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Heart of The Warrior
AL J. Vermette

He was part wolf so they say the spawn of a woman and the beast from which she loved. The four legged creature gave her three children. Two were human and one was…something other. They say that this ‘other’ in wishing to feed from his mother’s milk killed his own sister in order to gorge his fill. The surviving child and the beast grew in time and became warriors, one a noblemen to the King and the other a lost soul in search of a life where he only wished to fit in. For this brother his mother gave him the name “Lucan”; and these are his stories.

Click on the following link to download the rest of the story in pdf format: Lucan

Werewolf Cafe Birthday Cake

Submitted by: The Admin

March 6th was the actual date of The Werewolf Cafe's 2nd birthday, so this cool looking yellow cake with raspberry filling (do we dare say that filling looks like blood?) was enjoyed by Full Moon himself. (Hey Full Moon, how was that cake?)

Werewolf Cafe 2nd Birthday

Werewolf Cafe 2nd Birthday

Werewolf Cafe 2nd Birthday

Hunter's Moon Part II

Submitted by: J. Rohr

Part II

A Man and Silhouettes

Blackness dissolved into darkness.  The terms may seem similar in definition, but they hold very different feelings.  Blackness could be said to be a state of nothing, where there is no vision, no perception, and above all, no sensation.  Darkness is the ability to see and yet, being unable to see anything.  Darkness carries an oppressive weight as light as air while at the same time as crushing as a ton of bricks.  It was into the darkness Jeremiah Sinclair found himself waking.

His face hurt.  Reaching slowly through the darkness, he gingerly felt it.  The mere brush of his fingertips caused him to flinch.  All around his right eye he could feel puffy, throbbing flesh.  He checked for a blindfold and found none.  He tested for any kind of restraints and found none.  Patting himself down he found his gun had been taken.  Apprehension began to develop, and with it, a need to know his situation better.

Sitting up, Jeremiah took a deep breath as his brain swam loose inside his skull.  A touch of nausea tempted him to lay back down, but he ignored it.  Slowly, he got to his feet.  Looking around, or rather, trying to look around, he saw only darkness. 

"So this is what it's like to be blind," Sinclair thought to himself.  Stretching his hands out, he felt around as he shuffled through the void.  It didn't take long for his hands to touch a wall.  It felt like smooth rock, though some portions were slightly jagged, as though it had been carved out.  Reaching down to the floor he found it had the same composition.  On a hunch, he stood and reached to the ceiling.  Standing on his tip toes, Jeremiah found he could just reach it.  Again, the same feeling of carved, smoothed rock.


In the this way he surveyed his surroundings as best he could.  The walls were all rock save for one portion.  A brief section had a grain to it that Sinclair assumed could only be wood.  Knocking on it confirmed his suspicion as well as determining its solidity.  Thick.  Feeling up, down, and across the wood, his hands closed on a latch.


"Here's hoping," Jeremiah muttered aloud and pulled.  Then pushed.  The door held firmly shut.  Turning around he looked back through the darkness a thousand miles.  Although it seemed to be a small room, without a point of reference, the darkness made it stretch on to infinity.  Sinclair sat down on the floor and tried to gather his wits.  He could feel the dark trying to envelop his mind, shut it down with panic, but he resisted.


Rising, he searched back through the room, this time making sure to scan the ceiling.  All he found was rock.  Eventually he felt his way back to the door and resumed sitting.  His heart started to beat faster.  He could feel each heavy thud.  Sense his breathing picking up pace.  Taking in a deep breath, Jeremiah let out his anxiety in a slow exhalation.

Speaking to himself in a calm manner, he said, "Think about this rationally.  Someone obviously went to a lot of trouble to bring you half way round the world.  There is no way they did this for the sole purpose of leaving you to die in a dark room."

So he waited.  Waited in the dark, forcing himself to breathe slowly, whispering calmness to himself.  He didn't know how long he waited, but eventually a sound came to his attention.


The heavy thud of boots on floorboards.  Jeremiah pricked up his ears.  It came steady and grew louder.  Someone was walking towards the door.  Getting to his feet he pressed an ear against the wood.  He heard the feet step in front of the door and a jingle of keys.  A splash of flickering orange creep under the crack in the door.  Sinclair stepped back, away from the door.  As he heard the key undo the lock he dropped into a crouch, ready to pounce on the door.  The doorway groaned open, spilling the orange glow of a torch into the room.  As soon as it was wide enough, Jeremiah launched himself at the opening.  His shoulder collided with what felt like rock, and he bounced backwards.


Tripping over his own feet he fell to the floor.


"Nice try," a gravelly voice chuckled.

"Lot of good it did," Sinclair replied.

"It was still a first," the voice said.

Grunting, Jeremiah rose to a sitting position.  Even though the torch cast a low light, he squinted his eyes against it as they adjusted.  When they finally did, he recognized the mountainous man from the train.


"You all right?" the man asked.

"Yeah." Jeremiah got to his feet and pointed at his face, "Mr..."


"Anders, gotcha."

Waving the torch, Anders motioned for Sinclair to follow him.  Jeremiah complied, though he walked cautiously.  Given what happened the last time he'd followed this mountain, he wasn't sure if it was a good idea to do so again.  However, anything was better than being in that room.  Even in the light he could still feel the dark as though it had saturated his skin.

Anders led him through a narrow hall constructed of wood and sculpted stone.  He tried to take note of the designs, but it was all he could do to keep up with the giant.  When they came to the end of the hall, Anders placed the torch in a metal ring, fastened to a stone column.  The hallway opened unto a room lit by streams of sunlight, shafting in through openings in the ceiling.


Once Anders stepped aside, Jeremiah was able to get a better sense of the room.  It lay open, vast and unadorned, save for several columns.  Some of the pillars were made of stone, others of wood.  They rose from a tile floor that also presented a mosaic.  From this level it was hard to determine the image, but Sinclair was certain he could do so from a higher vantage point.  Perhaps best from one of the many catwalks and massive balconies that stretched out high above the floor.


Anders pointed down an aisle of columns, "Go straight through there to the door.  They're expecting you."

"Who is?"

