The Wolfman

by Jonathan Maberry

  Even Mrs. Kirk had no answer to that. The people in the tavern leaned their heads together and murmured. A few knocked wood and fingered crosses strung around their necks on silver chains.

  Rustic buffoons, Aberline thought. Aloud he said, “And now, Missus . . . a pint of bitters, please.”

  OUTSIDE THE MOON rose into the sky with regal grace and the inevitability of death. It was huge and beautiful. The Goddess the Hunt reached down with claws of silver moonlight to take the village of Blackmoor by the throat.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Lawrence finished his whiskey and watched Sir John head down the path toward the forest and the gorge. Without thinking, without even knowing why he was doing it, Lawrence left his room, ran down the stairs, and followed. He did not bother to take a lantern of his own. The moonlight was very bright even though the moon had not yet risen to its full height. Lawrence followed the path his father had taken, and it wound down into the woods, and then the forest floor split as one section continued its descent into a thickly wooded valley and the other skirted the banks of a rocky pool and rose to form a line of jagged cliffs. There was a narrow path choked with young saplings that grew in the shadows of ancient yews.

  Lawrence followed the lower path until it vanished into a shadowy tunnel formed by the outstretched arms of the trees. Once inside, the roof of the tunnel rose in a gentle slope and Lawrence could straighten to his full height. He moved forward quickly but quietly, all the while wondering why he did not just call out for his father. But each time he opened his mouth he closed it again. Instinct, perhaps, or the lingering sting of his father’s last words to him.

  The corridor of yews opened into a clearing and Lawrence saw the lantern for just a moment, far ahead. Moving with even greater stealth, he crept forward, knowing now where this path led and where his father was going.

  When the ancient stone wall of the family mausoleum materialized out of the gloom, Lawrence knew that his guess was correct.

  The door stood ajar.

  Lawrence licked his dry lips and pulled the door open all the way. The creak of the ancient hinges seemed horribly loud and he paused, waiting for a sharp rebuke from his father . . . but there was no sound from within.

  The place held a superstitious dread for Lawrence. His mother was buried here. And Ben. Would their ghosts welcome his intrusion? If he was truly cursed, would the sacred stone of this place allow him entry?

  God, he thought, can I do this?

  He stepped inside.

  There was a short entrance foyer and then a set of wide steps led down into a large circular chamber that was bigger than Lawrence expected. Mist clung to the floor and moss grew from the cracks in the stone walls. There were sconces on the walls and candles guttered in several of them. His father’s work, he knew . . . but why?

  Movement from within startled him to stillness. Hidden in shadow, Lawrence watched as Sir John moved across the chamber and stopped by a large sarcophagus. On the day of Ben’s funeral this tomb had been draped in black cloth, but now it stood revealed in the light of Sir John’s lantern. The old man stood beside it, looking down at the likeness carved on the ponderous marble cover. Then he bent and tenderly kissed the cold stone.

  Then Sir John straightened and brushed at his face. He looked around, drew a heavy breath, and then moved across the chamber and vanished into a narrow corridor.

  Lawrence waited for a full minute to be sure that his father was not coming back, and then he came into the chamber, moving silently, drawn to the central sarcophagus. He could not take his eyes off of it. It was made from creamy marble, a masterwork of the stonecutter’s art. A woman in regal dress, her hands clasped upon her chest, fingers curled around the stem of a rose. A beautiful face in eternal repose, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. So real, so peaceful.

  “Mother? . . .” he whispered and nearly fell to his knees.

  Here she was, her likeness in stone so real that his crumbling mind thought for a moment that it was her, that a kiss would awaken her. Not a lover’s kiss, but one from her loving son. The son who, as a young boy, had stood by and watched with impossible horror while her lifeblood drained away in the rain on that terrible night a lifetime ago.

  Tears burned in Lawrence’s eyes and he did not wipe them away, letting them fall like the rain that had fallen upon his mother that night.

  “Mama,” he said, and for a moment his voice was that of an even younger child. A baby learning its first words, expressing its most basic needs and reaching out to establish its first connection with the world. He placed his hand gently atop the clasped hands. “Mama . . . I miss you,” said Lawrence Talbot.

  Then a sound echoed faintly from behind him and Lawrence came instantly back to himself. He turned and searched the room with his eyes for the source of the sound, and then found it. On the far side of the chamber, half hidden at the back of a niche that held a statue of a nameless saint, was a small door. It was open and the steady glow of lantern light shone within.

  Lawrence hurried over and knelt down so he could peer inside. His father’s lantern stood just inside and its glow revealed a set of stone stairs that spiraled downward into the bedrock. His father must have gone that way.

  Did Sir John know he was being followed? Did he leave the lantern as an invitation? Or did he have some other source of light down there and the lantern was merely there to help him find his way back?

  “Father?” Lawrence called softly, but there was no answer.

  He picked up the lantern and slipped into the walls of the mausoleum. The spiral staircase was narrow and shallow and Lawrence had to be careful not to slip. He held the lantern in front of him and its constantly advancing light gave the eerie illusion that the shadows below were slyly retreating step by step as he descended.

