Robert Bloch, the renowned author of Psycho (“If you must shower, do it with a friend”), is one of the all-time masters of the terror tale. His hundreds of stories and books and numerous TV and movie screenplays have won him a worldwide reputation for delivering chills and thrills both in print and on the screen. The master of the macabre paid homage to the Canadian werewolf theme in “The Man Who Cried ‘Wolf!’,” a yarn first published in the legendary Weird Tales magazine in May 1945. It is an entertaining period piece set in that mythological North populated by square-jawed Mounties and trappers named Pierre. Like most of Bloch’s work the story is gratifyingly scary, and yet, in an odd sort of way, fun.
The moon had just come up. It was shining across the lake, and when Violet came in it cast a silver web over her hair.
But it wasn’t moonlight that shone in sullen pallor from her face. It was fear.
“What’s biting you?” I asked.
“A werewolf,” said Violet.
I put down my pipe, got up out of the armchair, and went over to her. All the while she kept staring at me; standing and staring like a big china doll with glass eyes.
I shook her shoulders. The stare went away.
“Now, then,” I said.
“It was a werewolf,” she whispered. “I heard it following me through the forest. Its paws padded over the twigs behind me. I was afraid to look back, but I knew it was there. It kept creeping closer and closer, and when the moon came up I heard it howl. Then I ran.”
“You heard it howl?”
“I’m almost positive.”
“Almost!”
Her eyes dropped into hiding beneath lowered lashes. She bent her head and sudden colour flamed in her cheeks. I kept watching her and nodded.
“You heard a wolf howling near the cabin?” I insisted.
“Didn’t—you—” she got out, in a strangled wheeze.
I shook my head, slowly but firmly.
“Please, Violet. Let’s be sensible. We’ve been over this thing half a dozen times in the past week, but I’m willing to try again.”
I took her by the hand, quite gently, and led her to a chair. I gave her a cigarette and lighted it for her. Her lips shook and it wobbled in her mouth.
“Now listen, darling,” I began. “There are no wolves here. Wilds of Canada or not, they haven’t seen a wolf in these parts for twenty years. Old Leon down at the store will bear me out on that.
“And even if, by some strange chance, a stray has wandered down here from the north, skulking around the lake, that doesn’t prove anything about a werewolf.
“You and I have enough common sense to be above such silly superstitions. Try to forget your Canuck ancestry and please remember that you’re now the wife of an expert in the field of legend.”
That crack about Canucks was pretty brutal, and I wanted to shock her out of the mood.
It had the opposite effect. She began to tremble.
“But, Charles, surely you must have heard something?” she sighed. Her eyes were pleading now. I had to look away.
“Nothing,” I murmured.
“And when I’ve heard it prowling around the cabin at night, you heard nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“That night I woke you—didn’t you see its shadow on the wall?”
I shook my head and forced a smile. “I’d hate to think you’ve been reading too many of my stories, darling,” I told her. “But I don’t know how to explain your—er—mistaken notions.”
Violet puffed on her cigarette and the glowing tip flared up. But her eyes were dead.
“You have never heard this wolf? It has never followed you in the woods? Not while you were up here alone?” Her voice entreated me.
“I’m afraid not. You know I came up here a month ahead of you to write. And I wrote. I saw no werewolves, ghosts, vampires, ghouls, jinns, or efreets. Just Indians and Canucks and other citizens. One night, after coming home from Leon’s place, I thought I saw a pink elephant, but it was a mistake.”
I smiled. She did not smile with me.
“Seriously, Violet, I wonder if I made a mistake, having you up here. But I thought it would be like a bit of old times for you. After all, to a French-Canadian girl, this wilderness should be a treat. But now, I wonder—”
“You wonder if I’m insane.”
The words crawled from between her lips.
“No,” I muttered. “I never said that.”
“But that is what you’re thinking. Charles.”
“Not at all. We all get these—spells. Any medical man will tell you that errors of perception do not necessarily indicate any—mental unbalance.”
I spoke hastily, but I could see she was not convinced.
“You can’t fool me, Charles. And I can’t fool myself, either. Something is wrong.”
“Nonsense. Forget it.” I put the smile back on my face, but it didn’t seem to stick very well. “After all, Violet, I should be the last one to even hint at such a possibility. People who live in glass houses, you know. Don’t you remember, before we were married in Quebec, how I used to speak of you as a witch? I called you the Red Witch of the North, and I used to write those sonnets and whisper them to you.”
Violet shook her head. “That was different. You knew what you were doing. You didn’t see things, hear things that do not exist.”
I cleared my throat. “I’m going to make a suggestion to you, dear. You haven’t told anyone besides me about this, have you?”
“No.”
“And it’s been going on, you say, about two weeks?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I don’t want it to go on any longer. I can see that you’re worried. For that reason, and for that reason only, remember, I recommend that we call in Dr. Meroux. Purely as a consultant, of course.
“I have a lot of faith in his ability, not only as a physician but as a psychiatrist. You know psychiatry is his hobby—of course, he’s only an amateur stuck away here in the woods, but he’s a man of repute. I’m sure he’d respect your confidences. And he might be able to make a diagnosis that would clear the whole matter up in a jiffy.”
“No, Charles. I will not tell Dr. Meroux.”
I frowned. “Very well. But I’m interested in your ideas about a mysterious werewolf. I’d like to find out what you heard about loups-garous in childhood. That grandmother of yours—she was part Indian, wasn’t she? Didn’t she ever scare the daylights out of you with some wild yarns?”
Violet nodded. “Oui—yes, I mean.”
I noted her reversion to the speech of her childhood, but pretended to ignore it.
