The Mammoth Book of Wolf Men

by Stephen Jones

  The cell is at the far end of the basement. I went ahead of her and opened the door myself. She stood back a bit, I walked in and looked out of the door and smiled again. Her face was very pale, almost illuminated, in the dark basement. She moved forward and it was as if her face were floating, disembodied. Her throat was the whitest part of all, and I could see the veins in her neck. I looked away from the veins in her neck. She tried her best to look as though she regretted having to close the door. I suppose she did, in a way. Then she closed it and I heard the key turn in the lock and the heavy bar slide into place. I listened behind the door and for a few moments there was no sound. I knew that she was waiting outside. I could picture her standing there, looking at the barred door with a mixture of relief and regret on that phosphorescent face. And then I heard her footsteps very faintly as she went back to the stairs, I heard the upstairs door close. I felt sorry for both of us.

  I sat down in the bare corner and buried my face in my hands. It was still my face. But it was very stiff. I could tell that it would not be long. It seems to be getting quicker and easier for the change to come each month. It is not as painful. I wonder if that is a good sign or a bad sign?

  But I can’t really talk about that yet. It would be too hard to write about the details. It would be almost as hard as it is for me to go into that cell, knowing the agonies to come . . .

  When my wife knocked at the door in the morning I was still very weak. But I was all right. I was surprised that it was morning already. There is no way to tell time inside the cell, of course. I do not take my watch with me.

  Helen did not hear me answer the first time, and knocked again before she opened the door. She opened it a crack and I saw one big eye peering in. Then she saw that everything was all right, and she opened the door wide. I am glad that she is cautious, of course, but still it hurts me. Damn this disease!

  She didn’t ask how I was. She knows that I can’t talk about it. I wonder if she is curious? I suppose she must be. She doesn’t know that I am keeping this journal. I am going to keep it locked in the desk in my study. I’m sitting at the desk now, looking out of the window at the trees. Everything is very peaceful today, and last night is more nightmare than memory. If it only were! It is strange the way that the memories come through to me, after I have become myself again. I must think about that and try to describe it later. I don’t know why, though. I don’t know why I feel compelled to keep this record. It must be some form of release. I feel more relaxed now, at any rate. I am going to rest now. My body suffers the damage that the other thing infllicts on itself. We share the same body and I am exhausted. I will write later.

  May 6

  I have been thinking about the disease. I thought about it all day yesterday. It is hard to do this clearly, because when I am . . . not myself . . . I seem to have no thoughts. Or, if I do, I don’t remember them after I have become myself again. I suppose that, at those times, my mind must work much as an animal’s does. I am left with only a vague, general impression of how I felt. How it felt. I do not know if I and it are the same, but we share the same body. Anyway, there is certainly no reasoning involved when I am changed. It must be purely instinct that motivates the thing, and instinct does not fit well into the pattern of the human brain. Or does my brain also change? The impressions are very strong. I can recall the impressions, almost to the point of summoning them up again. But this is simply a matter of remembering what the other thing was feeling at that time, not what it was doing, or what it looked like. It is a matter of recalling an emotion without the circumstances that caused it. But what a powerful emotion! It is always hard to express a feeling in words, and this is a very complex feeling.

  I think it was need, most of all. Need and frustration. But there is all that violence and hatred and lust mingled with it. I don’t suppose any normal man could ever feel it in quite the same way. Perhaps emotion is always stronger when it is instinctive and when there is no rational force working on it. It all came from within and seemed to have nothing to do with the actual physical action. It burned like an inferno within the thing. That was what drove it to its wild ferocity. That was what it felt like at the time.

  As far as what actually happens . . . I see that objectively, divorced from the emotion and impressions, as though I were a separate person who had been in the cell and had witnessed the whole thing. (God help any person who ever had! It would surely drive him mad . . . although I doubt that there would be time for madness, locked in that cell with the thing that I became.)

