Troubadour Horror Zone: This is the second part of our new horror/thriller series, featuring creatures or myths. We will be posting a new story each week, written by a different author each time, with an introductory essay on the horror character written by Chris Deal. This week the theme is werewolves, and the story is written by Rick Huffman.

Essay on werewolves: A Sort of Transition by Chris Deal

Let’s say it starts with the feeling of your heart being ripped from your chest. This pain will flow through your
being like cooling wax, slowing and congealing as it reaches your extremities. Your arms, legs, it’s like they are on fire, and your stomach contorts with a ravenous, primeval hunger that brings tears to your darkening eyes. Your mind is the last to go, submerged in that natural state, where it’s just the hunger to drive you, and the hunt, and the transition is complete, and you’re not you, but something better. (A Sort of Transition, soon to be published in Cienfuegos, Brown Paper Publishing.)

The werewolf is a monstrous mix of man and beast, taking both the intelligence and cunning of humanity and the raw, feral ferocity of the animal world and combining them into one dangerous nightmare. The concept of the man/beast hybrid has been in the collective consciousness for millennium, since the time when our day to day lives were more connected with nature, and in fact survive to this very day, when in many areas all we have of the natural world are parks cut into the landscape of pavement and skyscrapers.

The term itself, werewolf, comes from the Old English, “wer” for man, and “wulf” for wolf, though of course there is a lot of debate as to if this commonly accepted explanation is completely accurate. Another Old English term has been consider, “weri,” to wear, as in a man wearing the skin of a wolf. Still, there are many, many possibilities and, of course, little chance of real consensus beyond the “wer” possibility. Beyond “werewolf” is the “lycanthropy,” an Ancient Greek synonym, “lýkos” for wolf and “ánthrōpos” for human. Lycanthropy itself is a psychological condition, a delusion where “one imagines oneself to be a wolf or other wild animal (Dictionary.com).” While lycanthropy was originally meant to refer to transitions from man to wolf, in the clinical sense it can refer to a transition to any sort of animal one feels they are in the process of becoming. The transition to any other animal can also be referred to as “versipellis.”

Today’s image of the werewolf has become much more cohesive than it was in past, and no aspect of the monster is more representative of this than the way one would become a werewolf. In today’s popular culture, a person can become the wolf by being bitten (and of course, surviving the attack) by a werewolf, which passes on the condition as if it were a disease, though in traditional, mainly European traditions, such modes of transmission are rarely, if ever, depicted. In those customs, techniques such as simply putting on a wolfskin belt, applying a magical salve, or even drinking water out of a wolf’s paw print. Magic itself is a common motif in werewolf beliefs. Further, especially in land of a Christian persuasion, Satanic influence is often seen as a cause of such transformations. Roman Catholics who were excommunicated were said to become werewolves, as well as those who made pacts with the Devil. However, much like the so-called Satanic Panic of the eighties, such fear of devilish practices at work are often the populace trying to find order in the chaos inherent in the world. A belief among anthropologists and sociologists is that werewolves arose out of explanations for serial killers in earlier times, or simply rogue or older beasts who either were unable to hunt their traditional pray or found it to be easier to kill humans.

Like how varied a man could become a werewolf is in the early traditions, to kill a werewolf is just as diverse. Today, the only way considered to put the beast down is with the use of silver, normally via a bullet forged of silver (even though it has been proven such a ballistic would be no where near as effective as its more mainstream ilk). One such example in history of the silver bullet is the still discussed Beast of Gévaudan, a man-eating beast that stalked the south-central region of France for close to three years that was, at least in most recent depictions, put down by a silver bullet. The superstitious villagers believed it to be a werewolf, a curse from Satan, while many experts have come to believe the animal to be an Asian Hyena. The silver bullet aspect, however, is said to be a recent addition to the story. Beyond silver, some of the most common remedies for werewolves were plants, such as mistletoe, rye, and wolfsbane, though in some cultures wolfsbane was said to be the cause.

Still, you have the nature of the supposed beast, the murderous instincts of nature, that has remained in our minds since the fourth century BCE when Herodotus wrote in his Histories of a tribe called the Neuri that would transform into wolves once every nine years, or the character Lycaon who became a wolf when he consumed human meat (itself an early analogue of the Wendigo belief of the Algonquian people). Like vampires, most cultures of the image of the man who turns to beast ingrained into them. There are many different forms the werewolf can take. There’s the basic man into a wolf that looks and acts no different than that found in nature, such as the end result of Jack Nicholson’s 1994 film Wolf, where after slowly becoming more animalistic in his day to day life, Nicholson’s Will Randall returns to nature as an animal. Then there’s the dire wolf, a much bigger and more powerful wolf, such as in the seminal An American Werewolf in London. The first werewolf movie, 1935’s “Werewolf of London” (which gave the world 1941’s Lon Channey Jr. classic “The Wolf Man” and its the upcoming remake, the aforementioned “An American Werewolf in London”, and the Warren Zevon chef d’oeuvre “Werewolves of London”) gives us the man-wolf, a more humanoid version that mostly walks upright and yet is still covered in fur.

