The Wolfstone Curse

by Justin Richards

  One of them shoved the captive into the middle of the stones, where he stumbled and fell to his knees. His eyes were wide with fear.

  The robed figures stopped at the edge of the circle, closing together, obscuring Peter’s view of the peasant. One of the robed men stooped down beside a stone. The movement was familiar. It echoed in Peter’s memory. The man reached beneath the edge of the stone, into the grass.

  The cry was a mixture of surprise and fear and pain. It could only have come from the shackled man in the circle. But as the robed figures stepped back, Peter saw that the man was gone. The circle was empty…

  Suddenly faint, Peter sat down heavily – not on the ground, but on a wooden chair. The world shimmered and blurred, and he was inside Wolfstone Manor again.

  A long wooden table was loaded with food. Plates of meat and bread, bowls of fruit. Flagons of wine and ale. A whole pig, crisp and hot, laid out on an enormous pewter dish.

  The noise was sudden and confusing. So many people eating and talking and laughing. There must have been twenty guests sitting along the table. None of them looked at Peter.

  A young man and woman sat at the head of the table. The man wore expensive, elaborate robes. The woman’s dress was elegant simplicity. She had small purple flowers braided into her hair. They each wore a heavy silver ring, and Peter knew there would be a wolf engraved on them.

  The man got to his feet. He gestured for the woman to do the same. Arms linked, they stared along the table. The man raised his goblet. Dark red liquid lipped over the top.

  His voice cut through the noise of the guests. “It is time,” he declared.

  All other speech and laughter died away. One man banged his goblet on the table in appreciation. A woman beside Peter took a deep fulfilling breath, head back and eyes glistening in anticipation.

  The young man and woman raised their goblets and drank. They gulped hungrily at the viscous dark red liquid that ran down their chins and splashed to the floor. Then they hurled the empty goblets away across the room.

  The other guests were on their feet. Peter remained rooted to his chair as he watched them. They downed their drinks, hurled their goblets away, snarling with eager delight. Their features shimmered. Clothes ripped away to reveal the fur beneath. Claws raked down faces – the wolves within bursting out through their human skin.

  One of the wolves tore into the pig with its massive jaws. Plates were knocked aside as others joined in. Red wine spilled across the table, ran along the grain of the wood, and dripped like blood to the stone floor.

  Gradually, the animal feeding and the noise stopped. All the hideous creatures turned towards the two wolves standing upright at the head of the table. Their rheumy eyes swivelled slowly round until they were staring at Peter. Then suddenly both creatures leaped up onto the table, and charged towards him, scattering food and plates.

  Peter fell backwards, the chair tipping away as he tried to escape. He landed painfully on his back, staring up at the sky. Knowing that, in a moment, the wolves would be on him.

  Staring at the sky. Not the ceiling of the great hall of Wolfstone Manor, but the nearly full moon emerging from behind a cloud.

  The ground was cold and damp under his head. He felt incredibly hot, yet he was shivering. He tried to sit up, but it was too much of an effort. He must have been dreaming, he realised. But how much had he dreamed? The girl in the cage? The ceremony at the stones and the helicopter? The wolves?

  Maybe he was still dreaming. As he slumped back down, he was sure he saw someone watching him from the shadows. Just a glimpse of a girl’s face – young, pretty, sad, framed with long, straggly fair hair. He forced his body to move, twisting round to see her properly.

  But there was no one there.

  Instead movement came from the opposite direction. The sound of something forcing its way through the remains of the hedge; a dark shape, blotting out the moonlight, reaching down to him.

  “You’re awake,” Carys said. “Thank God.”

  She got her arms under him, and hauled Peter up to standing. He slumped against her, legs like jelly. He said thank you, but no sound came out of his mouth.

  Carys held him tight, both arms round his waist. She tentatively let go with one arm, bracing him against her with the other. She felt warm and reassuring. “It’s not far now. Can you walk?”

