The Mammoth Book of Wolf Men

by Stephen Jones

  Another fit of coughing interrupted his next words, and Alan made the only suggestion that was possible under the circumstances.

  “Would you like me to do your shopping?”

  The man groaned and shivered so violently that Alan became quite alarmed.

  “It’s a long way for you to go and come back,” said the man.

  “I’ve nothing else to do,” the boy replied, although the prospect of tramping back across rugged moorland carrying a heavy shopping bag was not all that attractive.

  “Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind. Come downstairs and I’ll give you some money and some idea of what I require.”

  Alan followed the tall figure through the doorway, down a winding flight of steps and finally into a large underground room, dimly lit by an ancient hurricane lamp. So far as he could see, this dismal place contained little more than an iron bedstead and a rickety chair.

  “The nearest village is Manville,” the man said, pulling a tin box from under the bed. “About five miles as the crow flies. Get some tinned stuff. Soups and stewed steak. I suppose you couldn’t carry a gallon can of paraffin?”

  “I could try,” Alan said ruefully, determined never to explore empty houses again.

  “I’d be greatly obliged if you could. Otherwise I’ll soon have to lie down here in the dark. Here’s five pounds – that should cover the cost of all you can carry.”

  “Right.” Alan cast a glance at the untidy bed. “You cover yourself up and keep warm. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Thank you very much,” the man said. “You are exceedingly kind.”

  Actually, Alan thought he was, too, but just murmured: “Nonsense, no trouble at all,” before walking towards the steps, carrying a leather shopping bag in one hand and an old rusty paraffin can in the other.

  The greater part of four hours passed before Alan arrived back at the ruined house.

  He ran down the steps and found the sick man sitting up in bed, his face lit by a smile of intense relief.

  “And I thought you were not coming back! I should have known better.”

  Alan frowned and put the heavy bag and paraffin can down on the floor. “Of course I’ve come back! But it took me a long time to find that village and I lost my way coming back.”

  The man shook his head in self-reproach.

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. And it must have been very hard work lugging that bag and can over the moors. What have you got?”

  Alan began to remove tins of food from the leather bag.

  “I spent most of your five pounds. There’s tins of stewed steak, mixed vegetables, soups and some nourishing rice pudding. Now, where’s your cooking stove?”

  The man nodded in the direction of a dark corner. “Over there. You’ll find a saucepan and a few odds and ends of crockery.”

  Alan found the oil stove – and a very smelly, decrepit piece of apparatus it was, too – and, after lighting it, heated some oxtail soup, which the sick man consumed with every sign of satisfaction.

  “That’s marvellous!” he said. “I’m beginning to feel much better already.”

  “Would you like some stewed steak now?” Alan asked.

  The man shook his head. “No, this will keep me going for a bit. Maybe I’ll heat something up myself a little later on. But I must thank you for all your trouble. Not many lads of your age would have been so kind.”

  “That’s all right.” Alan began to back towards the steps. “I’d better get back now or my parents will start worrying. Would you like me to pop in tomorrow?”

  For a while the man did not answer, then he said quietly: “I don’t think you should. No – definitely not. Go away and forget you ever saw me. That would be best.”

  Alan wondered if the man had done something wrong and was hiding from the police. It might well be the reason why he was living in this awful place. But he did not look like a criminal, nor act like one. After all, he apparently went into Manville to do his shopping. So, just before he ran up the steps, Alan said:

  “Don’t worry – I won’t tell anyone you’re here. And I will come to see you again.”

  Mr Ferrier brought Charlie Brinkley back from the Grape and Barleycorn, for he was determined to make friends with his nearest neighbours, even if they did live miles away. Charlie was a youngish man with a full red face, a mop of flaxen hair and a hearty, familiar manner which did not go down all that well with Mrs Ferrier.

  He sank into a chair, accepted a glass of brown ale, winked at Alan, then directed a slightly bovine stare at the good lady.

  “Must be rather lonely for you out here, mam. Not a sight or sign of another body for miles. Wouldn’t suit my missus. Likes a bit of company, she does.”