“Did she tell you about the wolf-men, the lycanthropes . . . who change their shape when the moon calls and run baying on all fours, their bodies shaggy shadows in the night? Did she tell you how they prowl for prey, tearing at the throats of their victims who in turn become inoculated with the dread virus of the werewolf?”
“Yes. She told me, many, many times.”
“Ah. And now, when you return to the wilderness, the image of your childhood fears arises. The werewolf, my dear, is merely a symbol of something you dread. Some inner guilt, perhaps, is personified in the hallucination of a beast-presence that lurks awaiting the time to reveal itself.
“I’m not even an amateur psychiatrist like Dr. Meroux, but I think I can safely hazard that such a delusion is natural enough. Now, if you’ll be frank with me, perhaps we can dissect the nature of your fear, arrive at the real terror that disguises itself a snarling monster, a mythological hybrid that slavers at your neck in the forest—”
“No! Stop! Please, not now—I cannot stand to talk of it further.”
Violet sobbed. I comforted her, crudely.
“Sorry. I imagine you’re nervous enough as it is. We’ll just forget about it for the time being, dear, and wait until you feel that you can face the problem. Better get some rest.”
Patting her shoulder, I led her to the bedroom.
We undressed, got into bed. I dimmed the lamp, extinguished it.
The cabin was in utter darkness, save for the filtered moonlight that trickled through surrounding treetops. The lake beyond was a sea of silver fire, But I turned from its radiance and sank into sudden slumber.
Violet lay tense beside me, but as I drifted off I felt her relax, gradually and slowly.
We slept.
I do not know what time it was that I awoke. Violet’s hand bit into my shoulder, and I heard the harsh inspiration of her breath.
“Listen, Charles!” she gasped.
I listened.
“Do you hear that? Outside the cabin—hear it scuffling against the door?”
I shook my head.
“Wake up, Charles—you must hear it. It’s been snuffling around under the window and now it’s scraping at the door. Do something!”
I swung out of bed, grabbed her arm.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s take a look.”
I banged into a chair searching for the flashlight.
“It’s going away,” Violet sobbed. “Hurry.”
Flash firmly gripped in one hand, I dragged Violet across the floor towards the door. I halted, released her, snapped the lock free.
The door flung open. I swung the flashlight in a wide arc. The forest clearing about the cabin was empty of life.
Then I tilted the beam down towards our feet.
Violet screamed.
“Look, Charles! There, in the earth outside the doorway! Don’t you see the tracks—the tracks before the door?”
I looked.
There, clearly defined in the earth at our feet, were the unmistakable pawprints of a gigantic wolf.
I turned to Violet and gazed at her a long time. Then I shook my head.
“No, dear,” I whispered. “You’re mistaken. I don’t see anything. I don’t see anything at all!”
The next morning Violet stayed in bed and I went down towards town to see Lisa.
Lisa lived near the crossroads with her father. The old man was paralyzed, and Lisa supported him by doing Indian beadwork and basketry for the tourist trade.
That’s how I’d met her, last month when I came up alone. I stopped by the roadside stand, intending to purchase a bracelet to send to Violet.
Then I saw Lisa, and forgot everything else.
Lisa was half Indian and half goddess.
Her hair was black. You couldn’t imagine a deeper, more lustrous darkness—until you gazed into her eyes. They were two oval windows opening upon Night. Her face and features were delicately moulded in faintly burnished copper. Her body was slim and strong, but strangely melting when clasped in an embrace.
I found that out very soon. Two days after I met her, in fact.
I hadn’t meant to be so precipitate. But Lisa was half Indian and half goddess.
And she was all evil.
Evil as the night that perfumed the sable splendour of her hair . . . evil as the gulf-deep gaze of her eyes . . . the very pagan perfection of her body was instinct with the substance of sin.
She offered me the bittersweet corruption of that ancient and forbidden fruit known to Lilith. She came to me on moonless night, silent as a succubus, and I feasted on night and darkness. When Violet came up, our meetings halted. I told Lisa that we must be careful, and she merely laughed.
“For a little while, then,” she agreed.
“A little while?”
Lisa nodded, her eyes sparkling. “Yes. Only as long as your wife remains alive.”
She said it quite naturally. And after a moment I realized that it was quite a natural remark to me. Because it was true, logical.
I did not want Violet any more. I wanted this other thing—this thing that was not love nor lust, but a wedding of my soul with an utter wickedness.
And if I would have it, then Violet must die.
I looked at Lisa and nodded. “Do you want me to kill her?” I asked.
“No. There are other ways.”
“Indian magic?”
A month ago I would have snickered at the mere suggestion. But now, knowing Lisa, holding Lisa, I knew the suggestion was quite valid.
“No. Not exactly. Suppose your wife did not die. Suppose she had to go away?”
“You mean if she left me—got a divorce?”
“You do not understand, I see. Is it not true that there are places where they keep the insane?”
“But Violet isn’t crazy. She’s quite level-headed. It would take something very extraordinary to drive her mad.”
“Like seeing wolves?”
“Wolves?”
“A wolf will follow your wife. It will plague her, torment her, haunt her when she is alone. She will come to you for explanations, for help. You must refuse to believe her. In a little while her mind—”
Lisa shrugged.
I asked no questions. I merely accepted what she told me. If Lisa went to the woods and consulted the shamans, or whispered prayers to darker dispensers of doom, I did not know.
All I know is that a wolf came to follow my wife. And I pretended not to hear anything, see anything. It was working as Lisa predicted. Violet was going mad. From somewhere she had acquired the notion that her nocturnal nemesis was a werewolf. So much the better. Her mind was going, fast.
And Lisa was waiting for me this morning, in the little roadside standing near the crossing.
