His Weakness

In 1890, my great-grandmother Takoda was only a child when her ancestors told her stories while they huddled around the campfire with handmade blankets from buffalo hide. Later, she told my mother the same stories about humans who could walk on all fours and pale skins and drink your blood. Nowadays, no one talks about the past, which leads us to believe they are just scary stories the tribe elders tell for fun or to put fear into the youngsters so we won’t enter the woods outside our borders. However, I believe nothing they say. But my grandmother does and never lets my family forget it. I usually get grounded for laughing at her, thinking she’s a crazy old woman.The story of my great-grandfather is one that my grandmother sears into our brains. He was killed by ‘the creatures’ while saving our tribe. She says the Alpha of the pack helped him escape the blood-sucking leeches after being attacked in the woods, leaving him wounded too severely to make it out on his own. But I never un

The legends are true. Both night stalkers and fangs are very much real, and I’m standing between the two.How could I be so oblivious to it? Always scoffing at my grandmother’s stories. Maybe this is my punishment for being a brat and not listening.There is nowhere for me to go. The only choice I have is to decide if I want to die by the night stalkers or the fangs. I think I’ll take my chances with the wolves. They seem like they’d give me a quick death. The bloodsuckers would probably keep me around for feedings, letting me die slowly and painfully.There’s no more time for thinking. So, I make a choice and run towards the wolves.The larger of the wolves tilts his head, confused.He must think, what a dumbass.I'm going to die anyway. Why should I care what everyone thinks of me? I never did before. It's not like anyone likes me anyway. I can see it now - the whole reservation celebrating my death. A crowd of my peers cheering and clinking their glasses of beer, happy that they ar