by Guy N Smith
The moon is the key to the existence of this terrible creature. Without it he is powerless, once it begins to wane and dawn breaks he must return to human form, slinking home, tortured by guilt and remorse at his nocturnal ravages. He is fully aware of everything that has happened, and powerless to prevent it happening again the following night.
The werewolf, though, can be identified even when in human shape. Those afflicted with the curse are reputed to have the third finger of each hand longer than the others, and during the Middle Ages, particularly in France and Germany, people were burnt at the stake purely on the evidence of this malformation. The creature is closely allied to the vampire, but there is one main difference, namely the latter is dead whilst the former is very much alive. After death, though, unless killed in the prescribed way, which is dealt with later in this article, the werewolf becomes a vampire. The curse is eternal. The soul knows no peace.
The legend was at its height during the Middle Ages, and there were two main ways in which one became one of the creatures of the damned. Auto suggestion, known as lycanthropy, was undoubtedly the most common, and here myth becomes reality. A person believed himself to be a werewolf whilst in fact no actual physical change took place during the phases between the full moon. It was a form of madness which today results in one becoming a psychopath.
The other method is when one is bitten by a werewolf. It this way the curse can spread like an outbreak of plague, and many of the very early stories concern remote villages where a large percentage of the inhabitants were werewolves.
In both cases the sadistic side of the sexual instinct is the dominant force. Some legends refer to a person making a pact with the devil, and in return receiving abnormal strength. One who has traded his soul for power is granted his wish in the most terrible way possible.
Yet there is a link between legend and reality. Whilst we have established that today the werewolf had been replaced by the psychopath the old beliefs still linger. Before the outbreak of war Adolf Hitler formed his 'Werewolf Organisation'. This consisted of a band of ruthless killers who inflicted terrible atrocities upon their enemies, people who openly opposed the Nazi movement. These men killed by night and, in a country whence the werewolf legend originated, created an aura of terror.
There is another school of thought which believes that the werewolf is an astral projection, yet if this were so the beast would not be able to inflict terrible wounds on its victims.
Whist there is no evidence to suggest there having been werewolves at any time during history, we must bear in mind the superstitions which were rife during the Middle Ages. There were many who sought to use the Forces of Darkness for their own ends, and we must not underestimate the powers which are beyond our comprehension.
Whilst many barred their doors and windows during the time of the full moon, there were others who sought to destroy the creatures which spread terror and destruction. The most common method of all was to shoot the accursed with a silver bullet. Silver is greatly feared by vampires, and many people wore silver crosses to keep them safe from the undead.
It is also a well known belief that a werewolf cannot cross running water. Again this is something which applies to a vampire, and should either of these mythical creatures chance to fall into a stream or river then their end is assured. A person known to be a werewolf, who dies from natural causes whilst in human form must have a wooden stake driven through his heart to prevent him from becoming a vampire after death.
Let us now look in closer detail at the man who is under the curse of the werewolf. This follows a pattern throughout history, and although situations change, the basic principles still apply.
The farmworker has been bitten by his sheepdog. Little does he realise that this dog has in turn been bitten by a werewolf which has been savaging the sheep in the surrounding area for the past few months. The disease is carried in the saliva, and when the next full moon rises, the man undergoes a terrible experience. He is awakened in his bed by a burning sensation throughout his body, yet it is not unpleasant. It is as though power is being pumped into him, evaporating his human frailty. He rises from his bed, irresistibly drawn towards the window where he stares up at the silver orb in the night sky. It has a kind of hypnotic effect on him, but even this cannot nullify the shock which is his when he notices the state of his body. His arms are longer, falling below his knees, and his instinct is to walk on all fours. But this is not all. His skin is covered with coarse, matted hair and his calloused fingers have turned into claws with sharp ragged nails. His night attire falls from him in shreds, the seams bursting under the strain of an enlarged torso. He recoils in horror as he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror. His head is that of a wolf, huge yellowed fangs, wide nostrils, small eyes that glow redly.