Here in the sunlight she looked like a simple Indian beadworker. Only when her face was veiled in shadow did I see her eyes and hair, black and unchanging as her secret self.
She put her hand on my arm, and a touch of ice and fire shivered up my spine.
“And how is your wife?” she whispered.
“Not so well. Last night she found wolf tracks beside our door. She had hysterics.”
Lisa smiled.
“I wish you’d tell me the truth, darling. How do you make the wolf come and follow her?”
Lisa smiled.
I sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be too inquisitive.”
“That is right, Charles. Isn’t it enough to know that our plan is working? That Violet is going mad? That soon she will be gone and we can be together—always?”
I stared at her. “Yes, that is enough. But tell me, what happens next?”
“Your wife will see the wolf. Actually see it. She will become quite frightened. You will refuse to listen to her, as before. Then she will go to the authorities. She will come to the village here and try to make people believe her. Everyone will think her mad. And when they ask you, you know nothing. In a short time the doctor will be forced to examine her. After that—”
“She will see the wolf?” I echoed. “Actually see it?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Tonight, if you like.”
I nodded, slowly. Then a doubt came. “But she’s almost overcome. She’ll be too afraid to walk in the woods. “
“In that case, the wolf will come to her.”
“Very well. I shall erase the tracks, just as I erased them this morning.”
“Yes. And you had better plan to go away from the cabin tonight. You are a sensitive person, Charles. You would find it painful to endure the sight of your wife’s terror.”
The image of Violet came to me—the image of her frightened face, her bulging eyes, her wide mouth opened in a scream of utter fear as the monster of her fancies crouched before her. Yes, that is how it would be, and very soon.
I smiled.
Lisa grinned back. As I turned away I could hear her laughing, and it came to me that there was something unnatural in her mirth.
Then, of course, I realized the truth. Lisa was not altogether sane herself.
We ate dinner in silence that evening.
As the moon came up over the lake, Violet rose and pulled the shades with a grimace she could not conceal.
“What’s the matter, dear? Is it too bright for your eyes?”
“I hate it, Charles.”
“But it’s beautiful.”
“Not to me. I hate the night.”
I could afford to be generous. “Violet, I’ve been doing a little thinking. This place—it’s getting on your nerves. Don’t you believe it might be helpful if you went back to the city?”
“Alone?”
“I could join you there when I finish my work.”
Violet brushed a lock of auburn hair from her forehead. I noticed with a shock how the fire had faded from her curls. The luster was gone; her hair was dead and dull. Just as her face, her eyes, were dead and dull.
“No, Charles. I couldn’t go alone. It would follow me.”
“It?”
“The wolf.”
“But wolves don’t come to the city.”
“Ordinary wolves, no. But this one—”
“Why do you think this wolf you—uh—see is not ordinary?”
She caught my hesitation but desperation overrode all reticence. She went on hurriedly.
“Because it comes only at night. Because there are no real wolves here. Because I can sense the evil of the beast. It is not stalking me, Charles—it is haunting me. And me alone. It seems to be waiting for something to happen. If I went away the creature would follow. I can’t escape it.”
“You can’t escape it because it’s in your mind,” I snapped. “Violet, I’ve been very patient. I’ve neglected my work to take care of you. I have listened to your fancies for two weeks now.
“But if you can’t help yourself, then others must help you. I took the liberty this afternoon of discussing your case with Doctor Meroux. He wants to see you.”
“Then it’s true,” she gasped. “You do think I’m—out of my mind.”
“Werewolves don’t exist,” I said. “I find it easier to believe in the presence of a mental aberration than that of a supernatural entity.”
I rose.
Violet looked up, startled.
“Where are you going?” she whispered.
“Leon’s,” I told her. “I need a drink. This affair plays the devil with my nerves.”
“Charles. Don’t leave me alone—tonight.”
“Afraid of imaginary wolves?” I asked, gently. “Now really, my dear! If you want me to retain any faith in your mental stability, you’d better show me that at least you can be trusted to stay by yourself a few hours without collapsing.”
“Charles—”
I went to the door, opened it. She winced as the moonlight trickled across the floor in a silver pool. I stood there, smiling at her.
“Violet, I feel that I’ve been most patient with you. But if you will not see a doctor, insist upon staying here, and refuse to admit that you’re mentally upset—then prove it.”
I turned, went out, slammed the door, and walked briskly down the path. It was a beautiful night and I inhaled deeply as I swung along towards the crossing a mile ahead.
Impatience set the pace for me. I was in a hurry to reach my destination. Actually, I had no intention of visiting Leon’s tavern.
I went to Lisa.
Lisa’s little cabin was dark, and I wondered if she had retired. Her aged father was already asleep, I knew. There would be no trouble from that source.
As I approached the cabin, I had already determined to arouse her, should she be in bed. A night like this was not meant for slumber.
A sudden sound arrested me a short distance from the doorway. The door was opening, slowly. Instinctively I stepped back into shadow as a figure emerged from the cabin.
“Lisa!” I whispered.
She turned, came towards me.
“So you had the same idea,” I murmured, taking her in my arms. “Come on, let’s get away from here. We’ll go down towards the beach.”
Silently, she walked beside me as I led her along the path that led to the water.
We stood staring up at the moon for a long moment. Then, as my arms tightened around her waist, Lisa turned to me and shook her head.
“No, Charles. I must go now.”
“Go?”
“I have errands at the crossroads.”
“Let them wait.”
I cupped her face, bent to kiss her. She drew away.
“What’s the matter, Lisa?”
“Let me alone!”
“Is there something—wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Go away, Charles.”
I really stared at her, then. And staring, saw. Saw that her face was unnaturally flushed, her eyes overly luminous, her lips parted more in protest than in passion.