Anders merely smiled and pointed the direction again.

Realizing he wasn't going to get an answer, Jeremiah went down the aisle.  As he entered the aisle he heard faint footsteps all around him.  He tried to scan with his peripheral vision, but it was to no avail.  Looking back over his shoulder he saw Anders watching him with a fixed gaze.  Something about his eyes when the light danced across them made Jeremiah shiver.


Focusing on the immediate, Sinclair walked forward until he came to the end of the aisle.  The door was ornate, to say the least.  Inlays of iron twisted through the wood like vines grown on a trellis.  It looked heavy and solid, but only a light touch was necessary to push it open.


Metal bowls holding flames hung by chains from the ceiling.  They cast a waxing, waning light around an otherwise shadowy room.  Three men sat off at the far end of the room, away from the door.  Only one was clear in the light.  The others sat enough in shadow to remain, simply, silhouettes.  The visible man motioned for Jeremiah to enter.  As Sinclair entered, the doors drifted shut behind him, as if of their own accord.

Sinclair swallowed hard.  Sweat peppered his forehead, but he kept his focus.  Despite his anxiety, he restrained himself to act only when necessary.


Once he drew nearer to the three men, the visible one said, "Welcome to our home, Mr. Sinclair."

"I wish I could say it's nice to be here," Jeremiah replied.

"He's direct," one of the silhouetted men said, "I like that."

"I'm sure you have a great deal of questions," the visible man said.

"You could say that," Sinclair looked around the room.  He saw shadows move against the light and realized, he was not alone with these men, "Is this where you tell me 'All will be revealed in time'?"

The visible man smiled, "Hardly, all will be revealed right now."

Coming Soon!

Part III


An Offer and a Choice

Hunter's Moon Part I

Submitted by: J. Rohr

Part I

Welcome to the East

The landscape lost its tranquility as the sun dipped below the horizon.  It had not yet fully set, however, night's long fingers were already taking hold.  Jeremiah stared out the window wondering if he had finally lost all reason.

He reached underneath his seat and removed a leather satchel that looked like it had seen its better days years ago.  From within he withdrew a letter, which he knew by heart now, though he found himself reading it over and over again.

The train carriage dipped far to one side as the locomotive rounded a sharp bend.  Jeremiah's stomach had gotten used to the hairpin turns taken at too quick a pace, but the blood still drained from his face.  He could almost feel the pallor develop.  It made his mouth dry.  Shivering off his concern, he returned to the letter.

It was written on coarse white paper, unusually stiff and firm.  When he had first opened it, the paper carried the scent of incense, but that smell was just a memory now.  His eyes moved over the text for near the hundredth time.


"Mr. Jeremiah Sinclair,

In light of your recent situation, it is recommended that you seek future employment abroad.  Travel arrangements have already been prepared.  You have simply to pick up your ticket at the airport and board the appropriate flight.  At your arrival further instructions will follow.


P.S.  Ignoring this offer will result in you wasting your life."

There was no signature, no return address.  In fact, his address hadn't even been on the envelope.  The letter had simply been slipped under his door.  Most people, sane people, would have ignored the contents and gone on with their lives.  Yet, for some reason, Jeremiah felt compelled to follow the instructions.  All he could remember was the incense scent.  It reminded him of dark colors and mouth watering desire.  He'd read the words, then smelled the fragrance, and suddenly had his satchel packed  and was in a cab on the way to the airport.


Over the course of the flight, which seemed to last for days, he'd paid little attention to anything but the letter.  The plane had deposited him in Mandalay, Myanmar.  Barely off the plane, he was greeted by a car, complete with uniformed driver, and swept off to a nearby train station.  A private train had been waiting at the platform, and he had boarded without question, following a thin cloud of that same incense smell.  However, as the scent faded from the air, hesitation crept into his actions.

Unfortunately, his doubts took a back seat to fatigue.  Most of the train ride he'd slept, only occasionally waking as he made his way from Myanmar, into Bangladesh, then up through Nepal.  The compartment was comfortable to say the least.  The train consisted of three cars, including the engine.  At first he had been content in the rear car, but as his hesitation increased, Jeremiah tried to explore the other car.  He heard muffled voices through the connecting door but found, much to his concern, it locked from the other side.


Jeremiah read the post script.  Was it a threat?  He couldn't tell.  Although, somehow it seemed like a caution.  As if the writer were offering him a possibility above his current circumstance.  Thinking back to his dungeon-like apartment in Chicago, he knew anything was better than back home.  Anything that is, except being locked in a speeding train thousands of miles from anywhere familiar.

Putting the letter back in his satchel, Jeremiah checked his bag for one particular item.  Feeling cold metal against his fingers he felt slightly safer.  Even in his irrational rush to the airport, Jeremiah had, almost instinctively, packed his Taurus model 84 .32 caliber revolver.  Without removing it from the satchel, he checked the siX-Shot cylinder to make sure it was loaded.  Seeing that it was, he tucked it under the few shirts he'd packed.


Taking in a deep breath, Jeremiah collected all of his worries and let them out in a long slow exhalation.  For whatever reasons he had brought himself to this point.  Panicking wouldn't help his situation any.  The best thing to do was to stay focused, take each problem one at a time, and a few other cliched cautionary maxims he told himself.


Leaning back in his seat, he let his eyes close half way.  He'd forgotten to take a watch and so had no idea how long he'd been traveling.  As he drifted into a doze, Jeremiah wondered how much farther he had left to journey.

The train shook as the brakes were applied.  The sudden jolt rocked the carriage, shaking Jeremiah awake.  He blinked his eyes to erase his vision's sleep induced blur.  For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was.  Then it all came back.  Looking out the window he saw low buildings, so run down they seemed to beg for demolition.  Instead of a platform, the train "station" was a dirt mound with a few tree stumps serving as seats.  The platform as well as the town seemed deserted.      A knock at the back door drew his attention.

Slipping the revolver into his coat pocket, Jeremiah picked up his satchel.  Opening the door he saw a man, whose parents must have been mountains, standing in the doorway.  He motioned for Jeremiah to follow and led the way to the dirt mound. 