  “It takes all sorts to make a world,” Mrs Ferrier remarked coldly. “It wouldn’t do if we were all alike.”

  Charlie emptied his glass, then held it out for replenishment. “Ah, you’re not wrong there, mam. Right nice drop of beer, this is.”

  Mr Ferrier smiled amicably, rubbed his hands together and all but pleaded with his wife to like their guest.

  “Charlie’s in the way of being a sheep farmer,” he said heartily.

  Mrs Ferrier was clearly not impressed. “Really! How interesting.”

  Charlie shook his head with mock modesty.

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, mam. Maybe I’ve got a few hundred head out there on the moors. Got grazing rights, see. Not much money in sheep these days. Just enough to let me have a scrape of margarine on me dry crust and maybe a spoonful of jam on Sundays.”

  “How distressing for you,” Mrs Ferrier commented.

  Conversation lagged for a little while after that, until Mr Ferrier said desperately:

  “Tell Ethel about that dog, Charlie. The one that’s been killing your sheep.”

  “Oh, ah! Must be a monster, man. Skulking great brute. Do you know I’ve found six of my best rams with their throats torn out, over as many months?”

  Mrs Ferrier grimaced and gave the impression that such information was not to her liking. But Charlie was not to be deterred from a subject that was clearly of great interest to him.

  “Three were ripped to bits, mam. Never seen anything like it. Blood and wool everywhere, there was.”

  Mrs Ferrier did not comment, but dabbed her lips with a lace handkerchief, and Alan knew she would speak most sternly to his father, once their guest had departed.

  “But you did catch a glimpse of the beast, didn’t you, Charlie?” Mr Ferrier prompted.

  “Ah, that I did! One bright moonlit night last week it were, and a body could see for miles. I was on top of Manstead Tor and I see’d this thing go prancing across the moors. Must have been two mile or more away, so there was no chance of me having a pot-shot at it with me old rabbit gun.”

  He took a deep swig from his glass, then continued.

  “But this is the bit which makes the chaps down at the Grape and Barleycorn curl up. Mind you, it’s as true as I sit here. It stopped and stood up on two feet. May I be struck down if it didn’t. Reared up on its hindlegs, and . . .”

  “Howled, I dare say,” Mrs Ferrier interrupted. “Howled at the moon.”

  “No, mam. Begging your pardon for contradicting such a forth-right lady as yourself – but it coughed. Sound travels on those moors when the wind is in the right direction, and I distinctly heard a barking cough. Like a chap who’s got a nasty cold on his chest. Then it ran – still on two feet, mam – over Hangman’s Ridge, and I didn’t see it any more.”

  Mrs Ferrier glanced at the clock and assumed an expression of great surprise.

  “Good gracious! Is that the time? I never realized it was so late.”

  Charlie, in no way put out by this broad hint, emptied his glass and stood up. “Ah, I must be pushing on. The missus will think I’m up to something I shouldn’t. But I’ll get the varmint, never you fret, mam. Then everyone will laugh t’other side of their faces.”

  “I
’m sure we wish you all good fortune, Mr Brinkley,” Mrs Ferrier remarked, before crossing the room and opening the door. “I do hope you get home safely.”

  “That I will, mam. Unless me old boneshaker blows a gasket.”

  Charlie Brinkley departed and Alan – without being told – went upstairs to bed. He had a lot to think about.

  Three days later, Alan Ferrier once again paid a visit to the ruined High Burrow. He had intended never to go near the place again, but the memory of that poor sick man, lying all alone in a damp cellar, had haunted his dreams and spoilt his enjoyment of the perfect summer days. The man might have died – or be on the verge of death – all because a boy had been too frightened by a silly story to keep his promise.

  So he now climbed over the low wall, walked very slowly across the neglected garden and entered the house. He called out:

  “Excuse me . . . is it all right for me to come down?”

  Presently he heard the sound of a match being struck, then a voice that said:

  “Yes, come on down, lad.”

