Moonlight

            Everyone knows a thing or two about werewolves. Silver bullet kills them and they change every full moon. Oh, and they like to ravage and pillage farms on a full moon. Slaughter the livestock, plus the family if the farmer comes out with a shotgun and fires at it. But anyway, here’s a tale concerning several people and a werewolf or two. One of them happens to be a good guy turned bad. Don’t worry about him, though, well, apart from the savagery and what not, he’ll be okee dokee by the time you finish this story. You ready? Okay, here it goes.

            It was a perfectly ordinary day for the dashingly handsome man, let’s call him Michael instead. He was on holiday with some friends up in Scotland for a while. They hiked and did other things as well. But it was a holiday they were never going to forget. One night, a full moon one to be exact, they went down to the local pub and sat and visited with some of the locals. It was about quarter to ten when Michael announced to his friends that they should go out on a walk. They agreed to this, but the others sitting round them did not.

            “Ye better not go out there,” one man said. “There’s a werewolf on the prowl doing Lord knows what. Don’t go out there.” But, foolish Englishmen they were, they did not listen to the man’s warning and set foot out the door. All those in the tavern prayed that they did not get attacked. Oh, but they were.

            They walked deep into the woods, joking around and having a good laugh. They didn’t believe in such folklore.

            “Werewolves,” one Michael’s friend said. “Are they joking? There’s no such thing. Did any of you believe him?”

            “I sure didn’t,” another said. “What do you think, Mike?”

            “I agree with the both of you,” he replied. An eerie breeze picked up and blew gently through the trees. Oh, were these mortals starting to get frightened. They quickly made second thoughts, but kept telling themselves there was no such thing as monsters or werewolves. Just then they heard a howl in the distance. One of Mike’s friends let out a small yelp.

            “It’s all right, Terry,” Mike said. He put an arm around Terry who seemed to be looking up. “What are you . . .” He too looked up. Up in the trees was a beast of black, its pearly white fangs glistening in the moonlight. Its bloodthirsty gold eyes stared hungrily at the three men. It pounced on them.

5 months later

            Eric sat in the therapist’s office staring out of the window, watching the rain fall gently outside.

            “Mr. Idle?” the therapist’s voice called. Eric snapped out of his trance and looked at the therapist.  

            “I’m sorry, Dr. Lincoln,” he said. “What was your question?”

            Dr. Lincoln, with his slightly bushy grey hair and moustache and faded blue eyes, sighed and asked his question again. “Are you still being haunted at the sight of your two murdered friends? Does that night still bother you in any way?”

            “I dream about it sometimes.”

            “Good. Anything else, care to tell me about them?”

            “Well, there’s one dream where I’m being chased by the werewolf and I end up falling down a hill and spraining my ankle. Then the wolf just sits on a ledge and laughs at me. Then it pounces on me and I wake up. Another I just see Terry and Mike’s mutilated bodies lying before me, like I was the werewolf. Then there’s the . . .”