Coming around the carriage Jeremiah saw that where there had been no one before, four men stood on the earthen platform.  Three wore heavy thick furs and had their heads wrapped to the point where only a narrow slit remained for their eyes.  The mountainous man was adorned much as the fourth man, in a black suit, red tie, and leather trench coat.


The fourth man smiled as Jeremiah approached.  When close enough to be heard, the man asked, "Jeremiah Sinclair?"

"Yes," Jeremiah replied in a stern voice.  He thought to himself, 'Stay focused.  You can handle this.'

The fourth man opened his mouth as if to speak again but instead suddenly lashed out, striking Jeremiah on the side of the head.  The man's hand felt like a hammer smashing across his face.  As blackness closed  around him, Jeremiah heard the man say, "Welcome to the East."

Coming Soon!

Part II

A Man and Silhouettes

Crescent the werewolf of darkness the full moon saga chapter 1

Submitted by: alex Longden A.K.A Crescent the werewolf of darkness

link head

Crescent got out of bed and gasped as sheer pain shot through her body, she felt her feet lengthen she felt her face potruding into a snout her fingernails started to bleed as they changed into thick dagger-like claws she felt the iron tang of blood in her mouth as her teeth twisted into sharp fangs she felt wiry hairs coming out of every pore she felt hard pads grow on her paws and feet then she heard a sharp crack as a great bushy tail potruded from behind her she felt her eyes stinging changing from chocolate brown to acid green. The trnsformation was complete her heart beat sure and strong giddly she stood up, this room,these meaningless possesions,none of them are understandable all she is thinking is outside there is prey waiting she quietly goes downstairs trying not to make a noise she opens the door and bounds outside, runs like the wind, until she reaches a large forest then she throws up her head and howls at the moon............ be continued....

slave2moonlight’s Werewolf Travel Adventures!

Submitted by: slave2moonlight

slave2moonlight’s Werewolf Travel Adventures!

Edinburg, TX, May 19th, 2005, 12:00 a.m. - Star Wars Episode 3 Midnight Showing

Well folks, some time ago, it came to my attention that many of my friends here at the Werewolf Cafe are obsessive Star Wars fans like myself. Knowing this, I’m sure they shared my excitement on the first of this month, when the final film in the Star Wars Saga, “Star Wars, Episode 3: Revenge of the Sith,” hit store shelves. I’m confident that I was not the only werewolf staggering into the nearest retail store, running on hardly any sleep from the Halloween night before, making sure I snagged a copy of the sacred disc to complete my collection. Rushing home (safely, of course), I wasted no time in placing the film in my DVD player, pressing play, and reliving the hypnotic experience that is Anakin Skywalker’s fall into darkness. Almost immediately, I was taken back to that muggy, early morning of May 19th, 2005, when I saw the final installment of George Lucas’s epic masterpiece for the first time.

Holding tickets for the midnight premiere, my friend Marty and I made our way to the Carmike theater in nearby Edinburg, Texas, the best theater within reasonable driving distance. We arrived at the theater some time after 9pm on that night of the 18th, and the line didn’t look quite as bad as we’d feared. Nevertheless, it did extend quite a ways outside the doors of the theater, and we had to take our place at the end of it. The sky was dark already, and as the minutes slowly dragged by, the line grew longer and longer behind us. We eventually noticed a TV news van and, taking pictures with folks standing in line, two guys in top of the line Stormtrooper and Biker Scout uniforms. I’m highly suspicious that these two are the same uniform-owning pair that have posted their photos in a local pop-culture yahoo group I run. Anyways, I wanted my pic with the Imperial agents too, but didn’t want to lose my place in line, so I just leaned in so Marty could take a photo of me with his camera phone for the Cafe and get the troops in the background. Now, this wasn’t one of those incredible Star Wars premieres you see on TV, but, happily, a few people in line DID actually come in costume, and ya gotta love that. A lot of folks make fun, but it’s great to have a passion for something, and who can complain about cute girls dressed like Princess Leia? Le-rrowllll!! Myself, I wore my New Republic lapel pin, as usual, though it unfortunately didn’t make it into the picture.

Slave 2 Star Wars

Eventually, I guess the theater staff seated one theater full of people, because our segment of the line suddenly found ourselves waiting indoors instead of outdoors, which was a vast improvement. We looked around for the friends we had planned to meet their, but they had unfortunately arrived earlier than us and were taken away with that first group. After quite a while, Marty and I were finally seated too, and the anticipation was overwhelming! I pulled out a couple of bags of Jedi M&Ms to divy up, and we settled in to complete an important missing chapter in both our lives. All I can say is, it was AMAZING!!! Sure, this is old news by now, but what a ride that night was! Everything was orchestrated so well! Chewbacca and Darth Vader were back! Ian McDiarmid seemed to be channeling the demon from “The Exorcist,” Natalie Portman was an angel, as usual (though the same can be said for young Aunt Beru), Mace and the other Jedi kicked butt, and all those cast members playing characters from the original trilogy had never done their jobs so perfectly! That legendary lightsaber duel, man, that was awesome! Of course, the icing on the cake was the finale, which tied the Star Wars prequels to the classic trilogy soooo beautifully! It was truly a fantastic night at the movies! Plenty of stuff to talk about on the ride home, and I’m still discussing the loose-ends the film tied up with fellow fans to this day!

Of course, there was one thing missing to make this film the perfect final addition to the Star Wars saga: A Shistavanen Wolfman.

Lak Sivrak

Yes, there is a race of wolf-people in the Star Wars Universe, though this proud race was previously only represented in the first film, “Episode 4: A New Hope,” by wolf-man Lak Sivrak in the Mos Eisley Cantina, who joined the rebellion and became one of the heroes of the Battle of Hoth. Tragically, to me anyway, among George Lucas’s 1997 alterations to the original Star Wars trilogy, Lak Sivrak was removed for looking too much like a Halloween mask! Outrage! This is probably the only “Special Editions” adjustment that really ticks me off. There are two bright-sides to Lak’s temporary existence in the Star Wars Universe though. For one, they DID actually make an action figure of Lak somewhere along the line. I can’t recall if it was shortly before or after the Special Editions were released, but I’m happy to say I have one in my collection.