But his terror is only short-lived. It is replaced by a sense of elation. He is the supreme being, stronger and faster than any living creature and far more cunning. He glances at his wife sleeping in the bed which he has just vacated, yet he does not feel any bestial urge towards her, and dropping on to all fours he pads softly from the room without waking her.
It is amazing how, throughout hundreds of werewolf stories spanning four or five centuries, a wife is seldom woken by her husband's 'change' and neither does she have any suspicions concerning his curse.
Once outside he pauses to bay the moon, a fearful howl which chills the blood of the villagers cowering in their beds. They have heard werewolves before, or else the stories told to them by their forefathers are so vivid that they have no trouble in recognising the killing cry. Force of habit has ensured that their doors are barred when the moon is full, and now they will pass a sleepless night until daybreak.
The werewolf, meanwhile, is crazed by the thought of fresh blood and raw meat. He must savage and eat at the earliest opportunity. In the distance he hears the bleating of sheep, and breaks into a fast lope. Even on this first occasion he shows remarkable cunning, using the wind to his advantage and keeping to the shadows so that he surprises an unwary flock of sheep, and as they break into a panic-stricken run he overhauls them with unbelievable speed and fells one with a blow from a mighty paw.
The feeding habits of the werewolf are the most disgusting of all legendary creatures. The vampire is delicate and seductive, leaving only a small mark where he pierces the jugular vein and drinks the blood of his victim, the 'kiss' with which we are all familiar in stereotyped films of this kind. However, the man-wolf knows no such niceties. His sharp claws rip his prey to shreds in a matter of seconds and greedily he begins to cram the bloody flesh into his cavernous jaws, munching and slurping his delight. But the worst is yet to come, as he disembowels the unfortunate sheep, its intestines a delicacy which he savours once his initial appetite has been appeased. Only the fur is left as evidence for the terrified shepherd to find after daylight. He howls his thanksgiving to the moon again, a long drawn out cry which those cringing in their beds in the village below recognise as the 'killing cry'.
The werewolf moves on. Not until the sky begins to lighten in the east will he return to his bed. Now he will kill for the sake of killing, possibly drinking more blood but leaving the flesh. He may pursue the rest of the frightened flock of sheep, dropping them one by one until the field is strewn with his carnage, or he may travel further afield hoping to surprise an unwary shepherd who has stopped out with his flock.
The moon is waning fast as the werewolf, his fur matted with the congealed blood of his victims, returns to his home. His wife still sleeps soundly; she is the only villager who has not heard the howls of the killer! The change back to human form is rapid, the deformations reverting to normal within a few minutes. Now his terror begins as he remembers his atrocities, but he crawls back into bed and hopes that it will not happen again. He hides the remains of his tattered night attire, perhaps taking them out into the fields with him and burying them, and prays that nobody will discover his secrets.
But the curse grows stronger.
The following night with the rising of the full moon he is abroad again. This time, he happens on a luckless girl from the village, wandering home after visiting her boyfriend, and ravages her.
So it goes on. The villagers know that one of them is a werewolf, but they are too frightened to venture out after darkness. Except the blacksmith who fashions himself a silver bullet for his gun. He knows that he can kill the beast with it but his task will be a lengthy and dangerous one for he, too, must be abroad beneath the full moon, hoping to come up on his quarry, praying that he will not fall into the clutches of those jaws and feel the hot fetid breath on his face.
At last, after months of perseverance, he stalks the werewolf as it feeds on a freshly killed sheep. His bullet is true, but the creature does not roll over. Instead, with a cry of anguish, it lopes away leaving a trail of blood in its wake on the hoarfrost. Next morning the farm worker is discovered in his bed, a jagged bullet wound in his body. The villagers rejoice at the lifting of the curse, but only the blacksmith is worried. Is this the end of it all or has the farm worker passed on the werewolf curse to one of his victims and when the next moon rises the terror will start all over again?
