The Mammoth Book of Wolf Men

by Stephen Jones

  A scudding cloud covered the moon like a giant veil and the countryside was plunged into an even greater darkness.

  Stuart had read the clichés about fear jolting a person’s nervous system like an electric shock. He had heard how a person’s blood could “turn to ice” and of how his heart could “leap into his mouth”. But he was totally unprepared for it to happen to him.

  As if waiting for the moon to disappear, something large crashed through the hedge and was bounding across the road. What happened next seemed to be a series of impressions . . . of “frozen frames” in a film. Everything happened so quickly.

  Something came dashing at him through the dark. Something which panted and grunted as it approached. Stuart was frozen in his tracks. In an instant, there was the horrific impression that something wanted to catch him very badly. Something altogether bestial, hungry and decidedly unpleasant. A glint in the dark from what seemed to be an eye or a tooth made him realise that his assailant was almost on top of him. Almost at his ear there came an animal-like snarl as he ducked down instinctively onto his haunches.

  A brush of hair on his cheek.

  A savage, tearing blow on his back.

  The ripping of cloth.

  The crash of undergrowth as his attacker burst through the other hedge behind him.

  Stuart wheeled around to face the hedge just as the moon reappeared, throwing out everything around him in crystal clear vision. A gaping hole had been torn into the hedge, the inner fringes of which still twisted and writhed from the passage of . . . whatever it had been.

  Stuart could actually feel his heart pounding in his chest. His throat seemed dry and constricted. He was no longer drunk.

  An impression remained in his mind of a man-like shape. But not a man.

  “No . . .” Stuart muttered under his breath, his eyes flickering the length of the hedgerow “. . . not a werewolf either. More like some stupid bugger dressed in a ridiculous werewolf costume from a very bad horror B-feature.”

  It all seemed perfectly clear. Somebody was dressed up and trying to scare the hell out of him. Well . . . he’d done a pretty good job so far. If Stuart hadn’t left Steve on the bus, he would have sworn that this would be the sort of trick he would pull after their conversation on film plots.

  Stuart started to run, still scanning the bushes at his left, not sure whether the sound of his own gasping was covering the horrific panting and growling of something keeping abreast with him on the other side of the hedge. Hardly even altering his speed, he stooped and grabbed half of a housebrick from the grass verge. Still running, he weighed the brick in his hand. The very fact that it was a housebrick and not just some rock was a comfort. A brick made by a builder for a house. For people. Out in the wilds, it was a comfort to know that his grab for a weapon had given him something which was man-made. Now, even the lonely stretch of road didn’t seem quite so cut off from civilization as before, and the feeling that there was nothing more supernatural than a lunatic in a halloween costume following him, made Stuart’s fear re-channel itself into something approaching rage. Just one more glimpse of the bastard, and he’d have a skull fracture to laugh off.

  Stuart’s anger reached a peak. Veering in towards a gap in the hedge where anyone on the other side would have to pass, he suddenly halted, whirled and raised the brick ready to throw.

  Just show yourself for one second . . .

  Sucking in lungfuls of air, he tensed . . . waiting for his assailant. His own heartbeats thudded like the footsteps of an approaching giant.

  Nothing.

  Clouds of breath streamed around his face.

  Nothing.

  The branches of a nearby tree shook and rattled in the wind.

  Nothing.

  Slowly, Stuart began to move along the road again, still with the brick half-raised in his hand, ever watchful for any sign of movement. A flicker of light between the trees suddenly caught his eye.

  A farm! Crowfast Farm!

  He realized that he’d run almost two miles. Normally, running for a bus would have completely winded him. But the circumstances here were entirely different. If the farm had a telephone – which it surely must have – he could phone for a taxi and be on his way home in no time at all. On instinct, Stuart turned quickly as he ran. About twenty-five yards behind him something suddenly dashed across the road from right to left and vanished into a copse of trees. Something which crouched as it ran, but with extremely broad shoulders and long arms. And . . . pointed ears?

