The Lunenburg Werewolf (11 page)

Now, thanks to the
GRS
Society and the citizens of Lunenberg, Sophia's grave has been restored. Along with the new iron railing, which makes it easy to spot the gravesite from a distance, there are two decorative plaques that retell Sophia's story. Each plaque is attached to a chain, and the chains are suspended from an iron heart, broken in the middle. The biblical quotes that Sophia refers to in her letter to Mrs. Trask are reproduced on one of the wrought iron plaques.

Exodus
XX
, 16: Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.

Matthew
V
, 10: Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake; for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.

Matthew
V
, 11: Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.

Matthew
V
, 12: Rejoice, and be exceedingly glad; for great is your reward in Heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.

Matthew
VII
, 1: Judge not, that ye be not judged.

Some people swear that on certain nights they can hear the sound of Sophia weeping at her gravesite. It may just be the wind working through the tombstones. It may just be the calling of some gentle little night bird. Whatever the cause, do not grieve, for there is a happy side to this story as well: just as many times as the weeping has been reported, folks have also reported that the figures of three young girls—Sophia, Ella May, and Atholea—have been seen running and giggling through the thick Lunenburg mist. May they always be happy and may they play together forever in the green grass of the Hillcrest Cemetery.

Werewolves have always been one of my favourite movie monsters. I have always felt them to be both tragic and terrifying.

So when I found out that an actual werewolf was reported to have lived in the little town of Lunenburg, I knew I needed to include it here. Let me tell you about Gallows Hill, and the cemetery that some people swear is the burial place of Hans Gerhardt—the werewolf of Lunenburg.

Nannette in the Wilderness

It was late December 1755—a time of all-too-real horror, shortly after the Acadian Expulsion had taken place. The Acadians had been brutally rounded up and ruthlessly removed from their homes around the Maritimes. Barns and farmhouses had been burned down or simply taken over. Homesteads had been given over to anyone who was not remotely French Acadian. Only a few courageous and desperate families had remained, hiding in the woods and wilderness, living in caves like animals.

In the turmoil a young Nova Scotia Acadian girl by the name of Nannette had become separated from her family. She'd lived for a time by herself in the woodlands. She'd learned to hunt and to forage and had managed to survive. Her life had changed and she'd done her very best to adapt to this change. After a while of wandering she'd fallen in with a band of Mi'kmaq, who'd treated her as one of their own.

Now Nannette accompanied her Mi'kmaq friends into a small German settlement on the outskirts of Lunenburg. They'd come to trade for steel utensils and spices that were hard to find. It was there that Wilhelmina Buchart spotted Nannette.

“That girl,” Wilhelmina said. “She is a white girl. She should stay here.”

The Mi'kmaq were cautious at first. They had been taken advantage of more than once by the settlers and were feeling somewhat protective of the little girl. Still, Wilhelmina's argument had some sense to it. The girl belonged with her people and the winter was coming on and food was beginning to grow scarce.

A deal was struck. Nannette did not have any say in her fate. She was still very young, and a little shy at that. She did not ask why the woman was giving so many supplies to her Mi'kmaq friends. She did not wonder when they told her to stay here awhile. She did not question the Mi'kmaq when they told her that they might be back in the summertime.

Nannette's life changed again.

And again she would have to learn to adapt.

Hans Gerhardt

Nannette grew into a woman and became known as one of the town beauties. More than a few young fellows were intrigued at the notion of a woman who had lived such an exciting life. The thought of marrying someone who knew how to hunt and fish and live out of doors was exciting to these young country boys.

The man who eventually won Nannette's heart was Hans Gerhardt, a strong, sturdy Germen lad with a reputation for a ready smile—filled with strong white teeth—and a surprisingly quick temper.

For a time it seemed as if Hans truly loved Nannette. They worked hard on their farm and he was constantly at her side, almost overprotective in his attachment to her. By all appearances the two seemed to be a happy couple and a wonderful part of a growing town.