Laksivrak Figure

Secondly, despite being removed from the film saga altogether, Lak’s species lives on, thanks to his fans! When given a choice between 3 or 4 designs for a new Jedi character to be featured in the recent Cartoon Network animated “Star Wars: Clone Wars” micro-series, fans chose a Shistavanen Wolfman named Voolvif Monn! Voolvif rocked as a new Jedi hero! According to the official Star Wars online databank, the heroic, loner Jedi Voolvif Monn survived the battle of Geonosis to be promoted to Jedi Master and a commander of troops during the Clone Wars.

Voolvif Monn

Hopefully, the Shistavanen Wolfmen will continue to be an active part of the Star Wars saga in the television series to come and every other media the Star Wars Universe has successfully invaded! We Star Wars fans here at the Werewolf Cafe do have quite a lot to be thankfully for at this special time of year!

Okay, that’s it for this edition of slave2moonlight’s Werewolf Travel Adventures! Remember, “Have fur, will travel!”

From Past to Present Moon

Submitted by: Jay Rohr

From Past to Present Moon

One day I woke up, and he was gone. Always told people Mom and I had no idea why he left, but that's only a half truth. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't even say he left on account of it being more like he disappeared. Disappeared into the woods out back of the house. And some might not think it kind to say, but I was glad when he left

Parents generally don't assume their kids, of a certain age, can tell what goes on inside a home. That might be true if vents didn't carry conversations from other rooms, and children weren't know for stashing themselves in small secret spaces. Then there's those nights where it isn't so dark, and you see things no one wants to believe is real.


Coming to, some kind of amnesia blocked the last few minutes out of his mind. Someone was patting him with a jacket. Whoever it was kept talking in a frantic manner. However, without the last few moments in mind none of what came out made any sense.

"Dammit Paul. Waited too long, too long. Shoulda tossed it when I said. What the hell were you thinkin'? Too long, too long."

Realizing he was flat on his back, Paul Miller sat up. At least, he tried too. The person patting him down placed a restraining hand firmly on his chest.

"You listen to old Zak, ya hear. Lie still and I'll get the car."

"Zak?" Paul croaked out. Blurring recollections were climbing back into his memory. Fragmentary images, recalled out of order, made Paul remember a cloud of fire blooming in front of him.

"What is it bud?" Zak leaned in close, laying his coat over his friend.

"I can't feel my face."

Zak gingerly squeezed Paul's shoulder, "I'ma get the car. Lie quiet."

As Zak hurried off, whispering prayers, Paul reached a hand up to feel his own face. His fingertips pressed into a spongy mass that felt slick and loose. Pulling his hand back, he saw his fingers covered with what looked like melted cheese. It took a moment for his brain to realize what he didn't want to know. Once it did, Paul started to shiver.

It all came back in a wash. He, Zak, Steve, and Allen; drunk thinking and a plan of action; a sense of civic duty; Molotov cocktails; being transfixed by a pair of eyes; a throw too late that now had his face melting off.

He could hear the roar of Zak's engine. The '92 Camaro growled as it raced back to where Paul lay. But it didn't growl alone.

Turning his head, Paul saw a naked man lying face down in the dirt. He couldn't have been more than an arm's length away. A deep guttural sound that rivaled the engine came pouring out of him as he tried to stand up. Paul could see a dripping line of blood welling out of a neat hole in the man's chest. He managed to push himself onto his knees but that was it. Breathing heavily, he locked eyes with Paul.

"I won't forget you," he snarled before falling backwards.


Hospitals don't make good coffee, but they do know how to make it strong. Sheriff Charles Connally took a sip from the Styrofoam cup and winced. Even so, he could already feel it speeding up his blood He needed to be asleep, but he had to be awake. When men turn up dead, looking like they fought a lawn mower, it's no surprise there'll be an investigation.

Strolling past the nurse's station, Connally waved to the ladies on duty. None of them had to be asked, they all knew what he wanted to know.

One nurse pointed down the hall saying, "Fourth door on your right."

"Thank you," Connally tipped the brim of his baseball cap.

Stepping to the appropriate door, he paused to listen for voices. Connally was the kind of man who planned a barbeque down to the last toothpick. He didn't like walking into a situation without some idea what to expect, and now was the time to be catching people off guard.

When he heard no voices, he gently knocked on the door, pushing it open as he did so. Stepping inside, he saw a slender young woman wiping her face clean of tears. She took a moment to fix her hair and straighten her clothes before waving him into the room.

"How's he doing Emily?" Connally asked.

Emily seated herself at the foot of the bed, "He's doing fine."

"As well as can be expected," Paul said. He shifted and pressed a switch to incline the bed. Rising up, he glanced over at the sheriff, "You seen Zak?"

"Already talked to him. Now I just want to hear from you. If your feeling up to it." Connally closed the door. He stepped over to stand beside the bed. Folding his arms across his chest, he stared down at Paul. Even wrapped in bandages he still looked a mess. Splotches of red were already soaking through the white. Paul hadn't been wrapped up tight, so edges of his burns peaked out to hint at their extent. Connally tried not to stare but had little success.


"Yeah, Paul." Emily rose to her feat. She blinked, spilling a few teardrops.

"Can you give us a few?" Paul smiled with the unburned side of his face. Even on a morphine drip it hurt too much to move the other side.

"Sure, baby. I'll just be right outside?" Emily kissed her hand and touched his leg. Before the door closed, she looked back him. A weak smile quivered across her lips.

"Good woman." Connally said, pulling over a chair

"How's that?" Paul asked.

"Well, I've seen guys worse off than you, and by that I mean dying and all, who didn't get a visit from their ladies." Connally grunted as he sat down. It felt good to sit. Almost too good. Feeling his eyelids gaining weight, he sipped his coffee for another jolt.

Paul shrugged, "I suppose that has all to do with how good a man is to his girl."

"I got proof that such ain't so," Connally shook his head.

Burrowing back into the mattress, Paul raised an eyebrow, "I've heard there's no accounting for taste."