From the early days of humanity, we’ve feared that we really aren’t that far removed from the animal world. We’ve created explanations for the evil in our souls by reasoning it can only be through the animal’s influence. People can be monsters, but not just because we are, but because of a curse or willingly giving our soul’s over to Satanic forces. By putting on the skin of a wolf, we become more than what we are, or go back to what we once were.

Werewolf story: Bloodlines by Rick Huffman

The first bullet from the .44 Magnum struck the huge beast in its left pectoral, penetrating muscle and breaking underlying bone. The second slug, fired seconds later, found its mark in the abdominal wall, just above the navel. The fiend, flung back by the impact, recovered, the torn flesh mending itself as the surface of water after a pebble drops into it: the shooter, twenty-year-old Doug Ackerman, prepared for a third shot.

The furry beast charged, knocking Doug to the cabin’s wooden floor and ripping the handgun from his hand. Razor sharp canine teeth, now only inches from Doug’s throat, dripped thick saliva, suspended momentarily and then released, falling onto Doug’s lips. The monster’s huge lungs exhaled, sending fetid breath over Doug’s face.

Suddenly, the fiend sprang upward, backed a few feet away and stood with its head tilted, its eyes to the ceiling. A raucous roar escaped its dark lips, a macabre rendition of a human laugh.

Doug scrambled to his feet as the beast metamorphosed into human form, its guttural laugh transforming into the hearty laughter of his older brother Mark.

“Told you that puny .44 wouldn’t stop me,” said Mark.

The two brothers stood in the living room of their parent’s modest three bedroom home.

Suddenly, the home’s front door opened, their father’s figure in the doorway, his arms filled with split firewood. He gave the boys a quizzical look and then started for the storage box beside the fireplace. His right foot struck the .44 still lying on the floor, sending it sliding across the polished wood and into a wall.

“What’ve you two been up to?” He asked, dropping the wood into the storage bin and then picking the gun up.

Doug looked at Mark, waiting for him to answer. When he didn’t, he cast his eyes to the floor, saying, “I bet Mark that your .44 Magnum would knock him off his feet while he was in his werewolf form.”

William, the boy’s father, shook his head, placed the handgun on a nearby stand and said, “You ever think of what would have happened if someone would have placed a silver bullet in that gun?”

Mark opened his mouth to answer, but his father cut him off.

“Of course you didn’t. Well, let me tell you something young man. I’ve not only seen what silver bullets can do, I survived one, and I can tell you they hurt like hell. Fortunately, when I was shot, the bullet went through my thigh, and didn’t lodge in the tissue to poison my system.”

“Sorry dad. We’ll never do it again,” said Mark, dejectedly.

William, raising his right hand to his face, used his open fingers like a comb to push long thick graying hair from his eyes and back across his forehead.

“Look at me,” William commanded his sons.

Both boys looked into their father’s steel gray eyes, momentarily seeing a raging storm that they both had seen before, which scared the shit right out of them.

“Well, all right . . . However, if I ever catch you doing something that foolish again . . . ”

Mark and Doug noticed their father’s lower jaw start to extend, then recede to its normal state.

Looking at the clock on the wall William said, “Better make sure this living room is put back in order, then clean up: your mother will be home soon.”

******

“What’s for dinner tonight mom?” asked Doug, opening the refrigerator door.

Thelma, Doug’s mother, stood at the kitchen sink, her dark shoulder length hair falling to just under her chin, as she scrubbed a large iron skillet.

“Oh, I thought we’d finish off that side of beef your dad brought home last night.”

Doug, instinctively licked his lips, rolled his head back and howled.

“Stop that, what if one of your friends was here? Start thinking before you do that, no telling who might hear. We had to move way out here on account of similar habits you boys displayed in public.”

Doug laughed and said, “Hey, I wasn’t the one that peed on old man Nelson’s car tire, while he watched from his living room window.”

Thelma, stifling a chuckle, said, “Your brother thought it was funny, until the cops showed up. It was bad enough he did it, but even worse the way he did it: running across the lawn naked and raising his leg.”

“Yeah,” said Doug, taking a drink from a milk carton. “Besides, that’s when the cops started noticing other things going on in the neighborhood, such as dogs and cats coming up missing; the sound of wolves howling during the night; reports from neighbors about wild animals kept in our home. It got so we couldn’t get a decent hunt. Besides, they even started to concern themselves over the criminals we were taking off the streets. They should have been happy about that.”

“Well, pardon me for saying this, but it’s the humans that are strange. Killing for no reason, putting all those drugs in their bodies, always stepping on one another to get to the top of the pile.”

“Speaking of strange have you talked to that guy who moved in just down the road?” Doug asked.

“No, I saw him at the store the other night, why?”

“Just something about him. I walked past him the other night. He’d come out to check his mail. I got a whiff of something strange, not sure what it was. He sure gave me a hard look when I walked past.”

“Well, just leave him alone, and he’ll leave you alone.”