After their first year of marriage, Nannette gave birth to a baby daughter. The child seemed to bring out the she-wolf in Nannette. She was fiercely devoted to the little girl, whom she called Marie. But the closer Nannette grew to little Marie, the more Hans distanced himself from Nannette. He seemed to brood and recede into the shadows of their life together. His hatred and jealousy of Marie grew almost palpably.

Strangely, Nannette never noticed. Perhaps growing up alone as she did had handicapped her social radar. Whatever the reason, she did not pick up on the intensity of Hans's hated for their young daughter.

Hans began sleeping alone in the kitchen, rather than in their marriage bed. He spent more and more time in the woods. When Nannette asked him what he did out there, he would smile at her with his strong white teeth and reply with a short retort: “Hunting.”

When Hans would seethe and growl at their daughter, Nannette would blame it on his working too hard. She feared that he was making himself sick and did not think to suspect any ill-feeling. Even when he would snatch up his red hunting hat with a curse and stalk off into the darkness with a growl on his lips, Nannette seemed none the wiser.

Still, she had begun to worry. How, she wondered, could a man be so jealous of a little child? What sort of an animal would let that feeling take hold within him?

She would soon find out.

A Beast in the Night

It was about this time that local farmers began to complain about a mysterious beast that was prowling the outskirts of the settlement late at night. It was a strangely shaped creature that followed night travellers far too closely in a swift and stealthy stalking motion. It sometimes stood upright and sometimes galloped on all fours. Sometimes the beast was seen at the window of a cottage—a pair of savage eyes gazing in from the darkness beyond.

“It is a bear, perhaps,” some farmers suggested. “Or a kind of wolf.”

But the older men who had seen a little more of life began to wonder just exactly what sort of beast this was. They spoke of an ancient legend concerning a man who had swallowed a wolf. Whatever the man would eat, the wolf would too. Then, when the wolf grew large and powerful, it would burst free from the man's skin, drawn out by the swelling of the full moon.

The younger men laughed and told them to go back to their knitting. But old men know an awful lot.

Livestock began to go missing. Lambs and sheep and goats and cattle were found with their throats torn open and the blood drained from their carcasses. Traps were set and hunting parties went out frequently with dogs and muskets. But to no avail. Whatever was out there knew how to stay hidden.

The Beast Breaks Free

In the late summer, tragedy struck. It was berry season. The woodlands were covered with luscious wild blueberries. Hans took a large basket out to pick, and Nannette stayed at home to rock little Marie to sleep on the kitchen settee. When the child was sleeping comfortably, Nannette tucked her tight in her cradle and, picking up a basket of her own, decided to join Hans in the far woods.

“Where is the baby?” Hans asked.

“Asleep in the house,” she told him.

That knowledge seemed to spark Hans into great speed. His powerful fingers tore at the blueberry bushes, snatching berries as quickly as could be imagined. Nannette told herself that he must be worried about leaving their daughter alone in the cabin and that this sudden haste was a good sign. Perhaps she had been wrong in mistrusting his feelings. Perhaps he really loved their daughter.

When Hans's basket was full, he stood and turned. Nannette stood as well. “No,” he said, with a grin of his big white teeth. “Stay here and fill your basket. Later you can make us a pie. I will take my basket home, empty it, and return.”

“Will you see to Marie?” Nannette asked hopefully.

“I will see to the child,” Hans answered. And then he showed her his big white teeth a final time before turning his back on her and walking towards the cabin.

Nannette continued to pick. It was good to be out here all by herself. Even the most doting mother grows a little weary tending constantly to the needs of a baby. Still, she began to worry. What could be keeping Hans? She told herself that he might be cooking supper. She told herself that he might be taking a nap. She told herself that he might be taking care of little Marie.

She thought of his big white teeth, of a smile that was almost too large and too hungry for a man's mouth. And then she turned and ran for the house.

When she got there, she found no trace of life. The baby was gone and so was her husband. She looked about as much as she could before racing to a neighbouring farm, where she gasped out her story to a group of local farmhands.

The men sprang into action, searching the house and fields for the child. They found Hans deep in the forest, beside a low gurgling brook. He sprang up at them with a fierce snarling cry, snapping at their throats and exposed hands.