Tag Archives: werewolf

Scream Again!

Children’s author, WILHELM SCREAM, has been at it again. He has also written his second book, this time turning his attention to werewolves. The follow-up to BAD BLOOD: A Tale of Two Vampires is PARDON MY WEREWOLF! A Hairy Story — and it’s available now!

When lowly kitchen boy Luca Turnspit is recruited by the Queen to be a companion for her lonely son, he learns the Prince’s dark secret in no time at all. The pair strike up a friendship but their hopes for the future are endangered by the arrival of a man from the past and by local cat-owners who have genuine concerns and flaming torches.

A fast-moving and funny story that is only a little bit gruesome, PARDON MY WEREWOLF! is suitable for readers of all ages.

Available in glossy hardcover, floppy paperback and on Kindle, for all you technological whiz kids.

Leave a comment

Filed under horror, humour, Novel

Who were you with in the moonlight?

“Martin, why don’t you come inside, love?”  Martin’s mother called from the back doorstep.  She rubbed her arms and stamped her feet.  It was a chilly night.  The sky was clear and the moon was full.

“In a minute!” Martin called back without turning around.  His attention was focussed on the task in hand.  He stooped at the bottom of the garden, scooping dog food into an enamel bowl.

“He won’t come out while you’re standing there,” Martin’s mother advised.  “He can smell you.  Come back in; you can watch from the window.”

Martin straightened.  He sighed.  For once, his mother was right.  He gave the shadowy bushes one last wistful look and trudged up the path to the patio.

“I’ll pop the kettle on,” Martin’s mother patted his arm.  “Nice drop of cocoa will warm you up.”

She went inside.  Martin felt sick.  He didn’t want cocoa.  He couldn’t stomach cocoa.  Not any more.  Not since that night.

Four weeks ago, Martin had come out into the garden to put food out for the hedgehogs.  They had gobbled it up overnight.  Or a fox had had it.  Either way, Martin felt he was doing something to help the wildlife to survive in the concrete sprawl that had destroyed their habitat.

It had been a night like any other.  Rather absently, Martin had dolloped the dog food into the bowl.  It had become routine and he had lost sight of why he was doing it.  But then, as he had turned to go back to the house, something had pounced.  The beast’s heavy weight had crumpled Martin like a paper cup.  The snarling, the slobbering.  The hot breath on Martin’s neck.  The bite through the sleeve of his parka.

He had told his mother he must have caught his coat on a nail.  He lied about his skin not being broken.  Besides, Martin’s mother had enough on her plate, trying to run a household single-handed ever since Dad…

For four weeks, Martin had nursed his injury in private.  The skin had knitted together and scabbed and scarred.  But now it was pink and shiny, and there was coarse hair sprouting around it.

He left the cocoa to go cold.  His mother assumed he was too distracted, playing games on that phone of his.  But Martin was looking up articles about lycanthropy and was only becoming increasingly confused.

He needed to hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.

“Night, love,” Martin’s mother tousled his hair as she shuffled her way to bed.  “Don’t stay up all night.”

Martin shook her off. She was always sad lately, and when she tried to smile, it was as though her depression was too heavy for her lips to lift.

From the kitchen window, through the night-vision binoculars he had insisted on having for his wildlife watching, Martin could see movement in the shadowy bushes.

It was back!

Martin sat stock still and waited, hoping he had put enough of his mother’s tranquillisers in the dog food to knock the beast unconscious.

Gotcha, Martin grinned in triumph.  And you’re going to tell me exactly what you are and what you’ve done to me.

Leave a comment

Filed under horror, Short story

The Korkenzieher Pass

The diligence had broken down coming through the Korkenzieher Pass.  One of the wheels had come clean off and bounced away, dropping over the precipice and smashing to smithereens and splinters hundreds of feet below.  There was no hope, therefore, of effecting a repair.

            The driver ordered his passengers to continue on foot.  They didn’t have much choice – in fact they had no choice at all.  The night was closing in and the mountain peaks were shrouded in mist.  They had to leave their luggage too, the driver said, or they would never make it to the inn afore moonrise.

            The passengers kicked up a fuss, like passengers do, threatening to dash off sternly-worded telegrams as soon as they got within a sniff of civilisation.  The driver told them it wasn’t his fault and, rather than biting his head off, they ought to be making tracks while they could still see where they were going.

            Off they set – they numbering four.  The driver elected to stay behind.  “I’ll be all right,” he assured them, taking a bite of a bulb of raw garlic.  “The horses get spooked without me.  I’ll keep an eye on your belongings.”

            The four passengers were a couple of newlyweds from England, a man of the cloth (by which I mean a clergyman and not a tailor) and a cantankerous old man who walked with a stick.

            “I think it’s romantic,” tittered the young bride, earning herself yet another kiss from her amorous husband.  The clergyman looked away but the old gentleman was not shy in grunting his disgust.

            The sun was setting behind the tallest mountain in the range, painting the sky orange and purple.  The first stars were visible and the full moon hung over the scene like a watchful eye, baleful and cold.  Somewhere, behind the passengers, something howled.

            They had not gone far when the clergyman muttered to the old gentleman that he needed to answer nature’s call.  He was, after all, made of clay like the rest of us mortals and a slave to his bodily necessaries.  He nipped off the path and behind a tree.  The old gentleman called to the young couple ahead, telling them to wait in order not to separate the group.

            They waited and waited but the clergyman did not emerge.  The young man volunteered to investigate and so, despite his new wife’s protests, he stepped off the path and disappeared among the trees.

            He returned a moment later with a face as white as milk and his hands as red as poppies, dripping with blood.  At first he was too shocked to utter a word.

            “Torn…” he managed to say and, “…to pieces…”

            The young woman gasped.  She would not allow her husband near her with those hangman’s hands.

            They resumed their walk in a horrible silence.  Every rustling of the leaves gave rise to terrible imaginings.

            The young man reached out to his wife, offering the warmth and protection of his arms but she ran from him; she did not want the clergyman’s blood to taint her.  She rounded a sharp corner and tripped over a stone.  Nearby, the grasses moved.  The young woman screamed: a pair of red eyes was looking directly at her.

            She scrambled to her feet and found she had sprained her ankle in the fall.  She tried to flee but did not get far.  Her husband and the old gentleman turned the corner just in time to see a shaggy-haired beast all teeth and claws pounce on the young woman.  With an almighty snap of its jaws, the beast took the bride’s head off.  The head dropped over the edge, eyes and mouth wide open in terror, and was lost in the gaping darkness below.

            “Stand back, my boy!” the old gentleman pushed the young man aside.  He lay into the ravening beast with the silver tip of his walking stick.  The beast snarled and roared.  With a swipe of its paw, it sent the old gentleman flying, walking stick and all, over the edge of the cliff.

            The young man fell to his knees beside his wife’s decapitated body.  Without her he did not want to live.  He closed his eyes and surrendered himself to the beast’s insatiable bloodlust.

            It was a quiet night in the inn at the end of the Korkenzieher Pass, but then it usually was.  Business was very slow and the innkeeper had laid off all of his staff.  He looked up from the tankard he was polishing as the door opened and his old friend, the coach driver came in.

            “Usual?” he offered.  “You look like you could do with it.”

            “Usual arrangement and all,” said the coach driver, watching thirstily as the innkeeper poured the ale.  “Come first light, take your cart to fetch their belongings.  We split the proceeds fifty-fifty.”

            The innkeeper grinned.  “On the house,” he pushed the foaming tankard toward his friend.  He peered closely at the coach driver’s face.

            “You need a shave,” he said.

 stagecoach-flash-alt-md

1 Comment

Filed under Short story