What Fear Leaves Behind
A young jackal becomes the last scapegoat in a village ruled by fear.
Author’s Note:
This story is a metaphor about what it means to be different in a society built on fear. It reflects how communities can turn against themselves, driven not by trut, but by a survival instinct, misinformation, and prejudice.
It is a reflection on scapegoating, on systemic injustice, and on the quiet devastation of being othered.
I invite you to read this with empathy, and to consider what it means when fear overrides compassion, and how quickly people can become monsters to those they no longer understand.
Night had descended once more upon the village and the mist crept in. Howls and snickers echo from the distant forest, creeping in like a cold chill. Every night when the sun hid behind the sky, the creatures began to prowl. It has been a decade since the moon vanished, and with it, the tides began to die, and the people started to lose themselves. Like those old zombie movies, people began to become mindless, they sought destruction and the powerful fed on the powerless.
We built walls around our villages and posted guards to watch over our people, but even that meant nothing. Slowly but surely, predators fell prey to their own instincts, weak became strong, strong became feared and the night swallowed our world in a single breath.
Now, those who live inside the confines of the quarantine zone live in fear of the ferals. Contact, even briefly, is said to cause one to turn. There is no mercy in this world anymore. Even a perceived affliction is acted on, a suspect is either executed on sight, or dropped into the wastelands beyond the quarantine. Those who wind up beyond the quarantine are never seen again.
In the last two years, predators in the village fell by the dozen. The community feared the possibility of anyone becoming afflicted. It is believed that only predators can contract the illness. But lately, signs have begun to show—cracks in the community's foundation.
Mac, the last of the predators, a young jackal, no older than nineteen, fell victim to the fears of the prey. His isolation began to creep in, slowly at first. His friends slowly began to distance themselves from him; town meetings pointed fingers at the predators in the village, even though there was only one left. He began to feel isolated, feared, and condemned.
By community vote, he was forbidden from drinking the water provided from the well. His food was the poor quality produce that had either gone off, or didn’t grow properly. They were all but forcing him out.
He knew their fear of him was not without reason. For a decade now, predators had fallen one by one to the affliction. Giving into their carnal instincts, feeding on prey, killing without justification. But this was his home, and despite their fears, he loved them all the same. Slowly, he began to become silenced, he was beginning to forget the sound of his own voice, how to talk to people without fear. He was losing himself, and he had no idea why. To him, it was their fear, their need to feel safe even when they knew they weren’t.
Mac sat quietly in his home, the last of the predators, isolated, feared, completely alone. The thoughts of the family he had only days past, lingered in his memory. The townspeople all talk of the way they were banished from the village, to ensure the safety of everyone–but he never heard so much as a goodbye from any of them. He hoped that one day, the affliction would pass and those who became feral, turned back and returned home. In the quiet of night, sometimes, he would look out of his window beyond the quarantine, hoping that his family were safe out there. Even in this world torn by the afflicted, he hoped that they were safe, fed, loved, at least in their own way.
Mac tossed and turned in his bed, he had found it increasingly difficult to sleep lately. Perhaps it was the warming of the weather–or maybe it was the isolation. His role in the community was becoming increasingly questionable, no one talked to him unless they had to. His food was becoming worse and worse. Hell, even the electricity in his house was switched off. He knew they were rationing resources, but his home was the only affected.
The sun crept through the window and the light caressed his face, showing the elegant marking of a young jackal. His fur, an odd greyish brown, a mark of his mixed heritage. His eyes, golden brown, so young and still full of hope. He stirred, the sun warmed him just enough to force him to wake up. Sticking to the routine his mother had laid out for him, he fetched himself a glass of water before going for a morning run. This was his way of burning energy first thing. His mother believed that if they did intense exercise in the morning, the preyfolk would feel safer knowing that pent up predator energy was gone.
Mac found himself at the edge of town, staring into the distant woods, a longing in his eyes. It had been six months since his sister had been exiled from the town. He was informed of her symptoms the day she disappeared, never before, and she was never mentioned since. He thought that it was odd, she seemed herself that day, her bubbly personality, her big blue eyes, she even helped a family of rabbits fix their broken shed. She was reported by the very same family to the community leaders as having flashes of feral instincts. Her brutish strength and her abnormal perception, all symptoms of her abnormalities. But this was just who she was. To Mac, it was an odd thing to grapple with, her everyday life being deemed an abnormality.