  I can clearly see the scene within that cell. It flings itself at those padded walls, tearing at them with talons and ripping with terrible fangs. It drops to the floor, crouches for a moment, snarling, then springs at the walls again. It is driven by that rage within, again and again, in a frenzied passion. It pauses only to summon renewed rage, and then springs again, more savagely than before, until at last its energy is spent and it grovels, panting and waiting. Last night it attempted to batter the door down, but the door is too strong.

  I wonder if my wife can hear the sounds that it makes as it attacks the walls? Or worse, far worse, the sounds that come from its snarling lips? That would be ghastly. They are very revolting sounds.

  At dinner yesterday I noticed the way that she looked at me as I ate. We had steak. I have always liked my steak rare. But she looked at me as though she expected I would tear at the meat like some wild beast. Perhaps she does hear . . . Thank heavens that she can never see it! It takes her several days to recover as it is . . . to become normal again.

  I am quite normal now, of course.

  May 7

  I am completely sane.

  It occurs to me that I have not yet stated that, and it is necessary. If anyone ever reads this, they must understand that I am not crazy. It is not a disease of the mind, it is a disease of the body. It is purely physical. It must be, to cause the physical change that it does. I haven’t yet written about the change. That will be very hard, although I can see it objectively. I can see my hands and body, and feel my face, I cannot see my face, of course, because there is no mirror. I don’t know if I could bear it if I had a memory of what my face must become. And I don’t know if I can describe it honestly, or honestly describe it. Perhaps some night I shall bring this book into my cell with me and write as long as I can – describe the changes as they occur in my body, until my mind can no longer cope with the effort . . . until it is no longer my body.

  The question that plagues me most in this is whether any other human being has ever suffered from the same disease. Somehow I think it would be easier to bear up to it, if I knew that I was not the only one. It is not a case of misery enjoying company; it is just that I want the reassurance that it is not peculiar to me, that it is in no way my fault that I suffer with it. I can be patient under this trial only so long as I know that it could not have been prevented.

  I have tried to find a case similar to mine. I have done a great deal of research . . . enough to make the librarian suspicious, if she were of a superstitious nature. But she is not. She is an old maid and she is fat. I believe she thinks that lycanthropy is the study of butterflies. But the research has turned up nothing. The mouldy old volumes and the big, leather-bound psychological books record legends and myths on the one hand, and madness on the other. There are cases that are similar in the recorded details, but in each of these the subject was mentally ill. There were no physical changes, although sometimes the poor madman thought that there were. And yet . . . there must be a basis for the legends. All legends have some anchor in the truth. I cling to that belief. I must cling to something.

  My grandfather on my father’s side came from the Balkans. Somewhere in the Transylvanian Alps. I don’t know if that has any relevance, but most of the legends seem to have begun in that area. It is surely a diseased area. And, too, I feel sure that it must be an inherited disease. It is nothing that I could have caught. I have always been a temperate and clean-living man. I practi
se moderation in all things. I neither drink nor smoke nor womanize, and my health has always been good. So I am certain that the disease was congenital. I suffer for the sins of my forebears through some jest of fate – some terrible jest of a wicked fate that punishes the innocent for the crimes of the guilty.

  The disease must be carried in the blood or, more likely, in the genes. I suppose that it is passed on to one’s children in a recessive state, waiting, lurking latently in man after man down through the generations until, once every century . . . once every thousand years perhaps . . . there is the proper combination to turn it into a dominant trait. And then it becomes a malignant, raging disease, growing stronger as the victim grows older, gaining strength from the body that it shares, and tries to destroy . . .

  I must believe this, and I do.

  I must not think that I am unique, or that I could be in any way, no matter how indirectly and innocently, responsible for it. I must know that it was a curse born with me as surely as my brown hair or greenish eyes, and that it was predestined from the time – who knows how many generations ago? – when my ancestor committed some vile act that brought him into contact with the germs of the sickness. I hate my ancestors for this, but I am grateful that it is their sin and not my own. If I thought that any action of my life had brought about this affliction, the thought would surely drive me mad. It would destroy my mind. I have a great fear of that. It is a rational fear. This thing that I suffer from is enough to drive anyone to insanity . . .