  Alan crept down the steps, not knowing what he was going to see, determined to turn and run should there be the slightest sign of anything alarming. But to his gratified surprise he found the man standing up and adjusting the flame of the oil-lamp.

  He greeted the boy with a sad smile.

  ‘I’ve been for a little walk and only just got back. I thought I told you to keep away.”

  “I was worried about you,” Alan replied, relieved that his onetime patient looked so well – and normal. ‘Are you better?”

  “It’s very nice of you to be so concerned. Yes, I’m much better. There’s no fear of my dying – not from a cold.”

  Alan looked around the room. So far as he could see some effort had been made to tidy it up, for the floor had been swept, the bed stripped and the blankets folded into neat squares.

  “What about your stores?” he asked. “Do you want me to fetch you some more?”

  “No, thank you. I’m well able to look after myself now. I cook my meals upstairs in one of the empty rooms.”

  Alan took a deep breath and braced himself to ask the question that had been partly responsible for the fear which had haunted him for three days.

  “Why do you live in this awful place? You have plenty of money. I saw lots of banknotes when you opened that tin box.”

  The man sighed and pushed him gently towards the flight of steps.

  “Let’s go up into the light of day and I’ll try to explain.”

  They went up into the devastated hall and out into the overgrown garden. The man led his young friend over to the low wall.

  “Sit down, son, and listen very carefully. Once, I lived in this house with my parents. That was a long time ago and, believe it or not, this was a very pleasant place then. My father farmed the entire expanse of this high ground, and although we were by no means rich, we were quite comfortably off. Then one day a stranger came to High Burrow.”

  The man stopped and stared sadly out across the wild moors. Alan knew he must not speak, but had to wait for the story to be completed.

  Presently the man continued.

  “Ah, a stranger! A tall, dark man with haunted eyes. He was lost – or so he said – and my father invited him to spend a night here. One full-moonlit night. Never has anyone been so ill-paid for an act of kindness.”

  He lapsed into silence again, and Alan prompted gently.

  “What happened?”

  “What happened indeed! The stranger had a rare disease. And during that one night I was . . . oh, most merciful God! . . . I was infected. I became as he was. He went away next morning, but I remained. Remained to see my parents die of grief and horror, my old home crumble slowly to the ruin you see now – and watch a hundred summers fade into autumn.”

  “A hundred!” Alan gasped.

  “Yes. Maybe more. For the rare disease has a strange side effect. I cannot grow old. Or – so far as I know – die a natural death. But I can’t expect you to believe that.”

  “Then . . .” Alan hesitated, then blurted out what he now knew to be the awful truth. “Then . . . you must be a werewolf.”

  The man jerked his head round and looked down at the boy with shocked surprise. “You believe that! You can actually accept that I’m cursed with the mark of the pentagon! Indeed, must your generation be gifted with great knowledge!”

  “I’ve seen lots of horror films,” Alan explained, “and I always thought they were just fantasies. But a man called Charlie Brinkley saw what he thought was a large dog standing up on two feet – and it coughed as you did. So I put two and two together and . . . It must be awful to be a werewolf.”

  The man nodded and recited the following words:

  “A man may be pure of heart,

  And say his prayers at night,

  But into a wolf he will turn,

  When the moon is full and bright.”

  “You’ve never killed people, though – have you?” Alan asked.

  The man frowned. “No, of course not. Wolves don’t unless they’re starving and there’s no wild life for them to hunt. But I appear to be rather partial to sheep. Disgusting, isn’t it.”

  Certainly, Alan thought that tearing-sheep to pieces was not very nice, and he could only hope they had been killed first. However, he said gently:

  “You can’t help doing – what you do. But that man called Charlie Brinkley says he’s going to shoot you. Doesn’t he have to use a silver bullet?”

  The man shook his head. “Shouldn’t think so. An ordinary bullet can kill a werewolf – or at least injure him. Now, you have heard my story and know why you must not come here again.”

  “But you only – well – turn into a wolf when there’s a full moon,” Alan protested. “There’s no reason why I shouldn’t visit you during the day.”