  The stairway widened out at the base and Lawrence held the lantern high to reveal the cobbled walls of an ancient catacomb that stretched far into the darkness. There were many niches cut into the walls, each one containing a life-sized statue with arms crossed and eyes closed, and between each niche was an earthen burial chamber with carved sarcophagi. These were more than the remains of all the Talbots who had ever lived here, Lawrence knew. This crypt was vastly old and God only knew who or what had been buried down here over the centuries.

  Lawrence steeled himself and began moving down the long hall of the dead, and again the movement of the lantern light transformed the shadows into capering creatures that darted out of the way as he passed. He did not stop to examine the statues or the burial chambers. At the far end of the corridor there was a pale flickering light and all of his attention was drawn to it.

  And so he never saw the eyes of one of the statues in a darkened niche open as he passed. The figure stepped out into the corridor without making a sound and when Lawrence was far enough ahead, the figure followed.

  Lawrence reached the end of the hall and found another door left ajar. This one was very heavy, made from oak timbers and heavily reinforced with studded iron bands and massive hinges bolted into the unyielding rock. It had a single small window set with thick iron bars.

  Lawrence took a breath and then stepped inside.

  The chamber was a large vault but it was not a tomb. Instead of a sarcophagus there was a massive iron chair fixed to the floor. There were no other furnishings, but the entire chamber was littered with garbage—bits of food, empty wine bottles, waxed paper wrappers, chicken bones and other filth.

  But what drew Lawrence’s attention—drew it and locked it—was a little alcove cut into the wall facing the chair. A pair of candles had been lit and their glow revealed many bunches of old roses—some withered nearly to dust—and a small portrait of Solana Talbot.

  Lawrence stared at it, unable to look away, barely able to breathe.

  “She was a magnificent woman,” said his father from right behind him.

  Lawrence cried out in surprise and alarm and jumped to one side, turning to face Sir John. Lawrence had not
heard his father enter the chamber.

  “What . . . ,” stammered Lawrence, “what is this place?”

  Sir John did not look at him. His eyes were focused on the portrait and he was smiling a strange, sad smile.

  “She was beautiful. I know losing her wounded you deeply. It is monstrous, a young boy seeing his mother like that.” He shook his head and began pacing around the chamber.

  Lawrence recoiled from his father as he passed. There was something strange, something repellent about the way in which his father moved. It was not the gait of an old man, not even the sturdy step of a man whose fitness belied his years. No, this was something else. Sir John moved with an unnatural vitality that chilled Lawrence to the marrow.

  “I would’ve given my life that you had not found us that night.” His eyes now fell upon Lawrence and they were hot and alien in their intensity. “You don’t believe me? You should, my boy. Some images are so terrible that we cannot forget them and as a consequence they rot the soul. I never wanted that for you.”

  As Sir John paced to and fro, Lawrence backed away until his shoulder banged against the open iron door. He shot a brief calculating look through the doorway and then back to his father.

  “Yes . . . not a single day passes,” continued Sir John, constantly moving between candlelight and shadows, “when I don’t wish that my little boy had stayed asleep in his bed, safe and warm. You must believe me when I tell you this, Lawrence.”

  Sir John stopped his pacing and turned back to the shrine. As he did so Lawrence moved surreptitiously into the doorway.

  “You do believe me, don’t you?”

  Lawrence said nothing.

  Sir John’s eyes were fixed on the picture of Solana. “I loved her, that woman, I loved her with a passion like the burning of the sun. Her death finished me,” he said. “And, yes, still I prowl the house at night . . . alone . . . I wander as before.” He turned to Lawrence. “But I am dead all the same. Look into my eyes, Lawrence—you see I am quite dead.”

  Lawrence looked at his father, at the alcove and the dead flowers, at the iron chair and the debris . . . and finally at the walls. There were deep lines in the walls, from floor to ceiling. He turned to the section of wall closest to him and studied the marks. Sets of parallel lines torn into the rock. And then all of the doors in Lawrence’s mind opened up and a realization struck him with such ferocity that he nearly screamed. He clamped his hand over his mouth and staggered sideways; if the doorway had not been there he would have collapsed onto the floor.

  Sir John heard his muted cry and faced his son. He smiled and began walking toward Lawrence.

  Lawrence stumbled backward out of the cell and finally the words were torn from him.

  “My God! It’s you!” he cried. “You’re the monster.”

  Sir John kept moving toward him, slowly, a step at a time.

  “Mother . . . she found out,” Lawrence hissed. “She found out what you were and that’s why she killed herself!”

  Sir John was at the doorway now and his eyes burned into Lawrence.

  “So much pain,” he said . . . and then he moved with a blur of speed. Lawrence screamed and fell back, throwing his hands out to ward off the attack. But there was a heavy clang!

  Lawrence stared at what had happened.

  The cell door was shut.

  He heard a key turn in a lock.

  Sir John stared at him through the bars. Lawrence’s mind could not process this. He turned and looked back down the corridor that led to the stairs and freedom. His escape was there, waiting.

  Sir John leaned on the bars and spoke from inside the cell.

  “I wish I could tell you, Lawrence, that the . . . tragedy that has been your lot in life was over . . .”