  June 2

  Last week I thought seriously about going to a doctor. It is out of the question. I knew that all along, of course, but the fact that I even considered it shows how desperate I have become. I am ready to clutch at straws; to take any risk that has the slightest chance of saving me. But I know that I must cure myself; any salvation must come from within.

  It was my wife who put the idea into my head; indirectly, of course. She mentioned something about psychiatrists – something that she had read in the newspaper, I think – just some vague statement so that she could use the term while talking with me, and suggest it without saying so. Well, her plan worked, because I did think about it, but it is quite impossible.

  I was hurt that she mentioned a psychiatrist instead of a medical doctor. She knows as well as I that it is a physical affliction. I have told her that often enough. Still, she has a point. No doctor would believe me. They would think me insane, and refer me to a psychiatrist anyway. And the psychiatrist would be useless because he would try to cure a non-existent concept. The only way that I could prove that the disease is physical would be to have them actually witness the change, and that must never be.

  That thought gave me the first laugh that I have had for a long, long time. I can picture myself in the psychiatrist’s office. It is at night. The night. I am lying on my back on his leather couch and he is sitting in a chair beside me. I have just finished telling him all about my illness while he listened patiently, nodding from time to time. When I finish explaining he begins to talk in his low, confident tones. He is a very professional type with a bald head and gold-rimmed spectacles. He sits with his legs crossed, his notebook on his knee. He is not looking at me while he speaks, he is looking down at his notes. And I am not looking at him. I am looking at the window. I see the whole scene so clearly. I can even see his degrees framed on the wall. They are on the wall opposite the window, where the moonlight glitters on the gold seals. There are rows of huge and heavy books and a large desk. I see everything and then I look at the window again. The change always comes much more quickly and smoothly when I can see the moon than when I am in the cell. I feel it begin. The doctor talks on, softly. Perhaps he tells me that it is all nonsense, that it is impossible; that it is merely a figment of my imagination, a delusion of a sick mind. He turns towards me to impress his point. He looks into my eyes. And his face . . . this is what makes me laugh . . . his face would break and shatter. That cold, scientific, intelligent face would plunge down through all the long aeons of time, and become the primitive and superstitious and terrified face of his ancestors. And then . . .

  I don’t suppose that it is really so funny, but it is pleasant to laugh again.

  June 3

  Tonight I must go to the cell.

  I dread it. So does my wife. Yesterday I detected signs of nervousness in her. She is getting worse. She hinted again that I should get help. Help! What help is there for me? But she doesn’t seem to understand. Perhaps she is blocking the terrible truth from her mind. Perhaps she would prefer it if I were mad. But it is her sanity I worry about at these times, not my own. For myself I can only hope that it does not get worse, and that I shall be able to live my life out this way, normal but for that one night each month . . . But how I dread that night, that cell! Even when I am no longer myself, I am still me to the extent that we share the same body and that the emotions and the impressions remain with me and hurt me. Even now, a month later, I can still recall the feeling, not objectively the way that I can remember the way that the thing moved and acted, but deep inside me as one recalls a great pain from the past. It is unbearable to think of a future like this. I can bear the present, but not the thought of the future. And if it should get worse . . .

  But perhaps it may get better. That is possible. Diseases can cure themselves, bodies can develop tolerances and antibodies and immunity. I can only hope for that as I face the future – hope that some day the month will pass and it will not happen and I will know that I am on the way to recovery.

  I must never have children, of course. Even if I recover there can be no children. The disease must never be passed on. My wife is sorry about this. She wants children. She doesn’t seem to understand why it is impossible, why it would be a monstrous act. I think that she truly might prefer it if I were insane. Sometimes I even think that she doubts me . . . that she thinks that I am not quite right. Well, of course I am not all right. But I mean . . . sometimes she seems to think that I am insane. There! I have stated that for this record. But perhaps I am being overly sensitive.