  Stuart began to run even faster than before. The road twisted to the right and, just at the turn, he saw on the left-hand side a twisted, roughly hewn gate bearing a hand-etched inscription . . . “Crowfast Farm”.

  Deep in the trees he could see the glow which had first caught his eye. Reaching the gate, Stuart took a running leap by bracing one hand on the topmost bar of the gate. Years of sitting behind a desk and insufficient exercise suddenly caught up with him as his foot caught against the bar and sent him cartwheeling into the deep grass on the other side of the gate. Spitting out soil, he pulled himself up to his feet. His leg felt about six inches longer than the other one. The thought of being hemmed in by trees was suddenly unnerving. At least in the open road he could almost see if anyone was lurking nearby. But with all of those trees . . .

  Crashing into the copse, Stuart dodged in and out around the tree trunks with his eyes fixed steadfastly on the glowing light up ahead. No less than ten yards into the trees he heard something blundering into the gate behind him.

  Bastard!

  Spinning around, Stuart swung his arm back to throw the brick and for the first time really saw his pursuer, crouched at the gate and with the moonlight shining full on its face.

  As a child, Stuart had once dreamed that someone was standing in the shadows at the foot of his bed. Frozen by some strange force, he had watched as the figure silently moved around the bed and approached him. It was only when the figure had suddenly thrust itself forward into the moonlight that he had been able to scream and pull the bedclothes over his head. The same immobility now came over him as he saw the slavering jaws, the balefully glowing red eyes, and the hideously pointed wolf’s ears. This was no lunatic in a halloween costume . . .

  The stooped figure paused at the broken gate and swung its head backwards and forwards, looking for him. The clawed arms swung restlessly like some horrific ape. The figure suddenly became rigid and Stuart realized that it had seen him. As the horror, with terrible strength, loped over the gate and lunged into the trees towards him, the spell was broken and Stuart heaved the brick with more strength than he thought he possessed. At once, he knew that he had thrown wide of the mark. He watched as the projectile twisted through the air, as if in slow motion. The man-beast thrashed between the trees and it seemed as if the missile would hit one of the tree boles. Unaware of the projectile, the beast stepped straight into its path.

  The brick struck the animal full on the temple with an audible crunch of bone and sent it reeling into the undergrowth. Turning, Stuart dashed through the trees and was suddenly aware of the most chilling howl of rage and pain from behind him. He had never heard a wolf howl before. Only on film. Never in real life. Again, the thought came back to him that he had been caught in the fantasy world of a B-film character.

  But for no more than an instant. This nightmare was real. The iced air tore at his lungs as he charged through the undergrowth. The tangled grass and weeds seemed to deliberately clutch at his legs, slowing him down.

  The farmhouse must be up ahead somewhere. The light flashed clearly through the trees only twenty yards away. From somewhere behind him came the sound of crashing vegetation. Only ten yards to go. A thicket obscured the light. Clawing fingers. Twigs tearing at his clothes. Thrusting through the shrubbery, Stuart came into a small clearing and saw the source of the light.

  “What the bloody hell . . . ?”

  A lantern hung from the low limb of an ash tree, throwing out the surroundin
g trees in bright relief. A lantern, but no farm house.

  Jesus! There had to be a farmhouse somewhere. Realizing that he’d run into the copse only to find that there was no sanctuary and that the thing behind him was still approaching rapidly made panic clutch at his throat. There must be a farmhouse nearby. Who had put the light there? And why? Stuart dashed around the clearing frantically searching for some sign of human habitation.

  The farmhouse was up ahead, surrounded on all sides by thick undergrowth and twisted trees. Stuart had a fleeting glimpse of dilapidated buildings, a crumbling wall and rusting farm equipment as he launched himself towards the main thatched building. A dull light shone through one of its windows. The solid oak door seemed to swing towards him at a crazy angle as he pounded into a small paved yard, leapt over the rusting plough and crashed against the panelling. Grasping the large gargoyle doorknocker, he pounded on the door.

