On the Death of a Werewolf

‘He’s been dead for years’, said Fortescue, putting another log on the fire. ‘Silver bullet through the heart, kills both man and beast.’ He winked. ‘Just in case.’ I smiled, and swirled my brandy in the glass before taking a sip.

‘You’re a teller of tall tales, Fortescue’, I said.

‘Tall tales?!’ the other replied, in mock astonishment. ‘Me?’

‘Come on. What really did happen that night?’

Fortescue sighed languidly and sat back in the old leather chair by the fire. ‘Such scepticism in one so young’. He stared into his glass of claret and then gave me a sly look. ‘Alright then, from the beginning.’

‘You’re a teller of tall tales, Fortescue’, I said.

'We’d been out stag hunting, twenty years ago, almost to the day. A large buck had been seen on the moors over near Mallamby in the previous days, and we were intent on bagging him. Well, I say ‘we’, but Mr Gentleberry the Gamekeeper wasn’t in favour. ‘Too early in the season, yong sirs’, he said. ‘Tha’ll be in trouble with m’lord for shootin’ ’em yong.’

‘Nonsense Gentleberry’, I’d protested. ‘Warmington here saw him through his glasses, did you not Cecil?’

‘I did and he looked strapping enough to me Gentleberry. Fine set of antlers on him, that’s for sure.’

Gentleberry did not look convinced. ‘Tha’s not all ‘bout the antlers, yong sir.’

I was growing weary of this. ‘We’ll we’re going out anyway, Gentleberry. I tell you what, a compromise. We’ll stalk the fellow and when we sight him close enough, if he is too young, we won’t take the shot. That’ll keep his Lordship happy, I’m sure.’

Gentleberry scowled and grumbled. He’d been outfoxed, for the time being at least, and he knew it. Of course, I didn’t have the slightest intention of not shooting the damn thing the moment I saw it. Gentleberry probably knew that too. Anyway, soon enough the shooting party was convened, three of us and Archer the Deerhound, and we were off across the moors.

Archer picked the scent up quickly, taking us in the direction of Moorston Wood, about a 3 mile yomp from our base. We were in good spirits, in more ways than one. Warmington was passing his flask of rum around like it was bottomless, and there was a warm buzz about us. Except Gentleberry of course, who walked aside from us by a good measure looking thoroughly reluctant. Would you like a tot of sailor’s ale, Mr G?, I cried.

‘Not for me yong sir’, he grouched. ‘Keep me wits about me.’

Have it your own way, I muttered, more for us anyway. By the time we got to Moorston Wood I must admit I was giggling like a hyena.

At this, Fortescue got up from his chair and put another log on the fire, and sat watching as the flames licked around it and slowly took hold. He had a faraway look in his eye. ‘Well’, I said after a while. ‘Go on.’

‘You’re a teller of tall tales, Fortescue’

‘You’re a teller of tall tales, Fortescue’, I said. ‘Strange business. Not what any of us expected. Except Gentleberry, of course.’

‘You’re teasing me’, I laughed. But Fortescue didn’t laugh. He turned back to the flame, his brow furrowed.

‘We’d long since arrived at the wood, it was about 4 in the afternoon, quite late, and growing dark already on a November evening. That’s where we found him, lying in a clearing. Well, what was left of him.’

He turned to me with a grave look. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it’, he said. ‘He’d been torn to shreds. Quite extraordinary. The remains of his hindquarters over there, his intestines over here, his head…’ He paused, troubled. ‘His head had been torn clean from his neck. As if in one swipe a razor sharp axe had separated them.’

‘Good God, Gentleberry, what is the meaning of this?’ The old gamekeeper looked as shocked as the rest of us, staring at the remains of the stag. ‘This is not a good place, yong sir. We should leave. No point stayin’ ‘round now.’

He had a point. Our quarry was, quite clearly, no longer huntable. Warmington looked stunned as well, a mixture of shock and rum swirling around his head. Archer the Deerhound lay, head between his paws whimpering, uninterested in the viscera spread around the place. I don’t mind admitting that a cold shudder went down my spine. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘This is not a good place, sir’, Gentleberry said again. ‘We have a good walk back, it’ll be black as pitch by the time we’re back at lodge.’ There was a sharp edge of urgency in his voice. ‘We must go sir.’