She wasn’t looking at me. She was looking through me, looking at the moon behind my body. Twin moons were mirrored in her eyes. They seemed to expand, enlarge, then replace red dark pupils with globes of silver fire.
“Go away, Charles.” she muttered, “Go—quickly.”
But I didn’t go.
It isn’t every day that one has the unusual opportunity to witness the spectacle of lycanthropic metamorphosis. And I was watching a woman turn into a wolf.
The first indication came in the form of respiratory change. Her breathing turned to panting; the panting to hoarse gasps. I watched her bosom rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall—and change.
Her shoulders sloped forward. The body did not stoop, but seemed to grow outward at a slant. The arms began to telescope into the shoulder sockets.
Lisa had fallen to the ground now: she writhed partly in shadow and partly in moonlight. But the moonlight no longer gleamed against her skin. The skin was darkening, coarsening, putting out hairy tufts.
Hers was an agony akin to that of parturition—and in a sense, it was parturition. She was giving birth, not to a new soul but to another aspect of her own. Agony and action alike were purely reflex.
It was fascinating to watch her skull change shape—as though the hands of an invisible sculpture were kneading and moulding the living clay, squeezing the very bony structure into new conformations.
The elongated head seemed miraculously shorn of curls for a moment, and then the fine fur sprang up, the ears flared outward, the pinkish tips twitched along a thickened neck.
Her eyes slitted upward, while the features of the face convulsed, then converged into a protuberant muzzle. The grimace of involuntary rictus became a snarl, and fangs jutted forth.
Her skin darkened perceptibly—so that her image was akin to that on an over-developed photographic print “coming up” in the hypo bath.
Lisa’s clothing had dropped away, and I watched the melting of the limbs as they foreshortened, furred, and flexed anew. The hands that had pawed the earth in agony now became paws.
The whole process occupied about three and a half minutes. I know, because I timed it with my watch.
Oh yes, I timed it carefully. I suppose I should have been frightened. But it is not given to every man—this opportunity of seeing a woman turn to a wolf. I regarded the transformation with what might well be called professional interest. Fascination precluded the presence of fear.
Now the metamorphosis was complete. The wolf stood before me, poised and panting.
Of course, I understood. Understood why Lisa had few friends, why she spent so many evenings alone, why she had urged me to go away—and why she could so confidently predict the movements of the phantom wolf.
I stood there and smiled.
The feral eyes searched mine imploringly. I suppose she had expected me to exhibit shock, dread, or at the least a definite repulsion.
My smile was an unexpected answer. A whimper rose in the furry throat, changed to almost a purr. She was reassured now.
“You’d better go,” I whispered.
Still she hesitated. I reached down and patted the lupine brow, still clammy from the pangs of transmutation. “It’s all right,” I said. “I understand, Lisa. You can trust me, you know. And it doesn’t make any difference in my feelings about—the two of us.”
The purring subsided deep in the great wolf’s shaggy breast.
“You’d better hurry now,” I coaxed. “Violet is all alone. You promised to surprise her.”
The grey beast turned and padded off into the forest behind.
I walked down to the lake and watched the moonlight play over the water.
All at once the delayed emotional reaction came. Everything was clear—too clear.
I was in league with a girl to drive my wife mad. The girl herself was not wholly sane. And now I had learned she was a werewolf. Perhaps I was a little crazy myself.
But there it was. I couldn’t think of an answer. I couldn’t back down now. Things would go on according to plan. And in the end I’d get what I wanted. Or—would I?
Suddenly I began to sob.
It wasn’t remorse, and it wasn’t self-pity and it wasn’t fear. It was merely a thought that came to me—the thought of holding Lisa in my arms and feeling her change; of kissing Lisa’s red lips and suddenly finding, pressed against my mouth, the leering muzzle of a wolf.
My sobs were cut short by a far-off, mocking howl from the depths of the woods.
I put my hands over my ears and shuddered.
All at once I found myself running through the woods. I couldn’t hear any howling, but the sound of my own gasps roared in my ears. I ran madly, blindly, tearing my face and hands as I careened toward the cabin.
The place was dark. I panted towards the door, tried it and found it locked.
Violet screamed from within, and I was glad to hear her. At least she was—alive.
For the thought had come to me suddenly.
Werewolves not only frighten . . . they kill.
So her screams were welcome, and when I opened the door she ran sobbing into my arms; and that was welcome, too.
“I saw it!” she whispered. “It came tonight, peered into the window. It was a wolf, but the eyes were human. They stared at me, those green eyes—and then it tried to open the door—it was howling—I think I fainted—oh Charles, help me—help me—”
I couldn’t go through with it. I couldn’t carry out my plans in the face of her utter terror. Instead I took her in my arms and whispered what I could to comfort her.
“Yes, dear,” I murmured. “I know you saw it. Because I saw it too, in the woods. That’s why I came. And I heard it howling, too. I know now that you were right—there is a wolf.”
“A werewolf,” she insisted.
“A wolf, anyway. And tomorrow I’ll go down to the crossroads and we’ll get up a party and find the beast.”
She smiled at me, then. She couldn’t control her trembling, but she managed to smile.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, darling,” I told her. “I’m here with you now. It’s all right.”
We slept that night in each other’s arms, like frightened children.
And that’s just about what we were, at that.
It was past noon when I awoke. Violet was calmly preparing breakfast.
I rose and did things to my haggard face with a razor. The food was ready when I sat down, but I couldn’t eat much.
“The tracks are all around the cabin,” Violet told me. Her voice didn’t waver as she spoke—my belief gave her strength.