"Indeed," Connally nodded. Taking another sip, he adjusted his cap.

"New caps in?" Paul asked with little interest. He knew he was just stalling, but every second he didn't talk about tonight was a good one.

Connally leaned forward, placing an elbow on his knee, "Yep. Just in case no one already knew." The sheriff tapped the embroidered inscription on the cap. It read, Forested Hills Softball League '04.

"You think there's someone you didn't tell?" Paul chuckled.

"You never know," Connally leaned back in his seat, cradling the cup in his lap.

"No, indeed. You never know." Paul's eyes gained a glaze, while he stared off into space. Almost involuntarily, he cast a glance out the window. He had a beautiful view of the road leading out of town, into the woods.

Connally sighed, "So, I don't want to seem heartless, but we should really get into this thing."

"Yeah, I guess we should."


Our town isn't small, but it ain't big. I guess one would be inclined to think of it as middle sized. If nothing else, we're big enough to be on the map and have our own Walmart. What I'm trying to say is that, when Pops up and vanished it didn't take long for all those about to find out.

I can't say as I blame anyone. It was good gossip after all. People had been speculating about Pop for awhile, but they were careful to keep quiet. Sometimes you might hear a few folks between aisles at the store, or come round a corner and a group of old ladies shuts up like a buncha traps. It bothers a person till the rumor mill cranks out a different tale. Then you enjoy not being the center of attention, maybe even get on the bandwagon.

The fact of the matter is all the folks in town had was assumption. None of them knew a damn thing about a damn thing. I still remember when Pops come home one night, twitching and sweating bullets. Nasty looking gashes on one arm. His face looked how I figured a person's might if they saw the devil. I recall my Mom being relieved at first - cuz he was late getting back from the river, fishing - then getting doubly worried at the sight of him. As far as I know he never spoke a word of what happened. But that's when he started getting strange.


Paul had Sheriff Connally pour him a glass of water before he started talking. Connally handed him the cup then took up his seat beside the bed. Paul took a long drink. The water was cool and kept the dry out of his mouth. However, it didn't feel refreshing. He still felt warm. The thought made him shiver.

"Cold?" Connally asked.

"Water's cold," Paul replied, his voice flat and monotone.

The sheriff set his cup on the floor and removed a small tape recorder from his pants pocket, "You mind?"

Paul sucked a breath through his teeth, "I suppose not."

"Well, all right then." Connally switched on the recorder and laid it on the bed, "Sheriff Charles Connally, interviewing Paul Miller, November 18, 2005. Mr. Miller, you can start anytime you want."

With a sigh and a shrug Paul began, "No time like the present. Zak, Allen, Steve, and myself were all out earlier. We were having drinks over at Done by Dawn. Ya know, Sam Campbell's place. Anyhow, Allen was late joining me and the other guys. He comes running in, orders a shot all fierce and hammers it. And when I say fierce, I mean, smacking the bar, yelling for it, and this is all when he first comes in.

"So he spies us in the corner and runs over. Steve gets him calm, and he tells us that he's just been in a fight with that stranger who just blew into town."

Connally interrupted, "A. J. Williams."

"Yeah, I guess that's his name."

"The man that was shot."

Paul avoided the sheriff's stare, "Like I was saying, Allen starts telling how he got a rag doll beatin' from this guy, Williams. Just tossed around, and I mean, Allen looked like a team of dudes had run over him. Of course, we asked why it all happened.. He says this Williams started the fight out front of the 7/11. Allen comes out after buying smokes, and there's Williams smelling around his car."

Connally cut in again, "I want to ask about that."

" 'Bout what?"

"Zak said it the same way. What do you mean 'smelling around'?"

Paul shook his head, "Believe what you want, but we mean he was literally smelling 'n' sniffin' round Allen's car. When Allen comes over, he asks if Williams needs a hand with anything. The freak just starts in asking where I am?"

While Paul paused to take a sip, Connally slipped in a few cents, "That fits with Zak's story so far. I take it then the three of you got on the subject of Williams?"

Paul scratched an itch on his neck, where the gauze rubbed him oddly, "We got talkin', the bar got talkin', everybody was talkin'. And all in all it came down that this Williams was a strange one. Few of anyone actually met him met him, ya know what I mean. The only thing anyone knows for sure is he's living out in the woods by the river, and some folks say he's been asking for me. Stalking around places I been recently and what not."

"Did you know this man from somewhere else?" Connally inquired.

"Absolutely not. Williams could be a fake name, but I don't forget faces. I don't know this guy, but he seems to want to know me."

Connally knit his eyebrows together, "So how did talking escalate to what happened?"

Paul held up a hand, "I'm gettin' to it. Josh Cheever comes in, puts himself in the conversation. He tells how he's comin' back from the river, fly fishing, and by the side of the road he sees Williams eating a deer raw. Bare hands and teeth, that's it, just going at it.

"Naturally we're drinkin' more. Night wears on. Steve says aloud what we all got to thinking, 'This guy needs to be run out of town.' Ya know, for the public good. So we pile into Zak's Camaro and head down to the river."

"And in order to accomplish this, you all made a few Molotov cocktails?" Connally crossed his arms over his chest. Zak had been reluctant to explain that aspect. Now Paul seemed to be sweating over the question.

Swallowing hard, Paul said, "Those were already in Zak's trunk. He and I like to go out by the quarry, light 'em, and toss 'em over the edge. Sometimes we shoot a few rounds so they blow on the way down. That's why there was a .45 in the glove box."

"That explains that," Connally's voice had the air of a disapproving father. He couldn't help but let a small chuckle slip out, "We'll put all that by the side for now. Cut right to meeting Williams. You found him, things got out of hand, tell me why."


I woke up late one night. There was a noise out in the backyard. I never heard a sound like that before, and I hoped I'd never hear it again. Though it seems hope has let me down. Whatever, that's not on topic. Some things you just can't see coming.

It was a blended noise. If you could overlap a man groaning with a dog howling, you'd get some sense of what it sounded like. Seeing as I could see out in the backyard from my room, I looked out the window to try and spy the cause of it.