Mark Ackerman sat at the swamp’s edge, brushing at mosquitoes as they lit on his neck and ears. Frogs sang their choruses as an occasional nocturnal creature rustled through the dense grass along the shoreline. Mark was starting to like the country living: the solitude, quiet nights under the stars. He’d noticed a difference in his parents too; they weren’t so uptight. His father was staying away from the bottle. He hated it when his dad drank. Some of the boys at school complained about their fathers’ drunken rampages; hell, they were nothing compared with his dad’s. His mother once had to change into the creature, then drag him back home one night after he’d demolished a downtown bar: we moved from that town shortly after.

Mark’s ears twitched, hearing a sound. A dark form was on him before he could move, its grip on his arms like bands of steel. He felt sharp teeth at his throat, and then suddenly the being was swept away, a thunderous roar carrying it into the darkness. Sounds of a tremendous struggle came from a wooded lot nearby, lasting for several minutes, then silence. Meanwhile, Mark made his transformation and bounded into the woods. The scent of his father came to his nostrils, mixed with another scent he was not familiar with. Finding a trail of bits of flesh, clothing and blood, Mark snarled, enraged as he charged through the woods. A few minutes later he found his dad, lungs heaving, blood dripping from his wolf mouth. The two changed to human form again.

” What the hell was that?” Mark asked.

“A vampire,” said his father, between breaths.

“Right! You’ve always said there is no such thing as vampires.”

“Well, I was wrong.”

“How did you know it was after me?”

“I didn’t, I just wondered where you’d gone, so I decided to follow your scent. I picked its rotting odor up just seconds before it attacked you. It didn’t bite you, did it?”

Mark felt his throat.

“No, I don’t feel anything.”

“Damn, we find a nice home, and now we have a vampire somewhere nearby,” said William.

“You must have hurt it badly,” said Mark.

“Not badly enough it seems,” said William. “We’d better get back home and tell your mother and brother.”

******

Weeks went by and the leaves were now brown and gold, falling from their branches.

“I saw our neighbor again last night,” said Doug to his mother as she straightened the living room.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, he was sitting in a lawn chair under the big oak in his front yard.”

“I found out his last name is Johnson,” said Thelma.

“Sure isn’t a friendly sort,” said Doug. “I said hi as I walked past and he just looked at me, never saying so much as hi, bye or kiss my ass.”

Thelma stopped her work suddenly.

“You don’t suppose?”

“Oh, that he’s dad’s vampire?”

“Well, yes. I mean you never see him during the day, and I’ve yet to see him buy food items at the store.”

“Think we should tell dad?”

Thelma thought for a moment.

“Well, I don’t know. I’m just afraid he’ll overreact and do something rash. I mean if it isn’t the vampire, your father might kill an innocent person.”

“I heard that,” said William, stepping through the doorway that led to the basement.

“Now William, don’t you go down there and cause a problem,” said Thelma.

“I’m not going to, but I am going to find out who that guy is.”

William waited until after dark and while still in human form, walked through the darkness to just outside Johnson’s house. Silently, he made his way around the house peering in windows. Stopping short at a basement window, he stared down at a coffin sitting on a cement pedestal, its lid closed.

“That does it this guy’s dead meat, even more so than he already is.”

William made the change, his werewolf form breaking through the back door of the house like it was tissue paper. In the dim light he saw Johnson, a large caliber gun in his right hand. A thunderous explosion shook the walls and William’s experienced sensory smell picked up the odor of burned silver as it left the gun’s barrel. Waiting for the terrible burn to enter his chest and end his life, he suddenly heard a thud behind him. Turning, he looked down at a dark form on the floor as it writhed about and then lay still. Looking back to where Johnson stood, he saw the pistol lowered and Johnson in tears. Sensing the danger had ended, he changed back to human form.

“ What the hell is going on here?” asked William, lowering himself to make sure the dark figure was dead. Looking into the ashen face on the floor he saw the man looked just like Johnson.

“He was my twin brother,” said the man with the gun, between sobs.

“You mean he was a vampire, and you’re not?”

“Exactly,” said the man. “Tony, that was my brother, and I went for a vacation and visited some relatives in Romania. We were living in Chicago at the time. While in Romania a vampire bit Tony. He later disappeared and I traced him here by watching for unusual deaths across the country. I just arrived earlier today, and I was waiting for him to awaken. I just couldn’t bring myself to kill him as he slept. I might never have killed him, but I couldn’t let him kill you.”

William looked at Tony’s brother as his brow furrowed in thought.

“But why didn’t you kill me? I mean, after all, most people would consider me a monster too.”

Suddenly Tony’s brother took on the shape of a huge werewolf, then back to human form again.

“I see,” said William.

“Yes,” said Tony’s brother. “I only kill those that do harm to society. You and I are the same; for otherwise you would have already laid waste to these weak humans you live among.”

An hour later William left the Johnson home, but not before he invited his new friend, Roy Johnson, to dinner the following night.

******

“How was that steak?” William asked Roy Johnson.

“Wonderful,” said Roy, wiping the blood from his lips. “Just the way I like them, raw.”