Warmington gave a childish laugh. ‘Calm down Gentleberry. It’s full moon tonight. Should give us plenty of light to find our way home.’ ‘Finding home ain’t the matter, yong sir. Reaching it is.’

I must say, I was starting to pay a little more attention to Mr Gentleberry. He knew this land and its ways like the back of his hand, after all. He’d been born in the hunting lodge, for God’s sake. And his manner now was…well…it was unsettling. He wasn’t panicking, it wasn’t that. He was scared.

‘Calm down Gentleberry. It’s full moon tonight.'

‘Come on Cecil, I said. Gentleberry’s right. Quarry’s had it, obviously. Let’s get some hot food and spiced rum inside us at the lodge.’ I knew this would appeal to Warmington. ‘Yes, I suppose. Shame, I was looking forward to a Hunter’s Breakfast.’ He was peering at the stag’s remains, looking for an intact organ.

‘Please sir’, said Gentleberry, imploring me now. Rattled, I barked at Cecil. ‘Come on for God’s sake, we’re going.’ Startled, Warmington fell into line and we marched off on the double.

It was after a mile of fast walking that we heard it. Honest to God, it chilled me to the bone. It was late by then, and the moon was indeed out and bright. But I’ve never heard such a noise and I hope never to hear it again. It was like all the lost and lonely souls of the underworld had gathered into one dark place and emitted a howl of longing and pain. Gentleberry froze for a moment and looked around as if looking for something behind us. I must admit that I too was scared now. Warmington was oblivious of course.

‘Sir’, said Gentleberry coming up to me. He was breathing heavily and his eyes were wide. ‘Sir, please. We must run.’

‘Run? Are you out of your mind?’ said Warmington drunkenly. ‘I’m rather enjoying our midnight stroll.’

Gentleberry looked at me and as he did so, we heard it again, that god awful howling, like something from depths of Hell. ‘Cecil’, I said sharply.

‘Yes, old chap?’

‘Run.’

'A god awful howling, like something from depths of Hell'

At this, Fortescue stopped and rose again to refill his claret glass, which had been empty for some time now. He took a long swig and refilled it again. ‘You’re not going to stop now are you?’, I laughed. ‘For heaven’s sake, you’ve almost got me believing you.’ He gave me a fierce look, quite unlike his normal easy demeanour. ‘Everything I’ve told you is true, to the word. But you’re right. There is more.’

We had been running for quite a while, I can’t say how long, when Gentleberry called for us to stop. ‘Stop?’, I said. ‘You’re the one who told us to run.’ Admittedly we were all breathless. ‘Aye sir,’ said the gamekeeper, ‘One moment please. I must be ready, if he coms.’ I looked on aghast as Gentleberry unslung the breech loading rifle from around his shoulder, opened the breech and took out the round that was in there. Delving into his shoulder pack, he pulled out another, single round, wrapped in wax paper and carefully unwrapped it. The bullet glistened in the moonlight. It was quite different from the dull brass of the previous round. He looked at me. ‘Silver, yong sir. And blessed by Father Nichols.’ He slid the bullet into the breech and pulled the bolt back. ‘We only have one sir. One chance.’

‘Gentleberry. What are you saying? What is the Devil is going on?’

He slid the bullet into the breech and pulled the bolt back

‘The Devil is here, sir.’ Pointing his chin into the dark. ‘Out there. Behind us. Every 20 year he coms.’

‘Damn you man, who comes? What is happening?’

Gentleberry came right up close to my face. ‘Every 20 year, in the season of Samhain, the Wolf of Moorston Wood comes around. It’s my fault sir. I shouldn’t have let you go out tonight.’ ‘The Wolf of Moorston Wood! I exclaimed. ‘Have you lost your mind, man?’

‘If I’m a madman, what was it you ‘eard out there? That thing that made you run.’ I looked around, unsure suddenly. ‘Well I…I don’t know now, it was…maybe it was Archer, the dog.’ Gentleberry stared at me. ‘Where is Archer, by the way?’ Gentleberry shook his head. ‘No good sir, ‘e’s gone now. We must find a place to take what cover we can, a place from where we can take good aim.’

At this point I was starting to wonder what exactly was in Cecil’s spiced rum and how much of it I’d drunk. ‘Sir’, Gentleberry said, ‘Over there’. He was indicating an outcrop of moor rock and brush. ‘We can make a hide there, and with a bit o’ luck have a clean shot. We can’t outrun him, sir. Not now.’

