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My believable werewolf story

Submitted by: Alexandra Longden

I once had a dream connected to my sisters dream I had a dream I turned into a black werewolf and I wore a crescent moon pendant with a star in it,anyway I bounded out my house and howled at the moon then I saw someone walking across the moors and with a great roar and a powerful bound I pounced on my victim and bit him or her and ran off, when I woke up my sister told me she had a dream that a manwolf creature came and pounced on her and bit her.

Grey Werewolf

German Werewolf Part III

Submitted by: Jay Rohr

Part III

By the Roadside

It had been some time since I'd heard a good ghost story. So naturally, I was rather over joyed at the delightful little tale laid before me. I suppose it had as much to do with the atmosphere as the tale itself: the hushed surrounding audience of peasants listening carefully, sometimes correcting; a passionate teller who's voice alone carried the haunting mood; all done in a tavern illuminated by a fireplace as rain pattered lightly against the windows.

I did my best to suspend all disbelief, but there are limits to what a man can accept as fact. Even though, I will freely admit, the air of my company made it hard to disbelieve. Although I assumed this was a folktale passed down through the generations, those present seemed as afraid of it as if the story had just occurred. Still, I consider myself a rational individual, and therefore, even when tempted, ignored the possible truth of their words.

That being said, my own skepticism was no reason to halt my storyteller. So, after receiving a fresh of stein of beer, I encouraged Herr Wirtz to continue.

He told me that when Elimar Scherer disappeared, many assumed it confirmation of his guilt. However, rumors had drifted back to town that lessened suspicions. A man had reportedly been found out in a field near Eggenstedt. He was naked and suffering from a bullet wound in the chest. His recovery was amazingly quick. Almost unnatural, as Herr Wirtz put it. Word had it that he was a strange, feral sort of man. Herr Wirtz told that many felt this might have been the true guilty party, but the question could not be definitively answered. When caught breaking into a butcher shop, the man was shot to death as he attacked those trying to arrest him.

Whatever the situation, Elimar Scherer was gone and so was Gerbert Fleischer. And what had transpired the night Fleischer vanished was left to be a mystery for fireside debates.

Some time passed, and the matter slowly lost prominence in discussions. New gossips, fresh and often dripping with calumny, took center stage. Elimar and Fleischer would perhaps have then been forgotten, if not for a traveler.

He arrived near on the end of the month, traveling by foot to Sommerschenburg. It was here that Herr Wirtz reclaimed my full attention. This traveler was supposed to have visited a little over a year ago, so the recent nature of the tale gave it enough validity that I sheepishly will confess to accepting. However, reason overcame superstition, and I returned to the quiet skeptic enjoying an engrossing weird tale.

This traveler came to Die Stadtwand, thirsty and hungry. He stayed until close to sunset, then, feeling fully refreshed, decided to continue on for a bit. Herr Wirtz offered a room, but the traveler said he had friends in nearby Neindorf with whom he could stay. Herr Wirtz wished him well and was the last to see the traveler alive. The next morning what was left of his body was found on the road to Neindorf torn to pieces.

Of course wild speculation began to circulate throughout the area. Old women began to hang wreaths of herbs on their doorways, I assume to ward off spirits. Children were ordered home before sunset every night, and for a time no one traveled after dark alone. Sheep, along with other livestock, began to vanish from farms without a trace. I heard the recitation of a dozen different accounts, some from those present, regarding a massive shadowy figure slinking through the forest and stalking dark alleyways in town.

I felt much as I'm sure Ichabod Crane must have hearing the legend of the Horseman. I did my best to remind myself this was but a story itself, despite whatever first hand accounts there might be. Just because a man claims he has seen the devil does not mean he has seen anything at all. There are all kinds of tricks the human imagination can play when the reigns have slipped free from one's grasp. But caught in the moment, I couldn't help but wonder at what might be possible. While Herr Wirtz went on, I found my eyes drifting to the window, half expecting to see some dark figure slip past.

Again, I've strayed. I am not a good storyteller. I keep losing sight of my anecdote and the tale I was told. But returning to the course, the town relaxed as time passed. There was still some tension in the air, but whatever had been in the shadows seemed to have left. That is, until an old man by the name of Merecht was found in his cottage. I say he was found, but the full total would be that half the man was found. The rest had been taken to God only knows where.

The day after Merecht was discovered, a small boy came home in a fit. His skin had turned milk white, and it was several hours before he would stop trembling. When he finally regained his composure he told of being out after dark. The boy knew he was supposed to be home before sundown but had been feeling adventurous. While on the road home, he'd heard the sound of a man in agony coming from the woods. The boy could hear the man swearing and praying, his words occasionally interrupted by animalistic growls.

Investigating the situation, the boy followed the commotion off the road into the forest. At the source of it all, he claimed to have seen a wolf claw its' way out from inside the man's body. The man this boy described was none other than Elimar Scherer.

From here I could restrain myself no more. At hearing the boy's account, I let out a chuckle. Who wouldn't have done the same? The sure ridiculousness of the notion that a wolf might come out of a man's body is pure lunacy. It is entertaining to say the least, but I refuse to accept the possibility of such an event. Unfortunately, my storyteller did not share my amusement. Neither did any of those present.

Growing anxious at there whispers, I apologized for my outburst and attempted to explain myself. They would have none of it. Despite what rationalizations I made demonstrating the impossibility of the tale, they claimed every word as truth. I stated as clearly as I could that I had enjoyed the story and was sure my companions would as well when I rejoined them. At that point I rose to leave.

Herr Wirtz attempted to block my way, saying I was fool to go out after dark. Before he could elaborate though, I pushed my way past, and found my path impeded by another man. This was becoming intolerable. A good story is one thing, but to carry it to such an extent is, I think, embarrassing. Some what ashamed of and uncomfortable with my current company, I bid them good evening and forced my way to the door.

They called after me from the doorway of the tavern, but I heard not a word. It was time to get back on the road.

Coming Soon!

Part IV

Roadside Realizations