I always looked forward to the hunting season. It was not because I had the instincts of a killer, but just as an adventurous sport. A sport where you forget the world around you, its just you and your target.

This year I won’t be hunting, maybe its time for me to change my sport and just take up meditation. I am not a believer of supernatural but what I witnessed last year was just inexplicable.

The hunting grounds where all hunters joined on the first day of hunting, were allotted small cottages depending on what kind of hunting they enjoyed. Those looking for tigers and other wild beasts were into more dense forests.

I preferred hunting birds, as it does not give me any fear of the bird attacking in case I missed a shot. All the hunters used to meet every evening to discuss their hunting experiences for the day. It was nice place to meet people and most of us were regulars.

I heard from a friend that there was this new hunter living two cottages away from me at the edge of the forest. He never joined us, actually no one saw him either, only heard him shooting at night. Most of us thought, maybe he was hiding from the law. Why would he keep himself so secluded away from all of us? A murderer? A hermit? He had registered under the name of James Stockwell.

Next morning I decided to shoot partridges commonly found at the edge of forest. I shot a real big partridge right under the doorstep of this man. My dog brought it to me. I took the bird and went right up to James Stockwell and presented it to him as a good gesture of friendship.

He was a huge man, red- haired and red- bearded, very tall, very big, a placid and polite Hercules. He was very well mannered and invited me warmly and offered me coffee. I did not wait to be asked twice and joined him inside his cottage. Then cautiously I put to him some leading questions under the guise of a lively interest in his life and doings.

He answered without any embarrassment, told me that he had travelled much in Africa, India and America. Then I talked about hunting, and he gave me exceedingly curious details which he had experienced in pursuit of the hippopotamus, the tiger, the elephant and the gorilla.

I said " Those are all formidable beasts?"

He laughed and said "Oh no, Man was the worst. Man was often my game."

He showed me his rifles, various hides and ivory. But what caught my attention was a black object stood out in contrast against a square of red velvet.

"Oh my God, that was a hand – a man’s hand!"

It was not a bleached and cleaned skeleton hand, but a dried- up black hand, with its yellow nails, its bared muscles, and traces of dried blood – blood smeared like mud on the bones – cut off cleanly as if by a hatchet in the middle of the forearm. The wrist was tightly tied with iron chain, so strong and sturdy, good enough to hold an elephant in leash.

Looking at my astonished face, he explained to me that it was the hand of his deadliest enemy. I could feel a pit in my stomach, but I did not want to show it so I said to him, "He must have been a strong man judging by the muscles on his forearm?"

"Yes, but I proved stronger. He smiled. "I put it on that chain to hold him fast."

"But that chain is of no use now, the hand will not try and escape." I said jokingly.

"It has always wanted to go, that chain was necessary".

I thought that joke was in bad taste so I thanked James for his hospitality and went on my way, away from this madman.

Two weeks passed I never thought again of this man or his wild fantasy of keeping a hand as a prized game possession. But I did not know that it was not the end.

One afternoon my friend came over with sheer fear in his eyes and said that James was murdered. I rushed to his cottage where I saw the police taking down details of the murder scene. James had died of strangulation. His face was swollen, terrified, seemed to wear an expression of awful fear. He held something between his clenched teeth, and his throat was pierced with some kind of iron object, and was covered with blood.

The police remarked that it looked like a skeleton had strangled him. I almost gave out a cry but swallowed it down my throat. I looked towards the wall at the spot where I had seen the horrible skinned hand, it was no longer there. The chain hung down, broken.

I left from there. In the evening every one was discussing this incident over dinner. It seems that further investigations had revealed that James had bit his assailants hand so hard that he had bitten his finger out and it remained in his mouth when he died. Other than that there were no clues, no fingerprints or footprints. It was a mystery, another baffling unsolved cases in the police files.

But I knew, the hand wanted to go back to his owner.