I wish I'd never done that. I doubt much would have changed without having seen it happening, but there's not much I can do about that now. Ya know how they say ignorance is bliss? I want a toucha that bliss. I want to be ignorant of my Pops, busting out of his skin, and changing into a wolf.


Paul continued, "We started simple enough. Just acting like hardasses, trying to scare him. Nothing big. Alla sudden the wind shifts. I remember that, cuz that set him off. He points at me and starts yelling and growling. And I mean real growling, closest I ever heard a man sound like a dog. Big dog." Paul stared off, lost in the memory of the sound. His attention came back when the sheriff asked what Williams said. Rubbing under his chin, Paul shifted uncomfortably, "He said he'd been looking for me since he'd killed my father."

Connally blinked, "You're certain of that."

"Oh yeah." Paul looked the sheriff straight in the eye, "That's a close quote. Said my Pops and I had the same scent. Lil different but close enough. Williams claimed Pops had bit some kinda curse into his blood. Now he was getting rid of all of Pops' bloodline to be safe... and get back at him."

Connally crossed his legs. Downing the last of his coffee he asked, "What happened next?"

"He came at us. Plowed right over Zak, tossed Allen and Steve like they weren't nothing, and grabs a hold of me. I tried to fight him off, but I might as well of been fighting a truck." Paul shivered, "Allen and Steve come up from behind and wrestled him off me. While they were fightin' Zak and me went in the car for some weapons. He got the gun, and I got the Molotovs. I'm lighting mine up on the way back over and I hear this sound....."

Paul trailed off, halted by the memory of his father and Williams making the same sound.

"What kind of sound?" Connally probed. Zak had mentioned a strange sort of howl but hadn't gone into much detail.

"Like a blend of a man yelling and a wolf howling." Paul glanced at the sheriff, suspecting that Connally was measuring him for a straitjacket. All the man did was urge Paul to continue.

"We got back, and mind you it was dark, but Williams looked like he was changing. Growing bigger, busting outta his clothes, seemed to get claws, and I swear I saw some big old teeth. Now I won't say that he was becoming an animal, mostly on account of how crazy it sounds, but that's what it looked like. Anyhow.....

"Allen was already down. Zak and I got back in time to see Williams rip Steve's gut open. Zak was yelling for me to throw the Molotov, but I couldn't stop staring at Williams. He and I kinda locked eyes. Well, I finally realize what I'm holding, but I threw it too late. It blew up in my face and that's about the last I remember."

Connally nodded, "After that, Zak shot Williams in the chest which ended the whole fight. We've got Williams on ice down at the morgue, so I wouldn't worry about him. In the meanwhile, I'm going to check on a few details, but I think you can rest easy. For the time being, it looks like self-defense."

"Thanks Chuck." Paul pressed a button, reclining the bed flat again.

The sheriff collected the recorder then stepped outside, closing the door softly. Emily got to her feet. She'd been sitting next to the door, waiting for the two to finish talking. Connally placed a hand on her shoulder, leading her over to the nurse's station.

"Don't worry about anything, Em. I don't plan on charging him with anything."

Emily breathed a sigh of relief, "I'm glad to hear it. Although, that's almost the least of our concerns." She glanced back at the door to Paul's room. Reaching up, she rubbed her shoulders.

Connally cleared his throat to make sure he had her attention, "He's going to have a little trouble accepting just what happened, but you can be sure that's to be expected. If he tells you anything fantastic just accept it for the time being. Plus, if anything gets out of hand you know where to reach me."

Emily smiled, "Down the street and around the corner."

"That's right," Connally said, tipping his cap. The two said their goodbyes then went their separate ways. Emily returned to Paul's room, while the sheriff left the hospital. Connally swore at the sight of raining pouring down. Being tired was bad enough, but he had no desire to combine it with being wet. Knowing there was no getting around the matter, he turned up his collar and braced himself for the coming soaking. However, a step from the exit his cellphone began to ring. Pulling it out he answered, "Sheriff here."

"Sheriff Connally, it's Deputy Chapman."

"What do you need?" Connally looked at his wristwatch. He wondered at what time sunrise was supposed to be.

"It's about Williams' body, sir." There was a nervous tension in the deputy's voice that did not sit well with the sheriff.

"What about it?" Connally asked gruffly.

"It's gone, sir."


Emily slipped out of the room quietly to pour herself a cup of coffee. As the door closed, Paul rolled over and opened his eyes. Placing a hand against his face he felt the thick bandages against his palm. He didn't know how badly he'd been burned, but doctors grimacing at the sight of a wound is never a good sign. His thoughts were turning to Emily, how this would all affect her, when he heard the creak of a window being opened.

Paul started to roll to face the window, but the smell of wet fur froze him in place. The sound of sniffing could be heard over the rain. He heard a heavy thud as something came climbing in through the window. The wet smack of feet pounded over to the bed. A firm hand pressed on his side, holding him in place. Looking down, Paul saw a five fingered paw, complete with thumb, and long vicious looking claws.

As the hand tightened, claws digging into his flesh, an inhuman voice snarled, "For sins of the father."


They say your life flashes before your eyes when your last seconds tick past. I didn't know you get to comment during it, but I guess you do. How else could I look back on that night and talk in the same while about my Pops, Bruce Miller. Like I said, after what I saw, him changing into a wolf in the backyard, I wasn't sorry to see him go. I always thought it was for the best. Seemed like it would be more dangerous to have him around. That is, until now.

German Werewolf Part IV

Submitted by: Jay Rohr

Roadside Realizations

In the past I have said that I left the tavern because I did not care for the mood that had developed. Additionally, the behavior of the patrons and the proprietor, Herr Wirzt, had begun to make me more than uncomfortable. However, I feel that for the first time I can say with ease there was another element that contributed to my immediate egress. Despite whatever rationalizations my mind applied to the story of Elimar Scherer, some part of me felt it a reality. The affect it had on those in the City Wall was too extreme for a mere ghost story. Still, youth has a way of ignoring any hesitation, especially when accompanied by a gut full of strong drink.

