Henry didn't take too close a look at his surroundings, only to find a table, which he upended and wedged against the door. A lucky imperfection in the floorboards gave the table something to brace against, giving him that tiny, but significant advantage should Hennessy have the strength to batter down the door. Of course, Henry didn't doubt he had that strength.

A silence fell within the cabin and Henry backed away from the door. After a few seconds, he opened the cartridge cylinder of the revolver, only to find spent casings. He had fired off every bullet that he had and Hennessy had shrugged off the damage as though pricked with a needle. In frustration, Henry almost tossed the weapon to the side, but, instead, tucked it back into his waistband. Cautious, he crouched down, removing the knife from his boot that Annie had given him.

Within the confines of the cabin, Henry could hear every breath that he made and tried to calm himself. Panic would do him no favours here. Until a heavy thump caused the door and the table to tremble, dust falling from the log walls. Henry jumped, backing away once again, the knife held between both his hands. When his back touched something that gave way, he didn't want to turn around, but natural curiosity got the better of him.

A single candle burned on the mantle of the stone fireplace, but, even in that meagre light, Henry had to stifle a moan at what he saw. Several bodies, suspended upon hooks, dangled from the rafters. Each had vicious, deep claw marks in their flesh, hung there like trophies awaiting stuffing, or like meat awaiting the butcher to carve them into fillets, or steaks. Henry backed the other way, only for another heavy thump upon a nearby wall to cause him to jump again.

He could do nothing but turn in a circle as the pounding upon the walls moved around the cabin, not in any form of order, as though Hennessy ran around the outside, hitting the walls in random places, amplifying Henry's terror. And it worked. Sweat poured from Henry. He could feel it pooling in the small of his back, trickling down his sides from his armpits, slicking his forehead, cheeks and chin. Cold sweat that did nothing to comfort Henry in the dark.

The cabin had become a trap and he the rat. Desperate eyes searched the entire room, fighting to avoid the gruesome adornments of the roof. He needed a better weapon. A bigger weapon. The axe, stuck in the wall outside, would have served as that weapon had Henry had the foresight to wrench it from the log. In the cabin, he found nothing. Nothing better than the knife he already held, at least.

Dust fell upon him from above, sticking to the sweat upon his face and Henry's eyes moved to stare at the rafters. Then another strike against the door, heavier, this time, with more purpose. Hennessy played with him and still Annie had not reappeared, the warning from Sheriff Earp proving more true by the second.

"Little pig!" From outside, Hennessy called in a sing-song voice, the sound of claws scraping against wood. "I don't need to blow down the house, little pig. I can tear it down, piece by piece and I will have my feast. Let me in, little pig, an' I promise I'll kill you quick."

"The promise of a murderer. Of a monster!" Henry squatted in place, in the middle of the room, his legs shaking enough to fall from his body. "I have no inclination to simply walk to my death, monster."

"Aww, I take issue with that, little pig." The voice came from behind, now, and Henry forced himself to stay still, not following the movement. "Ain't we all monsters? White folks're monsters to the injuns. To the black folks. No-one don't pay no mind to that. You go and kill a few white folks? Then you're the monster. Am I right? I'm right. You know it."

The scouring noise of Hennessy's claws had circled the entire cabin, now, and had returned to the door that Henry no longer held confidence would hold. Table braced or not. A gurgling laugh erupted from outside. A laugh that became a growl. A growl that became a roar and Henry knew Hennessy had completed his transformation. He tried not to think what the monster looked like now, though the thought of black claws and sharp teeth glistening with anticipatory saliva came to his mind.

Henry began to pray. A God-fearing man, he had often found comfort in prayer, yet it felt empty here. God had no sway in the affairs of monsters. Indeed, since the Starfall, many had felt God had abandoned the entire human race. As Drifters had spread out into the world, consuming entire towns and cities. As Skinchangers had hunted abroad with no compunction upon who they fed upon. As Murcies hid themselves away, biding their time, building up their new-blooded kin, wily and deliberate. God had felt further away than ever before. The human race was alone and no God could save Henry this day. Yet, still his lips moved in silent prayer.

A crash tore Henry from his prayers and he scrambled backward, the legs and feet of the dead hanging from the rafters bouncing and battering his head as he kicked out his legs, pushing himself away from the destroyed door. His derby hat, knocked from his head, rolled to a stop before the remains of that door and Henry could see the silhouette of something massive and monstrous framed within the doorway, poor light blackening the figure.

The bodies swung to-and-fro, blocking Henry's view of the beast, its chest heaving as it reared up onto its hind legs. Hennessy had turned to the full form of the Skinchanger, relieving himself of the last vestige of his humanity. Now Henry faced a creature of pure instinct. Of hunger and a single-minded need to hunt and feed. The knife would prove little defence against it.