  “Father . . . I don’t . . .”

  “. . . but I’m afraid your darkest moments of hell lie before you . . .”

  And then Lawrence understood. His father had not trapped himself inside the cell as a punishment. He had trapped Lawrence outside, unfettered, free. . . .

  Lawrence sank to his knees as the full weight of what was happening landed on him.

  “No . . . ,” he whispered. “God, no . . .” He suddenly raised his eyes to his father and reached out his hand. “I’m going to . . . No!”

  The pain that flared in his hand was so sudden, so unexpected, so intense, that it shocked him to silence. It was as if every nerve in his hand had exploded with fire, and as Lawrence watched with horrified eyes the shape of his hand changed.

  “Father!” he screamed. “You’re going to let them kill me!”

  Sir John chuckled. “Oh, I doubt they’ll kill you,” he said. “No. But . . . I will let them blame you.”

  Agony rippled up Lawrence’s arm, exploded through muscle and sinew.

  “Why?” demanded Lawrence. Bloody tears began to roll down his cheeks.

  Sir John turned away for a moment as if considering his answer. And as he turned back Lawrence felt a flare of hope ignite in him that his father could somehow change the moment, that he would have an answer. But as the candlelight bathed Sir John’s face, Lawrence knew that there were no answers left.

  Sir John’s eyes were no longer human. They blazed with yellow fire and his smile revealed teeth that had suddenly grown long and sharp and hungry.

  “The beast will have its day,” Sir John said, but his words were mangled by a mouth that was not made for speech. “The beast will be out.”

  Those were the last words from that awful mouth. The rest was a vicious snarl of hatred and mockery that drove Lawrence to his feet and chased him down the hallway and away from that accursed place.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  For thousands of years the standing stones in the forest of Blackmoor had tracked the movements of the stars and planets and the moon. Now, as night consumed the town the rising moon spilled its light through the center of the heel stone to mark the precise moment when the full moon, in all her power, was above the horizon.

  Archaeologists have long debated the need for early man to gauge so precisely the rising of the moon. Hundreds of papers and books have been written to explain how the phases of the moon predict tides and harvests and other aspects of the mundane and orderly world.

  They have all been wrong.

  Every one of them.

  The flash of moonlight across the heel stone of the circle of monoliths did not mark a change of tides. It did not signal the start of a harvest. It marked the moment when the Goddess of the Hunt—and all of her full-blooded children scattered throughout the world—began their hunt.

  It marked the hour of the wolf.

  The ancients knew this and they, warned by their celestial clock, fled for shelter.

  In the village of Blackmoor the people were, without knowing it, re enacting a ritual as old as the standing stones themselves. They were hiding, and arming themselves, and making peace with their gods, because in their hearts they knew that the night no longer belonged to them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Lawrence crawled up the spiral stairs from the catacomb, grabbing the steps with fingers that were no longer his own, pulling himself up with hands that had become nightmare shapes, pushing with twisted and malformed feet.

  “Mother . . . help me!” he begged, but his words came out as a twisted roar.

  He collapsed inside the main chamber, falling to his knees before his mother’s crypt. The light from the candles were far too bright, their meager glow somehow transformed in his eyes to sunbursts. He could feel his eyes changing, shifting. It was the most nauseating thing he had ever felt. And then it got worse.

  His senses exploded as sights and sounds and tastes flooded in impossibly fast. In the span of a single second he saw grains of pollen—each as separate and distinct as planets orbiting the sun—floating on the breeze. A swarm of insects flashed into focus, and Lawrence could smell the traces of vegetable matter and animal blood on each proboscis, could count the minute hairs on their
tiny legs, could discern each delicate lacy line of their gossamer wings. Water running in a brook became a torrent in his ears. His mind staggered under the sensory assault.

  Lawrence could feel every separate bit of what was happening to him. His flesh felt hot, as if every cell in his body had become a furnace. His respiration quickened until he was panting like an animal. The landscape of his brain shifted as new glands formed and pumped chemicals in combinations no human could endure and the old human processes faded and died away. Lawrence screamed and screamed. He could feel his body changing as bones bent to horrific new shapes and muscles tore apart and merged together in unnatural ways. Somehow his mass increased—perhaps drawing substance from Hell itself. His bones thickened to support the heavier muscle and corded ligaments. His skin burned and itched as new hair follicles formed and began sending stiff black shoots through the flesh.

  His feet expanded and black claws tore through the leather as if it was paper. Lacings snapped like fiddle strings and the shoes fell away as his feet changed, the heel rising, the clawed toes digging into the rock of the mausoleum floor.

  White hot pain flared in his jaw as his molars shifted forward to allow the growth of strong new carnassial teeth, and the incisors and canines became sharper and more pronounced.

  Lawrence screamed his mother’s name, but an animal’s roar was what shook the room. There was no trace of a human voice in that roar. The sound was so loud that dust flew from the sarcophagi and old vases shattered. Insects crawling along the floor burst apart and cracks ran along the walls. The roar was as loud as all the pain and fury and despair in the world. It funneled out through the open iron door and tore at the night sky.