  “Yes,” he managed to gasp. And collapsed to the ground.

  The room swam into clarity for a few moments before slipping away again into the haze. If he concentrated, Peter could focus, at least for a short while. He was lying in bed. Had it all been a dream?

  He fell asleep again before he could decide.

  Sunlight was streaming in round the edge of the curtains when he woke again. He felt less woozy. But his arm ached.

  The third time he woke, Carys was sitting beside his bed.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Peter mumbled a response. He was acutely aware that he seemed to be wearing only his underpants beneath the covers.

  “How’s the arm?”

  It was only when she asked that he noticed there was a bandage round the upper part of his forearm.

  “It aches. But then, so does the rest of me.” He summoned up the courage to ask, “Sorry – how did I get here?”

  Carys smiled. “Don’t worry, Mum put you to bed.”

  “Right.” Was that less embarrassing? Not much.

  “I just carried you back to the car and drove you here.” She watched for his reaction, and seemed amused at his confusion. “Never mind. We can talk about last night later.”

  “Why – what happened last night?”

  “You tell me.”

  Mrs Seymour checked on Peter after lunch. He told her he was feeling fine, and she suggested he come down and have some soup in the bar. Abby and Mike were up at the dig apparently. He asked whether Sebastian Forrest was still here.

  She didn’t seem surprised at the question. “He had to leave first thing this morning. David too.” She laid her hand across his forehead. “Your temperature’s down, which is good. A fever that high and you begin to hallucinate.”

  Was that it? Or was she trying to convince him he’d been imagining things?

  “Let me check your arm while I’m here.”

  Peter sat up in the bed so Mrs Seymour could undo the bandage. “Did I cut myself?”

  “Something like that. It’s a small wound,” she said quietly as she examined it. “Not like a bite at all.”

  “It was a dart,” he remembered. “They shot me.”

  She nodded as if this made perfect sense.

  “What is that stuff?” The bandage was lined with dark purple, the colour of an old bruise. It was cool and damp.

  “Just an old traditional remedy. Your arm will be better in no time, though you’re lucky Carys found you before…”

  “Before?”

  “Before the infection took hold.” She bound the arm up again quickly and efficiently. “There.”

  “The remedy – it’s the same colour as those little flowers.”

  “That’s right. There are a few other ingredients, but mostly it’s crushed wolf’s blight. The only remedy there is.”

  Professor Crichton rang while Peter was having his soup. Mr Seymour watched curiously from behind the bar as Peter answered. He assumed someone had told Dad he was ill. But it was soon clear that that wasn’t why his dad was calling.

  “It’s going to take a few days to sort out, I’m afraid,” the professor said. “Bureaucracy, that’s all it is. But I’d better hang on or the funding will vanish in a puff of paperwork. Will you be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Peter lied. “And anyway, Abby and Mike are both here.”

  “You could go and stay with Aunt Sarah,” Dad offered.

  “I’ll be all right,” Peter said quickly. He felt better for having something to eat.

  “All right then. I’ll let you know when I’ll be back as soon as I know myself.”

>   Mr Seymour came over as Peter ended the call. He assumed the man was coming to take away the empty soup bowl. But he didn’t touch it. Instead he peered suspiciously at Peter from close range. His nose wrinkled slightly as he sniffed, like an animal scenting a predator.

  “Are you okay?” Peter asked nervously.

  The man sniffed again. Then he glared at Peter, and moved away. “Should be all right now,” he muttered as he went.

  Before Peter could comment, Abby and Mike walked into the bar. Both were soaking wet, and a glance out of the window told Peter it was raining heavily.

  “Can’t do much in this,” Abby said, slumping down on the seat beside Peter.

  “How are you doing?” Mike asked Peter. “Faye said you had a disturbed night. Caught a chill or something.”

  “I’m fine,” Peter assured them, and asked how the dig was going.