In a state of some shock, I just did what I was told and the three of us crowded behind the rock and thorny bush. Warmington was asleep within seconds. I wished, temporarily, that I was him. ‘That way sir. He’ll com’ from the north.’

‘What about my bullets?’, I said. ‘Will they do anything?’

‘Tha’ll hold him back for a few seconds sir, but not put him down. It might buy us some time though. Give me a chance to make the shot.’

Caught between disbelief and abject fear, I took up a crouching sniper’s position behind the rock. I’m not a bad shot, from my time in France.

Gentleberry nodded his approval. ‘Remember sir. They can’t hurt you when they’re dead.’ I looked around quickly for Warmington’s flask and took a long draught. Gentleberry glared at me. ‘I’m sorry Gentleberry, but I need to steady my hand. Would you care for…?’ He shook his head. Just keep your eyes peeled yong sir. He’ll be on us soon.’

Sure enough, within five minutes we heard him. Not the howl like before, worse somehow. The breath. A heavy, rasping pant that indicated something very close, in the dark. I saw Gentleberry tense, his eye lined up with the rifle’s sights, his finger on the trigger. He was scarcely breathing, and I noticed that I was the same. What happened next, happened very fast indeed. A sudden galloping sound, the rasping breath getting closer and then, I saw it. Coming at us from the dark at speed, two huge red eyes glaring as if the fires of Hell itself burnt within them.

'Sure enough, within five minutes we heard him.'

‘Now sir!’ cried Gentleberry and without thinking I fired once, aiming at the darkness between the two glowing red embers that were the creature’s eyes. A yelp of pain was heard, and the eyes, swung violently backwards and to the side, as I fumbled to reload my rifle. ‘Shot sir!’ cried Gentleberry although I could no longer see him, until I caught a glance in the darkness ahead of me. The gamekeeper was advancing in a tactical stance with the rifle at his shoulder, his eye to the sights. ‘Cover me yong sir’, he cried again. Sliding the bolt of my rifle, I scoured the dark for the red eyes but could see nothing.

And then, from nowhere it was on me. As if hit by a full-bodied man running at top speed I was flattened, the rifle knocked from my hands, and I found myself lying prone on my back with the monster on top of me. It was…it was…like nothing I can describe. The face of a man, clearly human, but torn into all shades of pain and fury, it’s body that of a bipedal wolf, it’s forearms human, but with sharp talons, it’s breath hot and fetid on my face. The moment of my death, I was sure, was now upon me.

‘Sir!’ I heard the cry, and then the whip-crack of a single bullet shot and a howl such as we’d heard before but this time with a wild edge of agonised pain. The creature flung itself off me and turned crouching as if to strike. Had Gentleberry missed? For if he had we were surely dead. But as I watched, an extraordinary thing happened. In front of my very eyes, the creature staggered and seemed to melt or remould itself, sliding down into a smaller version, curling slowly into a foetal position and, as God is my witness, there soon lay before me the body of a normal man, quite naked, and quite obviously human.

Shaking violently now, I recall Gentleberry running over and throwing his jacket over me, ‘You’re in shock yong sir, hang on’, I heard his voice as if under the sea, and with that, passed into a merciful faint.

'The creature flung itself off me and turned crouching as if to strike'

I had sat listening in a stunned silence, my glass of brandy long since drained. The log fire was now embers. Fortescue was silent. ‘What happened then?’, I croaked.

‘Not much of anything. I woke up the next afternoon in a bunk in the shooting lodge. No idea how Gentleberry had got us back. Wormington didn’t remember a thing of course.

‘And Gentleberry? Where was he.’

‘He left a note saying he’d gone back to the Manor House and would be along to collect us before dark. I was relieved to see him when he turned up with some armed beaters, I have to say.'

‘Good God’, I said. ‘And all that is true? Here, in Moorston Wood?’ ‘Yes’, said Fortescue. ‘Twenty years ago. To the day.’ He gave me a strange smile, rose and walked over to a large, locked cabinet at the back of the room.

From outside on the moor, through the moonlight, I heard something I had never heard before. An ear-piercing howl, that sounded like a thousand lost souls had cried out as one. I looked over alarmed at Fortescue. He had opened the cabinet and was loading a shining silver round into the breech of an old hunting rifle.

Fortescue smiled at me. ‘Can you shoot?’, he said.

Nick Jordan