This is the theme of almost all of the werewolf stories of centuries past. Situations vary, perhaps the killer falls into a gushing stream, but basically the legend follows a pattern.
From the point of view of today's addict to werewolf stories the old theme is hackneyed and boring, yet the 'pulp' magazines of the twenties and thirties were able to hack it up in generous servings simply because it was the original legend told in its country of origin. However today the werewolf is still as popular as ever, but his depredations are spread further afield. We read of his exploits in the towns and cities and he's found in countries other than those on the continent.
And why, indeed, should Britain not have its own werewolf stories? Once wolves roamed our forests and if we are to indulge in the fantasies of the Germans and the French, then surely our own fields and forests were plagued by creatures which were half-man, half-wolf.
Horrors have come and gone over the years. We read of plagues of outsize creatures whose ravages make those of the werewolf seem trivial by comparison. Yet the werewolf legend has lasted for centuries. The answer to this lies within ourselves. Even in the midst of civilization our subconscious fears the darkness and the unknown. Did something move in the shadows between the street-lamps or was it our imagination? The fields and woods are at their most beautiful by moonlight yet we cannot dispel that slight shudder or the quickening of a heartbeat. If such creatures as werewolves existed in days gone by are they extinct or, like the legend, have they lived on, the curse being handed down from father to son?
Logically, we tell ourselves, they are a figment of the darker side of the imagination of mankind but deep within ourselves we still fear them. The howling of a dog on moonlit nights or the soft padding footsteps of a prowling fox are magnified a thousand times, and we are grateful that our doors and windows are barred, and that we are safe within the confines of a modern house on a conventional estate.
The werewolf knows no boundaries and the legend will go on forever more.
The Howling on the Moors
(from Graveyard Rendezvous 35)
‘There it goes again!’ exclaimed a bewildered Tommy Bourne, turning to look at his chief in the bright moonlight. ‘Do you think there really is a wolf at large?’
‘We’ll know soon enough, Tommy,’ replied Raymond Odell, the Brook Street detective, ‘it’s getting closer all the time.’
The two detectives were crouched behind a low stone wall. The moonlight shone all around, casting shadows and creating an atmosphere of unreality. This was a very lonely part of the Sussex coast and from where they were they could just make out the sea about a quarter of a mile away, where the moors dipped down to join the stony beach.
The moonlight glinted eerily on the waves. They were reminded once more of their reason for being in such a place in the dead of night. There had been reports of a large ghostly wolf, which had put in several appearances over the past few weeks on this part of the coast, and eventually these stories had reached Scotland Yard. As far as the police could see no crime had been committed, and they were far too busy with much more important matters to bother investigating what was probably mere local gossip. However, the reports continued to come in, and finally Detective Inspector Richmond had asked Raymond Odell to combine work with pleasure, take a holiday in the area concerned and see what it was all about.
Suddenly Odell gripped Tommy Bourne’s arm with steel-like fingers. ‘Look!’ he whispered, ‘there it is, Tommy, amongst those rocks on the top of that hillock!’
The two detectives wasted no time, and keeping as low as possible, using every scrap of available cover, they began to weave their way towards the ghostly apparition. Raymond Odell was comforted by the fact that he had his service revolver in the pocket of his overcoat. He was taking no chances until he knew what this was all about.
Suddenly Odell went sprawling as he stumbled over something in the long grass at the bottom of a slight incline and Tommy, following close behind, fell on top of his chief. They picked themselves up, and the beam from Tommy’s pencil torch disclosed the object they had fallen over. It was the body of a man, and from the way he was lying, in a twisted grotesque heap, there could be no doubt that he was dead. Odell’s aquiline features had a grim look about them as he viewed the man’s face in the light of the torch.
‘It’s Marty Wiseman,’ he snapped, ‘he’s only been out of prison a few months. You remember him, don’t you, Tommy? He’s the chap they couldn’t pin that coast guard’s murder on some time back, and he only went down on a charge of smuggling.’