“All right,” I answered. “I’m leaving for the crossroads now. I’ll tell Leon. Doctor Meroux, some of the boys. Perhaps I’ll go to the Mountie headquarters if I can get a ride over there.”
“You mean you’ll join the hunt?”
“Certainly. I’m going to be in at the kill. It’s the least I can do—or I’d never forgive myself for misjudging you.”
She kissed me.
“You won’t be afraid of staying alone, now?” I asked.
“No. Not anymore.”
“Good.”
I left.
I did a lot of thinking during my walk to the crossroads. But my meditations were rudely interrupted when I walked into Leon’s tavern at the crossroads and demanded a drink.
Fat Leon was talking to little Dr. Meroux down at the end of the bar. His arms were flying and his eyes were rolling, but when he saw me he halted and came up to where I was standing. He leaned across the bar and stared. “Ah, Meestaire Colby, it is good to see you.”
“Thanks, Leon. Been pretty busy lately—couldn’t get in here very often.”
“Is it at your cabin that you have been busy?”
Again the stare. I hesitated, bit my lip. Why should I hesitate to answer? “Yes. My wife hasn’t been feeling so well, and I’ve spent most of my time with her.”
“It is lonely where you are, eh?”
“You know how it is,” I shrugged. “Why?”
“Nothing. It is merely that I wondered if you chanced to hear anything these nights.”
“Hear anything? What could I hear? Frogs and crickets, and—”
“Wolves, perhaps?”
I blinked. Fat Leon stared at me.
“Have you heard the howl of le loup?” he whispered.
My head shook. I hoped he was watching that instead of my trembling hands.
“Strange. One would think that across the lake the cries would echo.”
“But there are no wolves around here—”
“Ah!” breathed Leon. “You are mistaken.”
“How do you know?”
“Do you remember Big Pierre the guide—that dark one who lives across the lake from you?” asked Leon.
“Yes.”
“Big Pierre left yesterday with a party bound for the river. His daughter, Yvonne, stayed behind to tend to the cabin. She was alone in the night. It is because of her that we know about the wolf.”
“She told you?”
“She did not tell us, no. But this morning the good Doctor Meroux chanced to pass her door and paused to bid her good day. He found her lying in the yard. Le loup attacked her in the night, may her soul rest in peace.”
“Dead!”
“Assuredly. One does not like to think of it. Doctor Meroux lost the tracks in the forest, but when Big Pierre returns he will hunt the beast down, yes.”
Dr. Meroux edged along the bar, his moustache fairly bristling with excitement.
“What do you think of that, Charles? A renegade wolf loose in this territory—a killer. I’m going to notify the Mounted Police and see that a warning is given. If you could have seen that poor girl’s body—”
I downed my drink and turned away hastily.
“Violet!” I muttered. “She’s all alone. I must get back to her.”
I hurried out of Leon’s tavern, half-ran down the sunlit street.
Now I knew where Lisa had gone after she left Violet. Now I knew that werewolves do more than change their shape.
I swung towards her roadside stand. It was closed. Abandoning caution, I hastened towards her door. The only response to my knocking was the querulous mumble of the paralytic old man within.
But as I turned away, the door swung open. Lisa stood there blinking against the sunlight. She was pale, drawn, and her hair hung loosely down her bare back.
“Charles—what is it?”
I pulled her over to the shade of the trees behind the house. She stood there, staring up at me, her face haggard and her eyes dull with fatigue.
Then I slapped her, hard. She jerked, tried to dodge, but my other hand gripped her shoulder. I hit her again. She began to whimper softly like a dog. Like a wolf.
I hit her again, with all my might. I felt a choking sensation in my throat and the words wouldn’t come clearly.
“You little fool!” I muttered. “Why did you do it?”
She wept. I shook her fiercely.
“Stop that! You think I don’t know about last night? Well, I do. And so does everybody around here. Why did you do it, Lisa?”
Then she understood, and knew that she could not hope to deceive me. “I had to,” she whispered. “You don’t know what it’s like. After I left your wife at the cabin I went back around the lake. It was then that it—came over me.”
“What came over you?”
She said it simply.
“You can’t understand that, can you? The way the hunger comes. It gnaws at your stomach and then it gnaws at your brain, so that you cannot think. You can only—act. And when I passed Big Pierre’s cabin, Yvonne was at the well, drawing water in the darkness. I remember seeing her there and then—I forget.”
I shook her until her teeth rattled.
“You forget, eh? Well, the girl’s dead.”
“Thank le bon Dieu!” Lisa breathed.
I gasped. “You thank God for—that?”
“Certainly. For if she did not die—if she survived the bite of one like myself—she would become such an unfortunate being as I am.”
“Oh.” I scarcely whispered the word.
“Don’t you understand? These things I do are not of my choosing. It is the hunger, always the hunger. In the past when I felt the—change—coming, I went far away so that no one would know. But last night the hunger came swiftly and I could not help myself. Still it is better that she is dead, poor child.”
“That’s what you think,” I muttered. “Except for one slight detail. It ruins our plans.”
“How so?”
“My wife won’t be frightened by thoughts of an imaginary wolf any more. When she comes babbling of a haunting beast, no one will think her crazy. Everybody knows that there is a wolf, now.”
“I see. What do you propose?”
“I propose nothing. We’ll have to let matters rest.”
Her arms were around me, her bruised face pressed to my own. “Charles,” she sobbed. “You mean we won’t be together?”
“How can you expect that, after what you did?”
“Don’t you love me, Charles?”
She was kissing me now, and her lips were soft. It was not the kiss of a wolf but the warm, vibrant kiss of a lovely woman. Her arms were soft. I felt myself responding to her embrace, felt again the incredible crescendo of desire this girl could rouse in me. And I weakened.