  “Let me in!”

  Looking over his shoulder as he hammered on the solid oak, he saw a dark shadow lurching through the trees just beyond the glow of the lantern in the clearing.

  “Let me in!”

  As he pounded, he realized that the creature could easily find him by the noise he was making. They were the longest moments Stuart had ever experienced in his life. A crash from somewhere behind, and the yellow glow of the lantern was extinguished.

  “LET ME IN!”

  Suddenly, there came the judder and rattle of a large bolt being thrown on the other side of the door, and Stuart practically fell inside as the heavy door swung inwards. A hand grasped his arm to steady him as he staggered across a musty room and into a chair. The door slammed shut and he heard the bolt being pushed back into position. Gasping for breath, Stuart looked up and saw a small and very wrinkled old man with an extremely benign face and faded-blue eyes standing at the door holding a small lantern above his stooped head. Its guttering light made shadows loom and sway throughout the room.

  The old man smiled.

  “Happy Birthday, son. We’ve been expecting you.”

  Stuart pointed at the window, unable to speak, as he sucked in lungfuls of the stale air. The old man slowly followed his pointing finger, smiled again, and crossed to the far side of the room to a battered door. In the gloom, Stuart could just make out the ancient furniture in the room. A gigantic cobweb stretched from an old spinning wheel in the corner to a dust-covered sideboard.

  The old man opened the door and without taking his eyes from his visitor, called to someone beyond.

  “Violet. He’s come.”

  Stuart stood up, chest heaving, and moved to the fly-stained window. The faint light from within the room cast a glow into the yard, but the blackness beyond hid anything that might . . . that was lurking outside.

  “Listen,” Stuart said and turned again to the old man, who had shut the door and moved to the table in the centre of the room. “Have you got a telephone?”

  The old man smiled.

  “A phone? Have you got a phone?” Stuart demanded angrily. “There’s a dangerous animal out there. Somebody’s got to phone the police!”

  “You know we haven’t got a phone, Matthew,” said the old man.

  The door behind him opened with a slight creak and an old woman appeared, stooped and shambling. Stuart could see that her face held the same indulgent smile as that of the old man. Her eyes lit up as she looked at Stuart from under a furrowed brow.

  “Matthew,” she said. “We knew that you’d come back to us. Happy Birthday, son.”

  Stuart braced himself and looked at the couple, anger beginning to swell inside.

  “I’m not Matthew, whoever he is. And if we don’t do something . . .”

  Another figure entered the room. A younger man with a checked shirt and a notably extravagant expression of grim determination. However, the most notable thing about him was the twelve-bore shotgun which he held pointed at Stuart’s chest.

  The old man placed a hand on Stuart’s shoulder.

  “Sit down, my boy.”

  As he sat, the younger man shut the door with his foot and hissed at the old woman: “Is it him?”

  The old lady smiled, nodded and pulled up a chair at the table across from Stuart and the old man.

  This is crazy! thought Stuart.

  “Ten years to the day, Matthew,” croaked the old man. “And here you are, just as you said you would be. You always were true to your word. Punctuality. Punct-u-ality.”

  Stuart began to stand again. The younger man waved the shotgun in a gesture which made Stuart realize that not only was there great danger outside, but also a very real danger inside.

  “Would you mind telling me just what’s going on?” he asked.

  “You know, Matthew. It’s been a long time now since we last saw you. And I suppose we should really explain a few things. You have every right to be angry with us for what we did, but it was all for the best. All for the best.” Stuart sat down again and the old man crossed his arms on the table, before continuing. “If you hadn’t been such a wild rover in the first place, Matthew, nothing would have come of it. Never mind – when you returned to your mother and I after all those years abroad we were glad to see you again.” The old man pointed at the younger man with the gun. “Arnold always missed his brother, didn’t you Arnold? And as for all that money you brought back with you . . . It’s still here, you know. We’ve never touched a bit of it. Locked up in the cellar for ten years, ‘Matthew’s money’ – that’s what your mother calls it. We’ve been keeping it for you.”