So I set my feet back on the road to Eggenstedt. Although it was night, the moon was so near to full I had no trouble finding my way. Rounding a bend, I lost sight of the tavern. Before it disappeared completely I glanced over my shoulder and saw Herr Wirtz along with a few others standing outside the door, watching me leave. One man clearly made the sign of the cross then pointed in my direction. I felt a chill that turned to a shiver, which I cannot wholly attribute to the wind.

Once the tavern left my sight, I tried not to think about it or what had transpired therein. My thoughts first turn to Eggenstedt, where I hoped my friends had acquired rooms for us all. There were still a few miles to travel, and I was certain a bed would be my first visit in town. From there I attempted to devise some way of playfully revenging myself on my friends. As much as I enjoy a good joke (even one that leaves me left by the roadside) it must be understood, as a matter not much unlike a moral imperative, that all pranks must be returned in kind to those who first dealt them. Several plans were forming in head when I heard a branch snap.

It caught my attention but did little to hinder my progress. The forest closed in on most of this portion of road, and branches break often enough. The second sound, something like leaves crunching underfoot, did slow my pace.

As I continued along, I tried to peer through the thickness of the woods. Though the moon shone light on the road, it had no strength to penetrate the forest’s shadows. I could only make out vague forms that suggested little, if anything, to me. Still, as the wind stirred the trees, I found my thoughts returning to Herr Wirtz’s tale. Another crunch of leaves started my heart on a hammering pulse that vibrated my chest. Despite the instinct to move down the road more quickly, my feet began to stall. When a nearby bush rattled, my whole body froze.

Images of gnashing teeth, tearing claws, surging rivers of blood, and shredded skin ran with demonic frenzy through my mind. I tried to swallow, but my mouth had gone dry. As the bush shook again, I braced myself for whatever Hell born thing might come forth. A rabbit. A small, gray, long eared, run of the mill rabbit bounded out of the bush, hopped along to the opposite side of the road, and vanished into the woods.

Taking in a deep breath, I let it out in a sigh that turned into embarrassed laughter. I was glad no one had been present to see my display, while I mopped the rivers of sweat from face. With a firm grip on the reigns of my imagination, I continued along the path.

I passed the time by singing snips from the HMS Pinafore. At least, the selections I could remember. I began as Captain Corcoran, and took on the chorus parts when necessary,

"Though related to a peer,

I can hand, reef, and steer,

And ship a selvagee;

I am never known to quail

At the furry of a gale

And I’m never, never sick at sea!

What, never?

No, never!

What, never?

Hardly ever!

He’s hardly ever sick at sea!

Then give three cheers, and one cheer more,

For the hardy captain of the Pinafore!"

I don’t profess to have a professional’s handle on singing, but I have not yet heard a complaint. Perhaps primarily because I tend to sing when I am alone. But such considerations are hardly worth mentioning. The time was passing delightfully along with the miles, and I dare say I was, at times, dancing my way to Eggenstedt.

My spirits were so high in fact, I completely ignored the sounds of snuffling my ears had begun to register. Assuming they were the product of another woodland creature, most likely a larger cousin of the rabbit, I sang louder to drawn them out. However, sounds soon started to accompany the snuffling.

"A British tar is a soaring soul,

As free as a mountain bird,

(Leaves and branches crunching, snapping underfoot)

His energetic fist should be ready to resist

a dictatorial word.

His nose should pant, and his lip should curl,

(Something akin to a low, steady growl)

His cheeks should flame and his brow should furl, (the rustle of leaves by the side of the road)

His bosom should heave and his heart should glow,

And his fist be every ready for a knock-down blow."

As the last note dropped off, I heard a noise like a dog panting. Keeping my imagination on a tight leash, I allowed myself a glance in the direction of the sound There was nothing there, save for the trees and the shadows wrapped around them. Then, as I turned to face forward, I caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye.

‘Simply the wind,’ I thought to myself. It was a rational conclusion, but not enough of one to slow my pace, which had quickened. Even with my imagination reigned in, I still kept an eye on the side of the road. It was fortunate that I did so, because if I had not, I never would have seen them. I can say now, after long years of reflection, that I am almost certain I saw a pair of shining, yellow eyes flash for an instant in the darkness. As soon as I saw them I broke into a dead run.

Save for the wind rushing past my ears and the pounding of my pulse, I couldn’t hear any sounds. I remember saying the Lord’s Prayer, some parts in my head, others aloud. The brush by the roadside shook as my pursuer raced towards me, hindered only by the wind. I can walk for miles with little fatigue, but I am not of the athletic variety. So it was only a short distance before I could feel my pace slowing. I tried to pump my legs harder but instead of speed, produced more sweat.

They say your life flashes in front of your eyes at the curtain’s close, and I think that it does so to help you recall all that you’ve done wrong. That way you can absolve yourself fully before the finale. It also reminds you what you have yet to do with your life. Although, looking back, that could just be a youthful impression.

My muscles started to grind to a halt. In the midst of contemplating whether to face the thing I knew was chasing me, or let it take me from behind, I saw a light coming round a turn in the road. It spilled out down the path, then emerged from behind a veil of trees. My heart swelled and a new energy returned to my legs. It was a lighted carriage, piloted by my friend, James. Considering how late it had become, as well as the storm earlier, he had, most likely, come back down the road looking for me. Running with my new found vigor, I waved to him with both arms.

As the carriage neared, he slowed and called out to me, "Hello, hello. I thought you might be lost or wanting a li..."

"Turn around and drive," I shouted, leaping into the seat next to him. For a moment he was confused and started pulling the carriage to a dead stop. I can only imagine what he thought at the sight of me. I was gasping for every ounce of oxygen I could breathe in and dripping with sweat from exertion and fear. I repeated my command, as it was not a request, and finally got him to turn the carriage.

As James whipped the horses to a faster gait, I ventured a look back down the road. I will swear to my dying day, I saw a silhouette slinking along the edge of the road, following us for a distance, before vanishing back into the woods.

When we reached Eggenstedt I told my friends all that had happened. To be kind, I will say only that they did not believe me. For a time I did not want to believe myself, but I know what I saw. Thank God James had been on his way back to find me. Thank God even more that Herr Wirtz had told me what to be on the lookout for, otherwise I might not have known to run Then I would not be able to tell you this story now. A tale I’ve only told because, I feel safe assuming, you believe me.