Mac found himself shedding a single tear. He missed his family, without them, or without his wider predator community there to support him, he was becoming nothing more than an unwanted guest in a town of people who wanted only to live the way they planned. He noticed the way the preyfolk stare at him, their eyes clouded with fear–or was it hatred? He tried not to think about it too much, this broken world had led us all to a place we cannot return from, and to vilify them for their fears, would be to ostracise them from his heart. Mac had always held his village close, they were as close as his own family had been, hell, he was raised by preyfolk, alongside his own kin. But that never relieved the feeling that they feared him more than he gave them reason to.
Mac continued his run, people had begun to wake, venturing outside to complete their morning routine. He passed many families, smiling, waving, showing them his warmth. But none met his gestures, and once more, Mac felt the isolation, his world, so closed off, when it was already so small.
He arrived at his home, the front door ajar. Odd, he always made sure to close and lock it in the morning before his runs. He stepped inside, into the entryway, peering into the hall. He smelt the strange presence of someone, or something inside.
The door creaked softly as Mac pushed it open. The smell hit him first—thick and iron-rich, metallic and wrong. His hackles rose. He stepped slowly into the hallway, ears flicking, heart thudding. There, just beyond the light spilling from the doorway, something slumped against the wall.
He took a cautious step closer.
It was a bundle of bones—small, animal. Something that had once been a hare or a squirrel. But it was the blood that stopped him in his tracks. Fresh. Still wet. Smeared across the floor like someone had dragged the carcass into his home.
No, not just anyone; this was deliberately and carefully positioned. The bones were arranged—almost ceremonially. A pattern of red arcs extended outward from the centre like a sunburst. Mac’s stomach clenched. He stumbled back a step, his throat tight. His mind raced through the possibilities. Was it a warning? A message? A trap?
Then he heard it—the gasp.
He turned sharply. A young preyfolk woman stood just outside his front gate, a basket of roots in her hands. Her wide eyes locked on the open door, on Mac, and on the blood pooled at his feet.
Her mouth opened to scream.
Mac lunged to the door. “Wait—don’t! I didn’—!”
But she was already gone, her shriek rising, high and sharp, echoing through the still morning air.
In the next hour, everything collapsed.
They came for him, half the village stood at his door, the other half behind makeshift barricades, peeking out from shuttered windows. The guards—boys he had grown up with—looked through him as they shackled his wrists.
They didn’t listen when he explained; they didn’t need to, for them, the sight of blood was enough. The whisper of a scream. The memory of what predators had once done.
In a trembling voice, one of the elders declared him “turned.”
Mac looked out across the crowd of faces he had known all his life. Some avoided his gaze. Some stared with open hatred.
He thought of his sister. Of his mother’s morning routines. Of running until the sun touched his fur just right. He didn’t struggle when they led him toward the quarantine gate. He knew that whatever was happening was planned.
Mac felt the fear rise in his throat, the cold grip around his heart. This was the end of his time in the safety of the village. His thoughts raced, exploring the possibility that perhaps, this is what happened to the other predators. Possibly, the affliction that he had grown up being told about wasn’t the thing they made it out to be. Perhaps it was never the blood, or the fangs, or the moon. Maybe it was the fear. And the fear was never ours.
Mac was escorted to the gate, but before he was uncuffed, one of the elders spoke.
“This is the last of the predators in our village, the last of those who could turn. With this final act, we cleanse our bloodline. Let no trace of the beasts remain.”
Mac tried to make sense of the words–what final act? What is he talking about? He never felt any different, he was the same as yesterday, and the day before that, was this affliction something that only preyfolk could see?
“Wait, what final act?” Mac asked, the final words to part his lips before the blade entered his throat. It was the searing sensation of metal tearing into flesh and shredding his jugular. The blade was pushed out and his throat was ripped out with it. In his final moments, the last thing he saw was the sinister smiles and empty stares of those who he had grown up with, who he had loved like his own family.
Reflection:
Mac’s story is fictional, but the feelings behind it are very real.
Fear can twist people, isolate them, turn neighbours into threats, and silence them into safety. And sometimes, without meaning to, we become part of that—just by going along with it, just by choosing comfort over compassion.
This story isn’t about any one specific group. It’s about what happens when we stop seeing each other clearly, when difference becomes danger, and when fear speaks louder than empathy.
You don’t have to be part of a marginalised group to feel this, or to recognise it in others.
Maybe there’s someone in your life who’s been left out. Someone who walks through the world just a little quieter than they used to. Someone who laughs less than they did before.
Ask yourself:
Have I misunderstood someone just because they’re different?
Have I remained silent when I should have spoken up?
Am I reinforcing something harmful, even without realising it?