Return of the Wolf Man

Even a man who’s pure at heart

And says his prayers by night,

May become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms

And the autumn moon is bright . . .

The sleepy town of LaMirada is full of stories. Stories of a string of gruesome murders left unsolved fifty years ago. Of a terrifying beast-man lurking in the shadows at the scene of the attacks. And of the strange castle on the edge of the ocean, where the nightmare came to an end.

Now a new heir, Caroline Cooke, has come to the dark castle called the Tombs. And once again the little town is haunted by brutal murder, strange tales, and the mournful howls of an unknown creature. Some say he is crying out for the human blood on which he must feed. But others say that he is crying for release from his tormented form—release that only the lovely new occupant of the castle can give him . . .

Talbot’s scream echoed for a moment and then died.

Caroline could hear him breathing, each breath shallow and labored. She watched as bristly hair grew along the side of his face and across his hairline. It sprouted so quickly and so fully that it just seemed to
appear.
His lips and nose darkened. His eyes narrowed as more fur grew. It seemed to be closing in on his face—down his forehead, inward along his cheeks, up his chin toward the mouth. As it did, the fur thickened and grew longer.

The werewolf growled and thrust his arm through the bars. Caroline screamed and fell back on the floor. Enraged, snarling and snapping, the Wolf Man twisted so that his arm stretched farther between the bars. The other hand gripped the bars, rattling them.

“God almighty,” the deputy said and made the sign of the cross on his chest. “What is he?”

“A lycanthrope,” Caroline said. “A werewolf.”

RETURN OF THE WOLF MAN

A Berkley Boulevard Book / published by arrangement with Universal Studios Publishing Rights, a Division of Universal Studios Licensing, Inc.

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Boulevard edition / October 1998

All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1998 by Universal Studios Publishing Rights, a Division of Universal Studios Licensing, Inc.

Book design by Casey Hampton.
Cover design by Steven Ferlauto.
Cover photograph: Lon Chaney, Jr., as the Wolf Man, Chaney TM likeness, Chaney Enterprises, Inc. The Wolf Man is a trademark and copyright of Universal City Studios, Inc. All rights reserved.

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http://www.penguinputnam.com

ISBN: 0-425-16576-0

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BERKLEY BOULEVARD and its logo are trademarks belonging to Berkley Publishing Corporation.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

“Even a man who’s pure at heart
And says his prayers by night.
May become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms
And the autumn moon is bright.”

—WELSH VERSE

Thanks—

To Curt Siodmak, who wrote
The Wolf Man,
and to writers Edward T. Lowe, George Bricker, Dwight V. Babcock, Fredric I. Rinaldo, Robert Lees, and John Grant, who added to the legend.

To Lon Chaney, Jr., who played the character with humanity and dignity in his five screen appearances.

And to Jack Pierce, the makeup artist who designed the Wolf Man and many other great movie monsters.

PROLOGUE

1948

I

T
he autumn night was thick with clouds as the Wolf Man pushed on the half-open door. He paused in the doorway, crouching on splayed fingers and toes, and squinted ahead. The bedroom was dark as the heavy oak door opened slowly, creaking noisily on hinges rusted by the sea breeze. After a moment the moon slipped from behind a cloud and painted the room a ghostly blue-white.

The Wolf Man’s eyes, no sharper than in his mortal state, narrowed as they peered ahead. In front of him, on the right, was a large antique dresser. Beyond it was a wooden stand with a vase of long-dead flowers. He could smell their rankness, even here. The Wolf Man stole a quick glimpse to the left. There was a small canopy bed in the near corner, the lacy white fringe moving gently in the night air. Dolls sat neatly along the side of the bed against the wall; their dead eyes were staring, their smiles fixed. At the foot of the bed was a large chest. The werewolf looked at it carefully: the dust was thick and undisturbed. His eyes rose to old, framed photographs on the walls. They were sun-faded portraits of people, one of whom the werewolf felt he knew: a woman with dark hair and dark eyes. He remembered her as being pale, blanched not only of color but of feeling.

The werewolf’s brain, only partly human, fought through the mental fog.
Who was she? What was her name? Mourn . . . mourn—Mornay?

