Where The Straight Way Was Lost

As I sobbed, clutching the shredded body of my dear sister Elizabeth, I knew that my life’s path was forever altered. The full moon rose higher in the darkening skies. I shuddered in the shadows cast in its harsh light; not yet believing that such a glorious orb could project such horror upon the earth. But could any dream, any stalking nightmare invade my senses so deeply, so painfully, that I would be unable to wake to a new dawn?

I looked over to where the still corpse of Sir Clancy Whiting lay, naked under the moon. We held a brief discussion before he expired, its import still deafening in my ears. 

I was not well impressed with Whiting upon first meeting him; my sister’s letters implored me to come and take her away from his estate. Her fiancé’s behaviour was erratic; prone to moods and outbursts, she reported, and she no longer felt comfortable around him.

Preparing for the worst, I donned my military dress uniform to project the strongest possible authority and drove to meet her. Whiting was indeed in a foul temper, but I persevered in escorting my sister and her luggage to the carriage and we departed at sunset.

There was no way to know that as the full moon rose, the monster inside Clancy Whiting would transform into a true monster outside.

We heard the growls behind us and turned to see a demonic creature in pursuit. My service revolver had no effect on the huge animal though I fired on it repeatedly as it raced toward us. He bit my arm and then cast me aside like a broken doll. I watched in dazed horror as he turned to my innocent sister and ripped her throat out.

Desperate beyond measure, I drew my ornamental dagger from its scabbard and launched myself onto the monster’s back, plunging the blade in to the hilt. I was rewarded with a cry of pain, and stabbed again and again until the creature threw me off.

The rage shone in the beast’s eyes as it charged me, and I pushed forward to sink the knife into the massive chest. It shuddered, clawed at the tiny weapon, and then fell to the earth to lie unmoving.

Had I not witnessed it with my own eyes, I would have believed myself a madman. But the monster began to shrink before me, the fur retracting into the skin, and the distended limbs twisting back into human form. A familiar form. The form of Sir Clancy Whiting.

As the transformation ended, Whiting stirred and looked up at the cursed moon. “I’ve changed back? While the moon is still up? I’m done for, then. Only minutes remain.”

He looked at my arm, wearing a lopsided grin. “But you — I bit you, did I?” My forearm indeed bore the mark where the great fangs tore the flesh. “I suppose you will be my legacy, Black.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded. “Speak plainly, you murderer!”

He laughed, coughing up blood. “You’re safe this cycle. But next month, at the next full moon, you’ll become what I am — what I was. Have fun with it, old man…”

I shook him. “I don’t understand! Why did the knife wound you when the bullets seemed to have no effect?”

“The knife must be silver … that’s the only explanation …” His breath trailed away in a rasp and he lay still. I looked at my dagger, already knowing that as a largely ceremonial weapon, it was indeed plated with silver.

I wondered briefly if Whiting could be deceptive even in death, but the tingling in my arm proved otherwise. The terrible gash had stopped flowing blood and was closing slowly on its own. The curse was already within me, and I could not doubt Whiting’s words regarding the next full moon.

I was a werewolf.

This is not a path that most willingly choose. Indeed, I was unaware that there existed an actual curse, let alone a cure. The disease had overcome Whiting, taking his natural foul humour and rage, and accentuating them as the monster emerged under the moon.

Though I was previously ignorant of the fantastic reality, I was familiar with the stories of the werewolf. The animal traits were strengthened keenly: strength, sight, hearing, and sense of smell. Wired to the wrong, or savage mind, all would be a threat to anyone around.

I had personally witnessed how bullets did not seem to affect the werewolf; although to be fair, they did in fact wound but healed rapidly. For the human body to transform into the werewolf, joints are rearranged, muscles and sinew stretched, bones cracked and reassembled, any of which would surely kill an ordinary person. But a werewolf is not ordinary. My own arm bears testimony to an extraordinary regeneration; I can scant imagine the rate of healing in a transformed state.

What’s done is done, however. My precious sister is gone. Her loutish fiancé has perished, and good riddance. But Whiting has unfortunately reverted to his irritating human state, which cannot thereby explain the grievous wounds inflicted on my dear Elizabeth. The only surviving witness would be the likely suspect, especially with the cuts of my personal knife blade plainly visible in the surly Lord Whiting.

Although my spirit is crushed, my outlook despondent, there remains an instinct to survive. I carried Whiting’s body to the woods and buried it deep. With my arm nearly healed, I summoned the local authorities to report that my sister and her fiancé were attacked by wild animals; her body left where she was killed, while Whiting was dragged off into the forest and presumably eaten. A terrible turn of events, but nothing else could be done.

My time is short. The full moon does not delay its passage in the night sky, and I dread its arrival. If there is a better outcome available, it is this: I am still human. I can think. I can plan. And if I may, I will overcome this dread disease.

Fortunately, my family estate has provided a moderate income of a thousand pounds annually. If I cannot kill the werewolf inside me, perhaps I can contain it. I have a little money, and a little time.

Choosing a room in my cellar, I have built an iron cage. I have seen how much larger Whiting grew when transformed; I can extrapolate my transformed size from that. Solid steel manacles with no key, fastened to an iron plate with chains, wide enough to allow human wrists to slip through but narrow enough to enclose a fully enlarged werewolf snugly. The cage bars are likewise sized to allow human hands to reach through, but block the larger limbs and hands of the beast.

I can now lock myself securely in the cage and place the key just outside, beyond the reach of chained hands. When the werewolf transforms back after the full moon, I can retrieve the key and my freedom. I can manage this. I am in control.

My senses have blossomed as the month goes by. I smell fragrances, hear the heartbeats of strangers, see clearly in the night. I have strength and agility even before I am transformed, and the regeneration has healed all of my former infirmities.

My life is changed forever. I don’t even know how long forever is, with my cells regenerating at such a prodigious rate. I must control my thoughts, my emotions, for I do not wish any internal evil to be magnified in a werewolf state. Indeed, I desire to use my enhanced strength, sight, hearing, and sense of smell for the cause of good.

All I have to do is maintain control. To make it through the lunar cycle without killing someone.

All I have to do is lock myself away, and lock everyone else out.

So I sit here in my cage, alone, rattling my arms in their oversize manacles, and wait for the moon to rise.

Waiting for the rest of my life to begin.