Then something strange occurred. The beast stepped forward and fell to all fours, its head rearing upward as though about to howl. It roared, muzzle widening to reveal its rows of flesh-rending teeth, and the roar turned into a growl. The muzzle retracted, the teeth diminishing. Fur retracted into the beast's flesh and bones snapped and cracked as the beast returned to the form of Hennessy. He didn't scream, as Elisabeth had when she transformed. He laughed.

Henry could have rushed Hennessy in that moment. Could have plunged the knife deep into the half-man, half-beast, but he could not find the will. He had witnessed many things in his life as a reporter, but had never encountered anything like this. Had never found himself as the focus of attention for such a thing that would once have defied all sense of reality. They were real. Hennessy was real. All too real.

Hennessy returned to his feet, still only half-returned to the man he once was, and began to step forward, taking his time to instil as much terror in Henry as he could. With a swipe of his clawed hand, he gouged a hole in the stomach of one of the dead suspended from the roof and intestines began to fall to the floor, coiling into a grotesque impression of a bloodied rope.

The other bodies between Henry and Hennessy swung as Hennessy passed them, batting at the flesh, the hooks, above, squeaking and squealing against the metal eyes dug into the wood of the rafters. The bodies swung, showing Hennessy, hiding him, showing him, hiding him. Henry, his back against the rear wall, held out the knife at arms' length.

Of a sudden, Hennessy loomed above Henry. He swatted the knife from Henry's hand and it flew away, clattering against the stone of the fireplace and bouncing away with a spark. Henry had nowhere else to run, no more weapons to even attempt to defend himself. He cowered, hands before his face and knew that he had soiled himself, the hot, wet feeling pooling in the seat of his pants. Tears had joined the sweat that slicked his face.

"Well, ain't you just the prettiest thing?" Fetid breath billowed from the distended face, causing Henry to retch. Breath filled with death and blood. "Why, I may just bite you and keep you for my own pleasure. Wouldn't that be nice, pretty little pig?"

"Why? Why must you play and tease and torment?" Eyes squeezed closed, Henry could not make himself any smaller, though he tried. "Have mercy and finish it and save me from listening to your inane chatter and your foul stench. End it!"

He had had enough. His fists slammed down against the rough floorboards of the cabin and he thrust his chin forward, daring Hennessy to kill him. Truth told, had he anything left within his bladder, he would have soiled himself again. Up close, Hennessy's aspect looked even more horrific. Scarred, broken bones, twisted and distended. The man had transformed too much and now held more of the Skinchanger than the man about him. Henry could almost pity him. Almost.

"Alright. Suit yourself." The creature that was once Hennessy flicked out its tongue, snaking it along Henry's cheek, taking sweat and tears upon it as Henry cringed and retched once again. "But I ain't gonna kill you fast. I told ya, y'all had to give in for that. Now I'm gonna have to have a little fun with ya, little pig."

Hennessy raised a hand, fingers spread, claws as black as tar, off to the side. He held the hand there, letting Henry see what was coming. And then that hand disappeared in an explosion of red, thunder rattling the walls of the cabin, blood spraying over Henry's face. Hennessy howled, but that howl did not become a laugh, this time, he turned to face a shadow within the frame of the door.

About to spring, stump of one arm and the hand of the other outstretched toward the doorway, another explosion filled the cabin, setting dust to falling from the rafters once again. The other hand became nothing but a blood stump, but, even as Henry tried to make sense of everything, he could see the flesh of the first stump beginning to knit together already. He wasn't sure the Skinchangers could grow back hands, but neither was he certain they couldn't.

Regardless, before those hands could grow back or not, Hennessy had other things to contend with. Two metal prongs erupted from his back, blood spurting outward in an arc and he fell back upon the floorboards, howling and thrashing. His animalistic legs kicked and bucked, his hand-less arms flapped, battering against the floorboards, but not for long. Something flashed in the poor light, slamming down onto Hennessy.

Three more times something fell upon Hennessy and, each time, he screeched and howled like nothing Henry had ever heard before and there, stood above a now armless and legless Hennessy, the pitchfork standing upright from his back, was the woman. Annie. She allowed the axe to drop to the floor, coated in blood and pieces of flesh, and reached into her vest pocket, removing the half-chewed, half-smoked, thin cigar, placing it between her lips.

"Get up from that, you son-of-a-bitch." She scratched a match, tilted her head to light the cigar, then dropped the match onto Hennessy's writhing body, now only a torso and head. "You gonna sit around all day, or are we gonna interrogate this here fella?"

Henry could only stare.