“We’ll think of something,” I told her. “But you must promise me—what happened last night will never happen again. And you must not go near my wife.”
“I promise.” She sighed. “It is a hard thing to keep, that promise. But I shall do my best. You will come to me this evening, no? Then we can be together, and I will have you to protect me from my—hunger.”
“I’ll come to you tonight,” I said.
Her eyes flickered with sudden fear. “Charles,” she whispered. “You had better come before the moon rises.”
When I got back to the cabin, Violet was waiting for me outside the door.
“Have you heard?” she said.
“How do you know?” I parried.
“There’s a man here to see you. He told me. He asked me about the wolf, and I mentioned what has been happening lately. He’s in there now, waiting for you.”
“You told him,” I said. “And he wants to see me.”
“Yes. You’d better go in alone. His name is Cragin, and he’s with the Mounted Police.”
There was nothing else to do but go inside.
I had never met a member of the Northwest Mounted Police before. Except for his uniform, Mr. Cragin might have been a big city copper. He had the manner and the mind.
“Mr. Charles Colby?” he said, rising from the armchair as I entered.
“Yes sir. What can I do for you?”
“I think you know. It’s about the death of that little Yvonne Beauchamps, across the lake.”
I sighed. “They told me at the crossroads. Wolf, wasn’t it? Wanted to know if I’d seen any signs of one.”
“Have you?”
I hesitated. That was a mistake. The big man in uniform looked up at me and smiled.
“It doesn’t matter. Anyone who bothers to take a look around this cabin will see wolf tracks galore. Matter of fact, there’s a trail leading from here right around the lake to the Beauchamps place. I followed it from there this afternoon.”
I couldn’t say anything. I tried to light a cigarette and wished I hadn’t.
“Besides,” said Cragin, “I’ve been talking to your wife. She seems to know all about this wolf.”
“Really? Did she tell you she saw one here last night?”
“She did.” Cragin stopped smiling. “By the way, where were you last night when the wolf appeared?”
“I was in town.”
“At the tavern?”
“No. Just walking.”
“Walking, eh?”
The dialogue was far from sparkling, but it held my interest. I could see Cragin was leading up to something. And he did.
“Let’s drop that angle for a moment,” he suggested. “I have all the facts in the case anyway. Just checking now to see if we can discover the habits of this renegade. We’re getting up a hunting party, you know. Don’t suppose you’d be interested in joining it—out of your line, isn’t it?”
I said nothing.
“Well, isn’t it?” he repeated. “You’re a writer.”
I nodded.
“I’m told you do a lot of yarns about the supernatural. You just finished one about some kind of invisible monster, your wife says.”
I nodded again. It was easy enough to keep nodding.
Cragin stood up, casually. “Do you ever get any funny ideas?” he asked me.
“Meaning?”
“Seems to me that an author like yourself would naturally be a little bit—different. If you’ll pardon my saying so, I’d imagine that a man who writes about monsters must get a pretty queer slant on a lot of things.”
I gulped, but covered it up with a quick grin. “Are you implying that when I write a story about a monster it’s part of my autobiography?” I asked.
That wasn’t exactly what he expected. I followed through.
“What’s the matter with you?” I drawled. “Do you think I look like a vampire?”
Cragin forced a laugh. “It’s my business to be suspicious. Let me see your teeth before I answer.”
I opened my mouth and said, “Ah!”
He didn’t like that, either.
I saw my advantage and seized it.
“Just what are you driving at, Cragin?” I demanded. “You know that my wife has seen a wolf around here. You know that it appeared last night. You know that it left here and apparently went around the lake, killed the girl, and disappeared.
“We’ve given you all the information you wanted. Unless, of course, you have a vague idea that I might be some kind of a monster myself. Maybe your scientific police theory points to the notion that I change myself into a wolf, frighten my wife, and then go out and murder a victim in the dark.”
I had him on the ropes now. “I’m not used to you backwoods Dick Tracy characters,” I said. “Of course I knew that some of the half-breeds around here believe in ghosts and werewolves and demons, but I didn’t think members of the Mounted Police adopted such superstitions.”
“But really, Mr. Colby, I—”
My hand was on the door. I pointed, smiling pleasantly. “My advice to you, sir, is to go chase your wolf.”
He took it, and departed.
I sat down and allowed myself the luxury of a good sweat as Violet came in.
For the first time, I was behaving sensibly. My direct attack had certainly dispelled any vagrant notions Cragin might have harboured. I had shamed him out of any faith he might possess in the element of truth behind werewolf-whisperings.
I decided to follow it up by doing the same for Violet. Casually, I recounted the details of our interview.
She listened in silence.
“Now, dearest, you see the truth,” I concluded. “The wolf is really enough—but it’s only a wolf. You thought it might be something more, because it exhibited intelligence. Doctor Meroux tells me that renegades like that are used to human beings and are much more cunning.
“But when it killed, it killed like an animal. It’s a wolf and nothing more. Tonight they’ll hunt it down and you can rest easier.”
Violet put her hand on my arm.
“You’ll stay here?” she asked.
I frowned.
“No. I’m going back to the crossing and join the hunting party. I told you I would last night. And it’s a point of honour with me to be in on the kill.”
“I wish you wouldn’t—I’m frightened—”
“Lock the doors. A wolf can’t unbolt locks.”
“But—”
“I’m going hunting. Believe me, you’ll be safer if I’m away tonight.”
The moon had almost risen when I came to Lisa under the trees behind her doorway.
She stood there in shadow, and something caught at my throat as I realized, with relief, that a woman waited for me and not a wolf.
Her smile reassured me, as did her quick caress.
“I knew you’d come,” she said. “Now we can be together. Oh, Charles, I’m afraid.”
