if something wasn't quite right with the world anymore.
"You're not human anymore, Peter," La Bête's voice continued to whisper in his ear, darker now, like the growl of a predator just before the kill. "You are mine, and you will never escape me."
The agony intensified, his bones cracking and reforming, muscles bulging under his skin. He felt the claws pushing against the tips of his fingers, threatening to tear free. His teeth lengthened, and a savage hunger began to rise within him. He wanted to scream, but he could only hear the guttural growls that now escaped his throat.
La Bête had marked him. He could feel it. He was becoming the Beast.
Peter stumbled forward, legs buckling beneath him as the transformation tore through his body, his bones snapping and reforming. His scream morphed into an animalistic snarl. The forest around him seemed to warp, the trees becoming shadowed and warped as if even nature itself recoiled in fear of what he was becoming.
He tried to stand. He tried to fight it, to hold onto whatever shred of humanity remained inside him. But it was no use. La Bête had promised him immortality—an eternity of power, strength, and hunger. And Peter was slipping further from the man he once was.
Through the haze of pain and rage, Peter could barely make out the sound of footsteps approaching—a faint rustling, the crunch of leaves. He turned, unable to stop himself. His muscles were too strong now, too powerful.
In his mind, the Beast's laughter echoed, mocking his helplessness.
"There is no escaping the hunger, Peter. Embrace it. Let it consume you."
His vision blurred once more, a red haze settling over everything. The last remnants of Peter—the man who had fought so hard to stop La Bête—faded into the darkness as he became something else, something far worse. His hands clenched again, sharp claws emerging from the tips of his fingers. A twisted grin spread across his face.
He was no longer Peter.
He was La Bête.
The scene shifts back to Jean Chastel, standing at the edge of the forest, looking out toward the horizon. The chilling wind whipped around him, rustling the leaves of the trees. In the distance, the moon hung low, its pale light shining down on the darkened land.
He had killed La Bête. At least, that's what he had thought. But now…
He could feel it—the presence of something still out there, lurking just beyond the trees. Something that felt even worse than the Beast he had already slain.
He reached for his rifle, the cold metal comforting in his grip. But his hand shook, just slightly. The echoes of La Bête's last words haunted him.
"I will come back..."
Suddenly, the air shifted. There was a sound in the trees, too faint to make out, but unmistakable. And then… the ground rumbled beneath his feet. A shadow darted between the trees, fast and ferocious. He heard it—an unearthly howl, unlike anything he'd ever heard before.
Jean Chastel's heart raced.
It wasn't over.