“See these hoofprints. We can trace each hoof as it hits the ground. Something weird happens here though. They change in size and they make a deeper impression. And there’s only a pair of em instead of all four.” The hunter was old man, all bones and sinew. Joel had never found out his real name. Most people called him Patches.

Joel scrunched up his face trying to puzzle out what Patches was implying. “Meaning what?”

“Well either someone taught that moose to stand up and dance or we got ourselves a real were-moose.” Patches did a little jig.

“A what?” Joel asked.

“You got cotton in your ears boy? I said a were-moose.” The old man touched an index finger to his nose.

“What the fuck is a were-moose.

You know what a were-wolf is? Well, this is the moose-y version."

“How come I’ve never heard of it before.”

“They’re pretty rare. I came across a pair in my youth and I’ve been watching for them ever since. If we bag one, we’ll be rich and famous. Think of it. Patches and ummm, what was your name again?”