  I have a right to be.

  I have neglected this record during the month. I meant to write every day, but I found it too oppressive to write about it when it was not imminent. I prefer to forget it as long and as often as I can. Thinking about it only reminds me that the night must come again. This night I intend to bring this notebook into the cell with me. I want to record as much as I can . . . perhaps the record will prove valuable. Perhaps it will only be disgusting. But I must try, I must gain all the possible knowledge that I can. It is my only hope that I may find a cure.

  I must rest now. Tonight will be exhausting. It is a lovely clear day and I know that the sky will be sparkling. It will be an effort to go to the cell.

  June 3 (night)

  Well, the door is locked and barred. I listened until her footsteps went up the stairs, and the door closed at the top. Now I am alone in the cell. I feel all right. I came down earlier tonight. I was afraid to wait any longer. It was a good idea to bring this book with me. It is something to do, something to occupy myself with while I wait. Anything is better than just sitting here and waiting for it to happen.

  I keep watching my hands as I write; my fingernails. They are all right. Nothing has begun. My fingers are long and straight and my nails are clipped. I must watch carefully so that I can detect the very first signs. I want to be able to describe everything in complete detail.

  There is no furniture here in the cell. Furniture would only be destroyed. I am sitting in one corner with my knees drawn up and the notebook on them. The pages look slightly tinted, I should have thought to put a brighter bulb in the light. The light is in a recess in the ceiling and covered by a wire netting. The netting is a little twisted, but I don’t remember doing that. I wouldn’t, probably. It is light enough to observe the cell, anyway. I have never really noticed it before. I suppose that I was always too concerned with myself to notice my surroundings. But it is earlier tonight .
. .

  The cell is concrete. The walls are thick and the door is metal with large bolts. The walls are heavily padded on the inside. Helen and I did the padding ourselves, of course. It might have been difficult to explain to the contractor why we wanted a padded cell in our basement. I think that we told him the concrete structure was for our dog. He didn’t seem curious about it. We don’t have a dog really. Dogs don’t like me. I frighten them. I suppose that they can sense my affliction even when I am normal. That is further proof that it is a physical disease. I killed a dog once, but it was a vicious dog and I had to.

  The smell is stifling and musty, I expect that the walls are damp under the pads, and the stuffing has begun to moulder. We shall have to replace the padding soon. I must try to make the cell as bearable as possible. The pads are ripped in places and the stuffing is running out and curling to the floor. The cover of the padding is tough and thick and smooth, so I know that my . . . its . . . talons must be very powerful and sharp. They must be able to slice through those pads like a knife through butter. I wonder if I have ever broken a nail tearing at the walls? I should look in the ripped places to see. It would be evidence of an actual change. I will look later; it seems likely that I will find something. I know the terrible rage that drives the thing at those walls, the unbelievable strength that it possesses, and it seems that even those heavy nails would be splintered by the force that is behind them.

  Those wicked claws! I shudder when I think of them, moving at the ends of constricted and hooked fingers. The way that they can rend and tear those heavy pads . . . think what they could do to the softness of flesh! Think what they would do to a man’s throat! It makes me tremble all over to imagine it. I can almost feel what it would be like and the feeling sickens me. But it persists. It wants to be recognized. I can see how those fingers would close, drawing the white skin up in little trails until the skin parted and the fingers sank into the bubbling, pulsing throat. I can see the talons disappear, the fingers themselves gouge in, feel the heat of the blood as it comes spurting out into my face. Taste the hot, salty blood, smell it until my head reels and everything fades away and there is only the stricken face beneath me. I can see that face change and hear the death that would gurgle in his throat as my fangs . . . as I bring myself . . . soft throat as my fangs . . . close . . . soft, hot flesh and they sink in . . . and . . . tear . . .