  “Found another body,” Abby said proudly. “Same sort of period, again facing away from the circle.”

  “And shot in the back with a silver-tipped arrow,” Mike added. “Bizarre, but there you go.”

  “Doesn’t really fit with the current thinking that some stone circles were places of healing, does it?” Abby said. “But maybe Wolfstone is the exception.”

  “Kill or cure,” Mike joked.

  “His hands were tied with a silver chain. Probably part of some ritual,” Abby told Peter.

  “They did find something similar at Stonehenge,” Mike said. “A grave facing away from the stones.”

  But Peter wasn’t listening. In his mind’s eye he could see a man walking slowly towards the Wolfstone Circle, his hands tied with thin silver chain. He could see the cloaked and hooded archer following behind, silver-tipped arrow slotted to the bowstring. Waiting for the man to run…

  “… somewhere near St Petersburg, I think,” Abby was saying as Peter snapped out of his waking dream.

  “What is, sorry?”

  “This other circle that’s not a circle.”

  “We were reading up on it last night,” Mike said. “Bodies found there too, it seems. Anyway, the original number of stones and the shape of ellipse were virtually identical to Wolfstone. Quite a coincidence.”

  Peter spent the afternoon lying on his bed. He dozed between texting friends and checking Facebook. He barely noticed the time, and it was already getting dark when there was a knock at his door. It was Carys with two mugs of tea.

  “Mum says the fever should have gone by now.” She sat on the upright chair while Peter perched on the edge of the bed. “There shouldn’t be any lasting effects, but I just wanted to check.”

  “Check – how?”

  She stood up and walked slowly round the room, pausing at the window. She opened the curtains slightly, just enough for Peter to see the full moon outside. She stared out into the night for a moment, then drew the curtains again.

  “You seem all right. How do you feel?”

  “Fine. A bit tired, but then I guess I was up half last night.”

  Carys tilted her head to one side, the way she did when it seemed she was thinking. “Let’s get some air. Mum will need me later, but apart from Mike and Abby the bar’s quiet tonight.”

  “Really?”

  “You saw it – the full moon. No one goes out when there’s a full moon.”

  She didn’t wait for him to ask why not, but headed for the door. Maybe she thought it was obvious. Maybe it was.

  “Tell me about last night,” she said. “Tell me everything you remember.”

  They walked slowly down the lane towards the church. Peter expected her to interrupt, or tell him he was being stupid, or laugh. But she was silent until he finished. He told her about going to the manor, about the girl’s room and finding Annabelle in the cage in the underground vault. He told her about the robed men who took her away, and the helicopter – the ‘Old One’ and the soldiers and his own escape into the woods. He told her about how he saw Wolfstone Manor and its gates as they used to be, intact and complete, about the pursuit of the young woman, the peasant taken to the circle, and the banquet…

  “So,” he asked when she still said nothing, “do you think I was hallucinating because of the fever?”

  “You saw the manor as it was hundreds of years ago, a medieval peasant, and some bizarre banquet. Of course you were hallucinating.”

  They were standing in the churchyard, the tower looming over them. The gravestones were ragged dark slabs in the grey night.

  “And wolves,” Peter said. She was right, the whole thing was ridiculous. He must have imagined it all. Even Annabelle – he’d seen her face on the website and imagined meeting her, helping her… He forced a laugh. “Werewolves, how daft is that?”

  Carys’s face was illuminated by a shaft of moonlight as she answered. “Oh no,” she said. “The werewolves are real. It was only after you were bitten that you started hallucinating.”

  “Bitten?” He latched on to the word as though it was the only one he understood. “I wasn’t bitten. Why do you think I was bitten?”

  “You were infected. I saw. I was there – I found you.”

  “Infected? Maybe – but I wasn’t bitten.” He pushed his sleeve up, and pulled the bandage aside. In the moonlight he could see the slight swelling, like a blister with a small scab in the middle. “Does that look like a bite? I was shot.”

