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The White Wolf

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Author's note: This story was collected from a book called “Scary Stories Treasury” that many of you may remember from your childhood. The book is a compilation of three smaller ones called “Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark”, “More Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark” and “Scary Stories 3”. All three books were written and retold by Alvin Schwartz and illustrated by Stephen Gammell. I might’ve made a few small edits, but nothing too noticeable. Enjoy! If there is a story too similar to this one, feel free to delete it.

Long ago, the timber wolves around French Creek had gotten out of hand. There were so many wolves; the farmers couldn’t prevent them from killing their livestock. So the state put a bounty on them. They would pay a hunter ten dollars for every wolf pelt he turned in, which was great pay at the time.

A butcher in town named Bill Wilson thought that was pretty good money, so he stopped working as butcher and began hunting wolves. He was quite the shot. Every year, he killed well over five hundred wolves, giving him more than five thousand dollars. In those days, that was an enviable amount of money.

After four or five years, Bill had killed so many wolves, there were hardly any left in the area. So he retired, and he vowed never to harm another wolf because they were the reason he had become so wealthy.

Then one day a farmer reported that a white wolf had killed two of his sheep. He had shot at it and hit it, but the bullets had no effect on the beast. Soon, that same wolf was seen all over the countryside, killing and running. The creature was unstoppable.

One night, it even came into Bill’s yard and killed his pet cow. Bill forgot about his promise to never harm another wolf. He went into town the next morning and bought a young lamb for bait. He took it out into the hills and tied it to a tree. Then he backed off about fifty yards, waiting under another tree, anxiously watching for the wolf as his gun rested in his lap.

When Bill didn’t come back, his friends began to look for him. Finally, they found the lamb. It was still tied to a tree, unharmed. Though it was hungry, it was still alive. Then they found Bill. He was leaning against the tree where he had waited, dead. His throat had been torn open.

Oddly, there was no sign of a struggle. His gun hadn’t even been fired. Also, there were no tracks in the soil around him. As for the white wolf? It was never seen again.

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