  Stuart shifted uncomfortably in his seat and glanced at the window.

  The old man continued: “So we’ve never stolen anything, son. You’ve got to understand that we didn’t kill you for your money.”

  Stuart looked at the old man again. He must be mad.

  “We really didn’t want to kill you in the first place. But you know how it was when you came back to us. You were changed. And when the killings started, we had to shelter you, didn’t we? We would never have given you away, would we, mother? We suffered far a long time, Matthew. The old gypsy lady told us what was happening and what we should do. When the little boy was killed, we had no alternative . . .”

  The old lady leaned forward. “We were never cruel parents, Matthew. Were we, father?”

  “No of course we weren’t.” The old man shook his head slowly and earnestly. “But anyway . . . you’re here now, just like you said you would be. And you’re not angry with us anymore for what we did.”

  Stuart turned to the younger man. “Listen, mate. There’s an animal out there. It looks like a . . . well, it’s . . . You’ve got to get a message to the police or something. Have you got a car?”

  The young man remained impassive, shotgun still pointed at him.

  “We can’t have a birthday without a birthday party, can we, Violet?” said the old man.

  Smiling like a small child who has just thought of a new game to play, the old woman scurried past the shotgun-wielding Arnold and into the darkness beyond.

  “I’m not your son” protested Stuart. “You should know that. My name’s . . .”

  “Of course you are, Matthew”, replied the old man indulgently.

  “Look, I don’t even . . . Have you got a picture? A picture of your son?”

  Arnold stood slightly to one side and motioned with the shotgun at a picture hanging over the spinning wheel.

  “I can’t see it clearly.”

  Stretching across, Arnold took down the picture and gingerly placed it in front of Stuart, the barrels of the shotgun coming uncomfortably close to his face. Wiping the dust from the glass frame, Stuart saw that the face was of a very ordinary looking young man in his mid-twenties. Glassy eyes. Dark hair. The likeness to the threatening young man with the gun was unmistakeable.

  “Brother?” Stuart asked.

  For the first time, Arnold spoke. In a voice that quivered with fear.

  “Yes.”

  “Listen, old man,” said
Stuart. “This picture doesn’t even remotely look like me.”

  The old man wagged a reproachful finger at Stuart. “The gypsy lady said that you would be changed when you came back. Being able to change was always one of your tricks, you know.”

  The woman returned from her mission carrying a wooden tray. On the tray rested a cake. A huge birthday cake covered in candles, many of which were cracked and broken. A wickedly sharp cake knife lay alongside it. Stuart could see that the cake itself was old. Very old. Cobwebs fluttered on its surface. Through the mould, he could just make out that the cake had once been decorated with the legend, “Happy Birthday Matthew”.

  The old man gestured to Arnold to sit down with them at the table. As he sat, the woman handed him a paper party hat and then, reaching across the table, gave another to Stuart and the old man. The old man smoothed it onto his balding pate. A green hat with long spikes that rustled in the still air like a strange crown.

  “Come on, Matthew. Join in the fun.”

  Stuart again rose to his feet, pushing the chair back as he did so.

  “If you think . . .”

  Arnold leapt to his feet and swung the shotgun up.

  “Sit down, Matthew.”

  The old man gripped Stuart by the coatsleeve.

  “Sit . . . down and join in the fun,” he hissed vehemently through clenched teeth, the air of gentility completely gone from his voice. Stuart sat, slowly and reluctantly, putting the orange paper hat on his head. The old lady had begun to light the candles on the cake.

  “It has to be done this way,” hissed the old man. “The old lady said so. When you promised to come back to us, Matt . . . as you were dying . . . you were very angry. You would have killed us. The old lady said that you would come back on your birthday. Today. And that if we didn’t arrange things properly, there wouldn’t be . . . wouldn’t be any stopping you. You do see that, don’t you son?” The tone of the old man’s voice had changed again. Now he was imploring Stuart, explaining something and trying to make him understand.