A disgusted snarl gurgled low in the Wolf Man’s throat. This wasn’t the time to try to think. Not when the Master of the Undead still walked the earth. The werewolf’s eyes snapped ahead. On the opposite side of the room dark-amber silk drapes undulated slowly in the gentle wind. The Wolf Man crept ahead then hesitated. His narrow eyes looked around with predatory vigilance.

His quarry wasn’t hiding in the chest or on the balcony but was very near. The Wolf Man couldn’t see him but he could smell him. The unmistakable stench of death was somewhere ahead—humid and rotting like wet leaves crushed in the soft earth. Death also had a shape—tall and upright, with blazing eyes and two ivory-white fangs. And until it had reached this room death had been moving—sometimes slowly like a mist, sometimes swiftly like a bat. But always fleeing. For all his powers the fiend was a coward.

The drapes waved, the corners flapping toward him as though beckoning. Beyond them the balcony doors were thrown wide open, their panes lightly flecked with droplets of sea. The werewolf’s short snout crinkled as the warm night air assaulted him with other smells—the salt of the ocean and the stink of fish living and dead. The perfume of a woman sitting on the beach. The sweet and sour odor of hammock trees and mangroves in the fetid swamps. Yet none of these smells was as powerful as the stench of his prey. The tart odor of blood was as long and heavy as the cloak that flapped behind Count Dracula.

The werewolf lifted his right foot. The claws retracted slightly as he did. The thick pads on the bottoms of his feet were damp with perspiration. He crept forward once again, the wooden boards creaking. He stopped just before the dresser. His thick chest expanded slowly as he sniffed the air. The rich smell of blood was closer now. His narrow eyes shifted to the left and then to the right. The smell was all around him but where was the vampire? The monster’s semihuman mind was confused.

He gurgled with rising anger. Spittle collected at the sides of his mouth, eager for a kill. Suddenly, the gurgle became a growl as he realized why he couldn’t see his ancient enemy. Slowly, the Wolf Man looked up.

Count Dracula was clinging to the high rococo ceiling in the center of the room. He hung there spiderlike, his fingertips pressed to the plaster. The vampire’s head was turned around, looking down at him with eyes that were red slits. His satin cape clung to him, also defying gravity. The cloak outlined the stocky, blood-bloated contour of his body.

Suddenly, Count Dracula’s off-white teeth flashed. Bloody mist swirled down from his mouth, hot and moist. With a hiss, the vampire dropped as though he were weightless. He turned in midfall, his cloak billowing behind him, and landed on his feet. He immediately jumped to the opposite side of the dresser. His long white fingers closed around the top of the antique and, with another exhalation of foul red breath, he easily overturned the dresser in the Wolf Man’s path. Then the vampire spun and ran toward the balcony.

The werewolf’s snarl became a roar as he vaulted over the dresser. He landed on all fours, the thick muscles of his arms and legs rippling beneath his fur. His own musky smell permeated the air, mingling with the blood-rich scent of the vampire.

The vampire stopped. He spun toward the werewolf, his dark brows knit over his fiery eyes. The Wolf Man stopped and glared back at Count Dracula. There was something new in the vampire’s eyes—dark shapes, which seemed to be growing larger and coming toward him. They seemed to be flying.

Bats. They were two great, black bats slowly merging into one.

“Stay!” the vampire commanded.

There was something soothing in the rhythmic movement of their wings, in the swirling red haze behind them. They transfixed the Wolf Man, caused his muscles to relax and his mind to drift. He stayed. He thought of more successful hunts, of less troublesome prey. He found himself yearning for them. How satisfying they were to scent and stalk and kill.

The Wolf Man was no longer thinking about Dracula. He was thinking about humans, the satisfaction of leaping at them from behind. They’d scream as his knifelike claws plunged into the sinew of their shoulders or their soft upper arms. Sometimes he’d drive a claw up along their spine, the sharp nails digging into their flesh like hooks. The victims would scream and struggle helplessly as his two long, sharp lower canines dug into their throat, holding it in place. And they’d burble for a moment—but only for a moment, as his flat-topped incisors closed on the raw wound. Then the teeth would come together and shear the flesh and slice open the jugular vein. The victims always went limp after that as blood pumped out in lively spurts. The metallic taste of that blood, the sweet satisfaction of the flesh calmed the wildness in him. He felt like he did now, eager to put the night and the chase behind him.