The Wolf of Dorian Gray - A Werewolf Spawned by the Evil of Man

Chapter 18 - The Fog Part 2

A gasp of horror escaped from her lips as she saw the hideous beast that was depicted on the canvas. The once-innocent wolf cub had grown immense and was now the most gruesome thing that she had ever seen. It had changed into a terrifying beast, whose shape now dominated almost all of the picture—save the beautiful, smiling face of Dorian in the background. Its elongated fangs and treacherous claws were covered in a black foulness that could only be rotten, hardened blood. The sinew and muscles had grown more pronounced, but also more sickly. It looked wrong in a way that compelled the eye to shy away from the raw savagery of it. And the face—that was the most frightful thing of all. The eyes of the monstrosity glowed blood-red with hate. They bore down into the very depths of the soul, seeking to devour any light or goodness found there. They spoke of a deep and unquenchable thirst for blood and violence. They were calculating, cruel, and disturbingly intelligent—as only a man's eyes could be.

Tears came unbidden to Sage's eyes. It was impossible. Who had done this wretched thing? To paint over the small wolf cub with such vile menace. Yet, she seemed to recognize her own brushwork. The creation was too terrible to comprehend and she became afraid. She seized a lighted candle and held it up to the picture. Surely it was some foul parody. A joke of some sort. That was not her picture. But it was. Her thoughts went back to the wolf that had bitten her hand before returning to the forests. It had not been seen since.

All the reports of animals being killed savagely in the surrounding areas now seemed to make sense. But what about the killings of people, the murders of innocent citizens? Was it not the handiwork of Jack the Ripper, marauding gangs, or vicious Bulldogs? She felt an icy surety now that the responsible party was this beast depicted on the canvas in front of her. Her artist's eyes detected a resemblance to the wolf that she had so lovingly raised. It could be seen there in the color of the mane and here in the angle of the maw. Was this what had become of the wolf that had deserted and betrayed her?

Dorian merely stood there, leaning against the black-marble fireplace mantel and observing Sage's reaction.

Sage begged for answers in a quiet voice. "What does this mean? It is impossible. I don't believe that this is my picture."

"You don't see your handiwork in it?"

"There was nothing evil or shameful in what I painted. I knew I shouldn't have put so much of myself into the work. I shouldn't have mixed bloods and herbs into the paints. I shouldn't have spoken the old words and the spell of making. Most of all, I shouldn't have linked your names together. I should have listened to my mother's warning. But how could the wolf have been corrupted so?"

"It is the face of my soul."

"It is a demon!"

Dorian replied with a shrug of despair. "Everyone has both heaven and hell in them Sage."

Sage turned back to the portrait. "If this is what you have done with your life then you must be even worse than they say."

Her hand shook, and the candle fell to the floor and began sputtering. She flung herself to the chair by the window and buried her face in her hands to weep. Soon, both she and Dorian were sobbing quietly.

The tears flowed freely from her eyes. "Dorian, we must pray. We must pray for forgiveness and to have our sins washed away. Come, let us pray together."

"It is too late for that."

"It is never too late, Dorian. Come kneel down with me now. Can't you see the way in which that accursed thing leers at us?"

Sage fell to her knees with a pleading look.

Dorian looked once more at the picture. Suddenly, an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Sage came over him. Rage and violence warred within him. He loathed this woman kneeling on the floor by the window. It was her doing that had caused this. Her fault. She had to be stopped—killed!