“Afraid?”
“Yes. Haven’t you heard? That Cragin—the mounted policeman—he has been talking. He came to see me today and asked if I knew anything about the wolf. Leon, down at the tavern, has been gossiping like an old woman about the way I go out at night. And he has been carrying tales of werewolves.”
“You needn’t worry.” I soothed. Briefly, I repeated the substance of my interview with Cragin.
“But they are hunting tonight,” Lisa insisted. “Leon has closed his place, and most of the men are following Cragin. They left at dusk, to go around the lake. They will start from Big Pierre’s cabin and try to track down the wolf.”
“Why should that worry you?” I responded, smiling. “There is no wolf. Tonight you and I will be together.”
“That is right,” Lisa answered. “I am safe as long as I’m with you.” She gestured me towards the bluff beyond the trees.
“Shall we sit here and talk?” she suggested. “Leon is closed, but I went there earlier in the day and bought some wine. You like wine, don’t you, Charles?”
She produced a jug and we sprawled on the grass.
The wine was sweet but strong. As the moon rose in the east, I drank.
Suddenly she gripped my shoulder.
“Listen!”
I heard it from far away—far away across the lake. The faint yelling of human voices intermingled with a shrill, monotonous yapping.
“They’re hunting, and they have hounds.”
Lisa shuddered. I drank deeply, drew her closer.
“There’s nothing to fear,” I comforted her. Nevertheless, as I stared at the sky I felt a rising fear, rising in proportion to the increased clamour from across the lake.
They were hunting a werewolf—and she was in my arms.
Lisa’s proud pagan profile was limned against the pale and half-gnawed face of the moon above.
Moon face and girl face, staring at each other. And I, staring at both . . .
When ye moon waxeth, so doth ye accursed taint in ye veins of ye werewulf—
“Lisa,” I whispered. “Are you all right?”
“Of course, Charles. Here, drink!”
“I mean, you don’t feel as if something is going to happen to—you?”
“No. Not tonight. I’m all right. I’m with you now.”
She laughed and kissed me. I drank to drown the dread I could not drive away.
“You won’t bother Violet again? You’ll stop prowling by night until this dies down?”
“Yes, of course.” She held the bottle up to my lips.
“You’ll be patient? You’ll wait until I can think of another plan?”
“Whatever you say, lover.”
I faced her. “It may take time. Perhaps we can’t be together as quickly as I’d planned. There may be no way out except divorce. Violet’s strict about such things and she’ll fight. The legal angle might take several years to work out before I was free. Can you stand waiting that long?”
“Divorce? Years?”
“You must promise me that you’ll wait. That you won’t harm Violet or—anybody. Otherwise we can’t go on together.”
She faced me, face in shadow. Then she bent low and sought my lips with her mouth.
“Very well, Charles; if that is the only way, I can wait. I can wait.”
I drank again. Everything was clear. Then it blurred. Then it was clear again. Yapping of hounds roared in my ears, then faded into a distant buzzing. Lisa’s face loomed large, then swam out of sight.
It was the wine, but I didn’t care. I had Lisa’s promise, and Lisa’s lips.
I couldn’t stand the tension any longer. The last few days had been perpetual nightmare to me.
I drank my fill of lips and wine.
Some time later, I slept . . .
“Wake up!”
The voice rasped urgently in my ears. Suddenly I was being cuffed on the neck.
“Wake up, Colby! Hurry!”
I opened my eyes, sat up. The moon was high overhead, and its pallid rays fell upon the face bending towards mine—the face of Dr. Meroux. “Sleeping,” I muttered. “Where’s Lisa?”
“Lisa? Nobody’s here but yourself. Wake up, man—come with me.”
I rose, lurched a moment, regained my balance.
“You all right?”
“Yes, Doc. What is it?”
There was indecision in his voice and a hint of dread. I caught the hint, held it. Suddenly I was sober and shouting.
“Tell me. Doctor. What has happened?”
“It’s your wife,” he said slowly. “The wolf came to your cabin tonight while you were away. I happened by and stopped in to see if everything was all right. When I arrived the wolf had already departed. But—”
“Yes?”
“The wolf had torn Violet’s throat!”
We raced in darkness, in a black blur born of the night without and the fear within.
Lisa had lied. She had given me wine, waited until I slept, and then struck—
I could think of nothing else.
We reached the cabin. Dr. Meroux knelt beside the bed where Violet lay. She turned and smiled at me, weakly.
“She’s still alive?” I gasped.
“Yes. Her throat was torn, but I arrived and stopped the bleeding. It isn’t too serious, but she’s been badly frightened. Keep her quiet for a day or so.” I knelt beside my wife, pressed my lips to her cheek above the bandaged neck.
“Thank God for that,” I whispered.
“Don’t question her,” Meroux advised. “Let her rest now. Evidently I arrived just after the attack. The wolf must have come in through the window. You’ll notice the shattered glass. When I came near it bolted out again and scampered off. The tracks are all around.”
I walked outside the cabin with him. It was as he said.
“The hunting party will be here shortly,” he told me. “They can pick up the trail easily enough now, I think.”
I nodded.
Suddenly the baying sounded from the forest. The voices of frantic men blended with the equally frenzied ululations of the dogs.
Dr. Meroux tweaked his moustache and turned. “They must have found it!” he cried. “Listen!”
Shouts and murmurs. Sounds of scrabbling in the underbrush. A shrill cry. And then—
A volley of rifle shots.
“Nom de Dieu! They have it!” the doctor exulted.
Baying of hounds, closer now. Running footsteps snapped twigs in the brush beyond. Voices sounded near.
And then, out of the clearing before the cabin, crawled the wolf.
