In Language Arts class a few years back, my class was assigned to invent our own version of the last fight between Rainsford and Zaroff in the short story The Most Dangerous Game by Richard Connell (personally one of the most fascinating short stories I’ve ever read, next to Edgar Allan Poe’s works). Our task was to write a descriptive story about their last battle, a battle in the dark. I happened to dig my story out from the basement, where it was collecting cobwebs in the corner guarded by Zaroff’s vicious hounds; rescued and edited it, and thought to share it with you guys so no one gets devoured by those beasts when the urge to read my story comes about (because it is just oh so tempting). Enjoy!

Outside was a dark, eerie, moonless Caribbean night; the calm before a storm. Rainsford prowled around the frigid medieval bedroom, eyes fixed in utmost concentration on general Zaroff’s stealthy steps that echoed his. Suddenly, thunder struck malevolently! The abrupt gale slammed the bedroom windows shut; rain pounded harshly on the palatial chateau as if it could pierce through its impenetrable stone walls. Immediately, the only source of light flickered off, leaving the room in utter darkness.

“Well, general,” Rainsford mocked. “You tried to be civilized, I see.”

General Zaroff did not reply. Instead, Rainsford only detected the howling of fierce wind outside accompanied by the scraping of the general’s boots on the frigid, hard, and uneven surface. In the meantime, Rainsford frantically raced away from the direction of the sound. He felt along the cool, rough walls that enclosed the stale atmosphere blindly. Nearby, he caught a familiar wisp of musty cigarette fumes entwined with a scent of liquor. Alert, Rainsford spun around! He blocked the swishing weapon coming in his direction in time. The weapon clattered to the floor.

Zaroff chuckled. “You’ve done well, Rainsford. But only one can indulge himself in the soft, excellent bed.”

Rainsford scrambled for the walls in the opaque space. Although unaware of where he was going, Rainsford was desperate to put some distance between the general and himself. His heart thumped wildly. He breathed rapidly. I will not lose my nerve! thought Rainsford as he composed himself. The tangible bile of terror slowly crept into Rainsford’s parched throat as Rainsford realized that he had lost track of Zaroff’s position in the gloom! As if to ease Rainsford’s fear, a violent gust of frozen wind blew through the creaking window shutters, carrying Zaroff’s scent of cigarette and liquor with it.

With an approximate position of Zaroff, Rainsford frantically rummaged through his wet clothes for a snagged tree branch or a rock. Finally, Rainsford’s finger enclosed on a small, round pebble. He threw it in the direction of Zaroff. As the pebble clattered when it struck the stone floor, general Zaroff leaped. Rainsford surged in the direction of the sound of Zaroff’s boots with blind estimation. The mildly intoxicated Devil was finally tackled to the stone walls! While wrestling with Zaroff in the dark, Rainsford used his foot and felt inch by inch on the cold, rough floor for the fireplace poker that was the protruding trigger. Once his foot touched the freezing metallic rod, the velvet curtains of the smooth, wooden canopy bed weaved with various jagged fireplace tools came crashing down from above the bed.

Rainsford heard Zaroff’s yelp followed by a stagger. Then, a sudden gale ripped the window shutters from its hinges, blinding Rainsford with the moon’s radiance. A shadow embraced the moonlit sky as it soared through the gaping hole.

A scream pierced through the opaque darkness of the Caribbean night as the hounds were furnished with a repast.

He had never slept in a better bed, Rainsford decided.