Before the young detective could reply, the night air was shattered again by that terrible howl. Reminded of their initial task once more, the two men plunged after the ghostly form which was still visible amongst the rocks above them. Odell now had his revolver in his hand. One moment the beast was visible, the next it had completely vanished.
When Raymond Odell and Tommy Bourne reached the place where they had seen it there was nothing but rocks and stony ground. They searched the area in the hope of finding a clue to the mystery, but there was no clue to be found, not even a footprint.
‘We’d better get back and have a look at Wiseman’s body,’ Raymond motioned to his companion.
A further shock awaited them, for the body had disappeared! Completely disappeared. Raymond Odell was not a man to stand still with amazement. Seconds later he was on his hands and knees, followed by Tommy Bourne, carrying out a minute inspection of the ground around where the body had lain.
Suddenly a satisfied exclamation burst from his lips. ‘See these footprints,’ he snapped, directing the beam of the torch onto the grassy surface, ‘Wiseman wasn’t dead, only shamming. That wolf was a decoy. While we were chasing it, Wiseman got away. We must have surprised him earlier on, and his only chance was to sham death and rely on the wolf. And these footprints,’ he shone his torch on another set a few feet away, ‘were made by somebody who joined him, probably the man who set up the decoy. See that sawdust in the footmarks? That can mean only mean one thing. There isn’t a woodyard in these parts, so they can only have come from the sawdust covered floor of the ‘Old Mariner,’ that pub that stands on its own about a mile down the road.’ There was a grim look on the detective’s face. ‘Late as it is, Tommy, we’re going to pay the landlord of the ‘Old Mariner a visit!’
No lights were showing at the inn when Raymond Odell brought his car to a halt outside. He and Tommy got out. They pounded on the door for a full five minutes before a light finally came on, and they heard footsteps shuffling down the stairs. There followed the sound of heavy bolts being drawn back, and a red bearded giant of a man appeared in the lighted doorway. Before he could speak, Odell thrust a printed business card into the man’s hand followed by a curt, ‘We’d like to have a word with you.’
; Roker, the landlord, seemed taken aback, perhaps frightened, and he motioned for them to step into the sawdust strewn, untidy bar. He waited for Odell to speak, but before the detective could fire a staccato question at the other, a dismal howl came from below their feet. Roker cowered back.
‘So that’s where you keep your wolf, is it?’ Raymond Odell rapped. ‘Chained up in the cellar.’
Another howl rent the night air, but this time from outside. Tommy Bourne was at the window in two strides pulling back the shutters. There was nothing in sight. Next second a shot rang out. Odell and Tommy dropped to the floor, seeking cover but the bearded landlord slowly sank to his knees, a crimson stain spreading across his chest.
For some minutes the detectives kept low, and then Raymond Odell wormed his way across the room. Reaching up, he pushed the shutters closed. A glance showed him that there was nothing they could do for the landlord. Roker was beyond help.
‘Our wolf decoy again,’ Odell muttered bitterly. ‘That’s the second time we’ve been caught tonight. Let’s get down and see what kind of an animal they’ve got in the cellar.’
Tommy Bourne followed at his chief’s heels as they descended the stone steps to the cellar below. Fortunately there was an electric light fitted, and having found the switch they felt much more relieved. The howling began again, and on rounding a corner they saw, chained to the wall in a small alcove, a large Alsatian dog. It was pulling at the chain, but showed no signs of animosity towards the two men.
‘Interesting.’ Odell murmured as he hesitantly advanced towards the dog. ‘This certainly isn’t our mysterious wolf. See, it’s dripping wet.’ He bent down and examined the pool of water which had run off the beast’s coat. ‘Salt water, eh! This dog’s been in the sea, Tommy. Another thing, it doesn’t live here either. See the way it’s straining to get away. I’d say, Tommy, that we’ve rather upset somebody’s plans by being out there on the moors tonight.’