The great grey beast was panting, spent. It dragged its broken body across the open space, leaving a black trail of blood. The huge head was lolling, fangs agape, and it wheezed painfully as it made its way toward us.
Meroux pulled out a revolver, cocked it. I held his hand.
“No.” I whispered. “No!”
I walked toward the wolf. Its eyes met mine, but they held no recognition—only the glaze of descending death.
“Lisa,” I whispered. “You couldn’t wait.”
The doctor didn’t hear my mutterings, but the wolf did. The head jerked up, and for a moment a strangled sound issued from the shaggy throat.
Then the wolf died.
I saw it die. That was simple enough. Its paws stiffened, the head came down, and the wolf lay prone.
I could stand watching the wolf die.
What came next was not so easy to endure.
For Lisa died.
When I had witnessed the change from woman to wolf, I coldly timed it with my watch.
Now, watching the transformation of wolf to woman, I could only shudder and cry out.
The body expanded, writhed, flexed. The ears sank into the skull, the limbs elongated, put forth white flesh. Dr. Meroux was shouting beside me, but I couldn’t hear what he said. I could only stare as the wolf-form vanished and Lisa’s nude loveliness burst into view like a blossoming flower—a pale white lily of death.
She lay there, a dead girl in the moonlight. I sobbed and turned away.
“No—it cannot be!”
The doctor’s harsh voice recalled me. He pointed with a palsied finger at the white form at our feet.
I stared and saw—another change!
This change I cannot bear to describe. I can only remember, now, that Lisa had never told me just how or when she had become a victim of lycanthropy. I can only remember that the feast of the werewolf preserves an unnatural youth.
For the woman at our feet aged before our eyes.
Woman to wolf—such a metamorphosis is hideous enough to behold. But more shocking still was this final abomination. The lovely girl became a raddled hag.
And the hag became—worse. At the end, something incredibly old lay lifeless on the ground. Something wrinkled and shrivelled gaped up at the moon with a mummy’s grin.
Lisa had assumed her rightful shape at last.
The rest must have happened very swiftly. The men came, with the dogs. Dr. Meroux bent over the thing that had been wolf and woman, and now was neither. I fainted.
When I awoke the following afternoon, Dr. Meroux was dressing Violet’s wound. She was well enough to be up, and she brought me some soup. I slept again.
The following morning Meroux came again. I felt strong enough to sit up, and so question him. What he had to report reassured me.
Apparently, Dr. Meroux had been wise. He had confirmed the werewolf story, but he did not identify the dead creature as Lisa. With Cragin’s help, the matter was being hushed up. After all, there was no point in any further investigation. For the sake of local policy, it was best for all concerned to let it drop.
Violet was almost her old self again.
Last night I made a full confession to her.
She only smiled.
Perhaps, when she is rested, she will return to the city and divorce me. I do not know. She had not offered forgiveness, nor any comment. She seems restless, perturbed.
Today she went out for a walk.
I had been sitting all afternoon, typing out this account. I imagine now, since the sun had set, that she will return. Unless she has already slipped off quietly to the city. Still, with that wound half-healed, she probably wouldn’t travel yet.
The moon is coming up across the lake, but I don’t want to look at it. I can’t seem to bear any reminder of what happened. By writing this, I hope to cleanse myself of the memories.
Perhaps I can find a measure of peace in the future. I’m sure now that Violet hates me, but she will get her divorce and I shall carry on.
Yes. She looked as if she hated me. Because I sent a werewolf to kill her—
But I’m rambling. I mustn’t think of that. No.
And yet I have to think of something. I don’t want to stop writing, yet. Then I’d be forced to sit here alone, while the night comes down like a dark shroud over a dead earth.
Yes, I’d have to sit here and listen to the stillness. I’d have to watch the moon rising over the lake, and wait for Violet to return.
I wonder where she has wandered today? With that wound in her throat, it isn’t good for her to be out.
That wound in her throat—where Lisa bit her.
There’s something I’m trying to remember about that. I can’t seem to think clearly. But I know I’m trying to recall a point about her wound. It all ties in with my fear of the moonlight and being alone here.
What is it?
Now I know!
Yes. I remember.
And I pray that Violet has wandered off, that she does not come back.
She was restless today, and she went off alone in the woods. I know why she left.
The wound is working.
I recall what Lisa said when I told her that little Yvonne had died.
She thanked God—because if Yvonne had survived her bite, she too would have become a . . .
Violet was bitten. Violet didn’t die. Now the wound is working. And the moon is high, high over the lake. Violet, running through the forest, is a . . . There! Outside the window—I can see her!
I can see—it.
It is creeping toward the cabin as I write. I can see it in the moonlight; the moonlight that glistens on the sleek fur along its back. The moonlight is gleaming on the black snout, too, and on sharp, pointed fangs.
Violet hates me.
Violet is coming back. But not as—a woman.
Wait! Did I lock the door? Yes.
Good. She can’t enter. Look at her pawing at the outside of the door. Scratching. And whining, deep in her throat. That throat—those jaws!
Perhaps Cragin will come, or Dr. Meroux. If not, I’ll spend the night sitting here. In the morning she will go away. Then, when she shows up again I can have her put away.
Yes. I’ll wait.
But listen to that howling! It gets on my nerves. She knows I’m in here. She can hear my typing. She knows. And if she could get at me—
Now what is she up to? She isn’t at the door any more. I can hear those paws padding, moving around under the window.
The window.
The pane of glass was shattered when Lisa came the other night. There is no glass in the window—
She’s howling. She’s going to leap in. Yes.
I see it now . . . the body of a leaping wolf against the moonlight . . . Violet . . . no . . . Vio . . .