  “Shot? What do you mean shot?”

  “With a gun. Shot. Bang, bang. I told you they had guns.” He rolled his sleeve back down. “Some sort of dart. I pulled it out. Hang on…” He was remembering something from earlier. “Your mum said it didn’t look like a bite. Does she know about the werewolves?”

  Carys tilted her head and pursed her lips.

  “Just me who doesn’t then,” Peter realised. His head was swimming. “But – that means… Annabelle. She was real.”

  “Yes.”

  “And they did something to her. In the circle.” Suddenly he was angry. He’d let a whole day go by. He’d promised to help her and now it was probably too late. “We have to do something.”

  “We don’t even know where she is.”

  He ran back towards the churchyard gate. “Then let’s find her.”

  “Get real,” she called after him. “Annabelle could be anywhere. She could be…” She didn’t finish the thought.

  “I promised I’dhelp her. We can’t just abandon the girl.”

  She caught Peter up in the lane. “It’s a full moon,” Carys said. “It’s the worst possible night to help anyone. We don’t even know where to start.”

  “Wolfstone Manor?”

  “Possibly… All right,” she conceded. “I suppose. But not tonight. In daylight.”

  “It wasn’t a full moon last night,” Peter said. “Not quite.”

  “So how come they were wolves, is that what you’re wondering?”

  “One of the things.”

  “Several nights either side of the full moon are what are called “cusp” nights. How many depends on the strength of the moon, the weather, the individual werewolf… But on those nights, they can choose whether or not they change. Though some have more control than others. Some of them…” She looked away, and didn’t finish the thought.

  Peter looked up at the perfect pale disc above them. “And tonight?”

  “Tonight there’s no choice.”

  They walked on in silence, until Peter got up the courage to ask, “And how do you know so much? Are you? I mean, I don’t want to be rude, but are you?”

  Carys stopped and stared at him, hands on her hips. “Am I what?”

  “Are you a werewolf?”

  She looked up at the sky. “Like I said – tonight there’s no choice. The werewolves all change. Do I look like a wolf to you?” She shook her head. “No, don’t answer that. Come on – there’s something you have to see.”

  Peter could hear Abby and Mike laughing and joking in the bar as Carys led him through the door concealed beneath the stairs. He felt numb and light-h
eaded. Like he had wandered into a dream.

  Except that it wasn’t a dream.

  “Wait here,” Carys told him. “I need to talk to Mum.”

  He waited while she disappeared through the door. The sound of her footsteps echoed back up. As the door closed, it cut them off. There was no sound at all from the cellar, the door was so thick and heavy.

  When it opened again, a few minutes later, the sound of raised voices was immediate and shocking. All the more so as Peter recognised the first angry voice as the usually calm and even-tempered Mrs Seymour.

  “…can’t see what good it will do!”

  Her daughter’s response was even more fiery. “He needs to know! He has to see this.”

  “But why?”

  “Because!” Carys was shouting from just inside the door as she swung it open. “Because of what might happen. Because of what’s already happened.”

  Peter wasn’t sure he wanted to see whatever was in the cellar. He certainly didn’t want to face Faye Seymour and it sounded like she didn’t want him there either. But Carys gestured for him to follow her back down the steps.

  “Come on,” she urged.

  Maybe facing an angry Carys was even worse. Peter followed nervously.

  Mrs Seymour stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms folded and head to one side. There was no mistaking the similarity between mother and daughter, though Faye Seymour looked tired, her eyes sunken and her cheeks streaked with tears.

  “I’m sorry,” Peter told her. He didn’t know what else to say.

  She nodded. “I’m sorry too. I’d rather spare you this, but Carys is right. It’s too late now.”

  Mrs Seymour gestured for him to follow Carys through to the back room. The room with the chains.

  The room was no longer empty. Inside, Peter could hear the sound of an animal growling, snarling, scrabbling at the stone floor.