My believable werewolf story

Submitted by: Alexandra Longden

I once had a dream connected to my sisters dream I had a dream I turned into a black werewolf and I wore a crescent moon pendant with a star in it,anyway I bounded out my house and howled at the moon then I saw someone walking across the moors and with a great roar and a powerful bound I pounced on my victim and bit him or her and ran off, when I woke up my sister told me she had a dream that a manwolf creature came and pounced on her and bit her.

Grey Werewolf

German Werewolf Part III

Submitted by: Jay Rohr

Part III

By the Roadside

It had been some time since I'd heard a good ghost story. So naturally, I was rather over joyed at the delightful little tale laid before me. I suppose it had as much to do with the atmosphere as the tale itself: the hushed surrounding audience of peasants listening carefully, sometimes correcting; a passionate teller who's voice alone carried the haunting mood; all done in a tavern illuminated by a fireplace as rain pattered lightly against the windows.

I did my best to suspend all disbelief, but there are limits to what a man can accept as fact. Even though, I will freely admit, the air of my company made it hard to disbelieve. Although I assumed this was a folktale passed down through the generations, those present seemed as afraid of it as if the story had just occurred. Still, I consider myself a rational individual, and therefore, even when tempted, ignored the possible truth of their words.

That being said, my own skepticism was no reason to halt my storyteller. So, after receiving a fresh of stein of beer, I encouraged Herr Wirtz to continue.

He told me that when Elimar Scherer disappeared, many assumed it confirmation of his guilt. However, rumors had drifted back to town that lessened suspicions. A man had reportedly been found out in a field near Eggenstedt. He was naked and suffering from a bullet wound in the chest. His recovery was amazingly quick. Almost unnatural, as Herr Wirtz put it. Word had it that he was a strange, feral sort of man. Herr Wirtz told that many felt this might have been the true guilty party, but the question could not be definitively answered. When caught breaking into a butcher shop, the man was shot to death as he attacked those trying to arrest him.

Whatever the situation, Elimar Scherer was gone and so was Gerbert Fleischer. And what had transpired the night Fleischer vanished was left to be a mystery for fireside debates.

Some time passed, and the matter slowly lost prominence in discussions. New gossips, fresh and often dripping with calumny, took center stage. Elimar and Fleischer would perhaps have then been forgotten, if not for a traveler.

He arrived near on the end of the month, traveling by foot to Sommerschenburg. It was here that Herr Wirtz reclaimed my full attention. This traveler was supposed to have visited a little over a year ago, so the recent nature of the tale gave it enough validity that I sheepishly will confess to accepting. However, reason overcame superstition, and I returned to the quiet skeptic enjoying an engrossing weird tale.

This traveler came to Die Stadtwand, thirsty and hungry. He stayed until close to sunset, then, feeling fully refreshed, decided to continue on for a bit. Herr Wirtz offered a room, but the traveler said he had friends in nearby Neindorf with whom he could stay. Herr Wirtz wished him well and was the last to see the traveler alive. The next morning what was left of his body was found on the road to Neindorf torn to pieces.

Of course wild speculation began to circulate throughout the area. Old women began to hang wreaths of herbs on their doorways, I assume to ward off spirits. Children were ordered home before sunset every night, and for a time no one traveled after dark alone. Sheep, along with other livestock, began to vanish from farms without a trace. I heard the recitation of a dozen different accounts, some from those present, regarding a massive shadowy figure slinking through the forest and stalking dark alleyways in town.

I felt much as I'm sure Ichabod Crane must have hearing the legend of the Horseman. I did my best to remind myself this was but a story itself, despite whatever first hand accounts there might be. Just because a man claims he has seen the devil does not mean he has seen anything at all. There are all kinds of tricks the human imagination can play when the reigns have slipped free from one's grasp. But caught in the moment, I couldn't help but wonder at what might be possible. While Herr Wirtz went on, I found my eyes drifting to the window, half expecting to see some dark figure slip past.

Again, I've strayed. I am not a good storyteller. I keep losing sight of my anecdote and the tale I was told. But returning to the course, the town relaxed as time passed. There was still some tension in the air, but whatever had been in the shadows seemed to have left. That is, until an old man by the name of Merecht was found in his cottage. I say he was found, but the full total would be that half the man was found. The rest had been taken to God only knows where.

The day after Merecht was discovered, a small boy came home in a fit. His skin had turned milk white, and it was several hours before he would stop trembling. When he finally regained his composure he told of being out after dark. The boy knew he was supposed to be home before sundown but had been feeling adventurous. While on the road home, he'd heard the sound of a man in agony coming from the woods. The boy could hear the man swearing and praying, his words occasionally interrupted by animalistic growls.

Investigating the situation, the boy followed the commotion off the road into the forest. At the source of it all, he claimed to have seen a wolf claw its' way out from inside the man's body. The man this boy described was none other than Elimar Scherer.

From here I could restrain myself no more. At hearing the boy's account, I let out a chuckle. Who wouldn't have done the same? The sure ridiculousness of the notion that a wolf might come out of a man's body is pure lunacy. It is entertaining to say the least, but I refuse to accept the possibility of such an event. Unfortunately, my storyteller did not share my amusement. Neither did any of those present.

Growing anxious at there whispers, I apologized for my outburst and attempted to explain myself. They would have none of it. Despite what rationalizations I made demonstrating the impossibility of the tale, they claimed every word as truth. I stated as clearly as I could that I had enjoyed the story and was sure my companions would as well when I rejoined them. At that point I rose to leave.

Herr Wirtz attempted to block my way, saying I was fool to go out after dark. Before he could elaborate though, I pushed my way past, and found my path impeded by another man. This was becoming intolerable. A good story is one thing, but to carry it to such an extent is, I think, embarrassing. Some what ashamed of and uncomfortable with my current company, I bid them good evening and forced my way to the door.

They called after me from the doorway of the tavern, but I heard not a word. It was time to get back on the road.

Coming Soon!

Part IV

Roadside Realizations