  “I’m sure your parents wouldn’t approve of you associating with a werewolf,” the man said sternly. “I know I wouldn’t if you were my son. So – thank you once again for your help and kindness. Now you must go.”

  And without so much as another word, he got up and walked quickly back to the house. Presently, Alan climbed the low wall and wandered dejectedly down the hill and out across the moors.

  The summer days slipped by, and the moon, from resembling a sliver of Edam cheese, began to assume the proportions of a ripe melon. Every evening Alan would peer up at the gradually increasing disc of bright light and try to imagine how his friend in the ruined house was feeling, knowing he must soon be transformed into a dreadful monster.

  Then came the night when a full moon rode a cloudless sky and Charlie Brinkley paid another visit to The Hermitage.

  “That awful man has just parked his dreadful car in our drive,” Mrs Ferrier informed her husband. “I saw him from the bedroom window. And I’m sure he’s drunk. Ah, that must be him ringing the doorbell now. Tell him I’ve got a headache.”

  Charlie was not drunk but very excited.

  “Saw the brute again,” he gasped. “Running across Black Heath. Had to come back for me gun – in fact two guns. Thought you’d like to come with me, old chap. You can take up a position on Manstead Tor, and with me patrolling Hangman’s Ridge, one of us should be able to pot him.”

  Mr Ferrier’s eyes sparkled with excitement.

  “Count me in. Hang on a second and I’ll have a word with the wife, then I’ll join you. Do we need my car?”

  “No. Have to walk most of the way.”

  Alan, who had stationed himself in the hall, did not hesitate. He slipped out of the back door and ran up the narrow path which led to the moors.

  The wind, which in this wild place was like a wailing, never-resting ghost, tore at Alan’s hair and seemed to be trying to hold him back with invisible arms. But he continued to trot forward, even though his labouring heart and rasping lungs warned him that the limit of endurance would soon be reached. He had no idea what would happen when – or should – he come face to face with a
raging werewolf. There was only the overwhelming urge to warn his friend that two hunters would soon be on his track, each one armed with a loaded rifle.

  Manstead Tor stood out against the moonlit sky, a gently sloping hill that flowed up from a sea of heather to a grass-covered crown. Opposite, and about a quarter of a mile away, was Hangman’s Ridge, a long, high mound that, according to local tradition, had at one time been a place of execution.

  Alan stopped running when he saw the sheep. They were bunched together on the lower slopes of the ridge, looking like a large, grey shadow. They stirred uneasily when the boy approached them. Suddenly he knew what must be done.

  The sheep were the only reason why the werewolf would come to this part of the moor. If he could drive them from the valley before his father and Charlie Brinkley arrived, then his friend might live to see another sunrise. He shouted, uprooted a clump of heather and waved it from side to side.

  The sheep became a protesting, heaving mass that began to slowly move down into the valley as Alan raised his voice to a higher pitch. His was not an easy task, for the disturbed animals insisted on milling round in circles, and one or two would not budge at all, but stood still and stared at him with pathetic reproach.

  He finally managed to get them all on the move and might well have succeeded in driving them from the valley, had not a sudden terrifying howl shrieked out from Hangman’s Ridge. There was no controlling the sheep after that. They ran in every direction; they burrowed deep into the heather, bumped into each other and raced up and down the slopes. When Alan raised his eyes he all but turned and ran away himself.

  Long afterwards, he decided that not one film producer had ever laid eyes on a werewolf, for the creature that was advancing towards him bore not the slightest resemblance to any of the monsters he had seen in the cinema.

  The head was round, the ears large, hairy and tapering to sharp points. The face – which was narrow and sloped down to the slavering mouth – was covered with black, matted fur. But it was the eyes that made Alan wish he had stayed at home. They were sunken and bright red. Little pools of liquid fire that appeared to gleam with ferocious hate. The body was that of a deformed man. Bent shoulders, long arms that terminated in curved claws, the ghastly white skin sparsely covered by long strands of reddish hair. The creature still wore a torn shirt and a pair of stained grey trousers.