The Ultimate Werewolf (29 page)

Brad Linaweaver

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DON'T let them take the natural out of the supernatural!" That's been my motto, ever since I expanded my business to include the physical side of the occult.

Allow me to introduce myself. I am Alfred Von Booten, adventurer . . . and barber for hire. Haircuts, shaves, dentistry and minor surgery are my stock in trade. I also deal firmly with monsters of every kind. Von Booten rates are reasonable, and open to negotiation if the need is great enough.

Only once have I suffered disappointment with one of my customers, but I made up for it in the end. The frustrating series of events began when I was on holiday in the mountains of central Europe. On impulse, I decided to drop in on an old friend.

Descending from the mountain, I saw the little village of Kaninsburg, partly obscured by clouds that were so low as to hug the ground. Shouldering my kit of provisions—and precision-made dental and barbering instruments—I trudged over rock and crevice with the sure-footedness of a mountain goat (a goat restricted to using its two hind legs, that is).

I had strapped my spectacles on with a fine strip of leather and could see very clearly. The last time I had visited the village, in late Spring, it had been a thriving community of little gingerbread houses, surrounded by greenery, and covered in a fine yellow pollen from the many flowers that were its pride and joy. Now I was arriving a year later, at the height of Summer, and expected more of the same. I blamed the precipitous angle, and the presence of so many clouds, for what must be a mistaken impression of Kaninsburg on a dismal Winter day of washed out browns and grays, a bleak landscape awaiting the next snowfall. But it was when I climbed below the clouds, and had my first unobstructed view, that I realized the place really did look
dead
—a wasteland punctuated by trees almost leprous with black bark.

And yet only a few miles beyond the village was a verdant testament to the season of life. It was Summer everywhere but the village. There was only one explanation: monster trouble! I had warned my friend. Baron Averal Tahlbot, that whenever British nobility is transplanted to small European villages, the risk of monster infestation goes up. The Baron had won this village in a game of whist on a Walpurgis Night, when there was a full moon, and he had a toothache. He was in too splendid a mood to believe in ill omens; and I wasn't about to turn down his invitation to see him enjoying the bucolic life (he had been land-poor back home, despite his title). When I arrived, I was to discover that Kaninsburg had no barber—as Baron Tahlbot had driven away the previous practitioner for the crime of sorcery, and for indifferent hair styling. I had been very busy during that stay, and had expected renewed opportunity this time.

Upon reaching the bottom of the mountain, I set to work, extracting clues from the unyielding cavity of life. What blight had come to this fair village? Was it vampires? Poltergeists? Ghouls? Frenchmen? What could it possibly be?

First, I found some wolfbane. Then I noticed a pentagram painted awkwardly on the side of a fence. These clues, combined with a huge sign reading BEWARE OF WEREWOLF suggested the very strong possibility that the problem was lycanthropy.

"Von Booten, you old fraud!" It was the distinctive voice of the Baron, whose smoky vocal chords had entertained the Queen herself (of which country I fail to recall). Unsurprisingly, he was walking his dogs whose snarling ferocity made me feel as much at home as I had been when facing the zombie legions of the Lost Jackal.

"Hello, Baron. Where are your villagers?"

"Quaking behind closed doors, I expect. We have a bit of bother at the moment."

"It wouldn't be werewolves, by any chance?"

"Astounding, dear fellow. How ever did you deduce that?"

"Elementary," I said, with a sweeping hand gesture, "it's all this damned evidence."

"Secondarily," he replied, "if it's evidence you're after, then my village is full of it. But I say, what brings you here?"

Opportunities such as this should not be wasted. Today's business reputation is only as good as yesterday's coincidence. Clearing my throat, I began in stentorian tones: "Through strange powers that defy human explanation, I felt your call for help vibrating through the ether. . . ."

"Just passing through, eh?" was his villainous reply. "Well, I'm glad you're here. Come to think of it, you're still owed money from your last visit. I'm certain that had nothing to do with your returning here. Come with me to the castle and we'll settle accounts."

We shook hands and I couldn't help noticing how he had let himself go to seed. The tweed jacket was frayed at the cuffs and it was missing buttons. This wasn't like him. Although he'd been a widower for some years, one would never know it sartorially. I also noticed that the jacket had about a dozen long, coarse animal hairs on it. Could it be...?

"I can see by your expression that you're displeased over my appearance," he said.

"Oh no, it's only . . ."

"No need for dissembling, old friend. I admit it. I need a haircut badly."

As a matter of fact, he did. A shaggy mop of unkempt hair was inappropriate to his station in life. But I would no more think of interrogating him about those hairs on his jacket than I would shave off my mutton-chop whiskers. The finest tact was called for when dealing with a Tahlbot.

"By the way," I began, as the melancholy tower of the castle loomed over the gnarled trees to mark our desultory progress, "have you been petting any werewolves lately?"

"Shiver me timbers," he said, recalling his days as a seafaring man, "you see right through me, Alfred. I can't hide a thing from your dogged ratiocination. My son is the village werewolf, and I don't know what to do."

No sooner had these words passed his lips than fog began pouring into the forest as if someone had turned on a steam-powered fog making machine. We walked in silence through the roiling mist. We walked over the moat, through the gigantic door (at which point the dogs went running off in the direction of the kitchen), past the mute English butler, by the dumbwaiter, into the den and up to the ornate fireplace.

Suddenly a beautiful woman, with hair as golden as a doubloon, came gliding down the staircase, in flowing gowns, and fell smack into the arms of the Baron. He introduced her as his niece. It occurred to me that I'd yet to see a villager.

"Oh darling," she said in an American accent, "who is this darling man with you?"

More introductions were made. More greetings were exchanged. The exchange rates for various European currencies were discussed. She served drinks. She passed out cigars. She gave me a back massage and played the piano, although not in that order. Her laughter was like the tinkling of a chandelier submerged in a vat of ambrosia. She sang. She told my fortune.

This last diversion proved to be a mistake. Seeing the sign of the pentagram in my palm, she tried to change the subject, laughing nervously, but it was to no avail. Somewhere in the night, a wolf howled. She swooned. A maid came bustling down the stairs. The maid wasn't a villager either, but some kind of humorous Swedish person. Together, the two women sort of flowed back up the stairs, as if a tide could ebb upwards to greet the stars. Or something.

"Er, where were we?" I asked, "before, uh, what's her name again?"

"Evelyn from Idaho," answered the Baron, with a shrug. "Don't worry about it, Von Booten, she sees the sign of the pentagram in everyone's hand."

"Thank you. But what were we talking about before your niece came in?"

"My son, the werewolf,"

"He's English?"

"Born in England, of course, but raised in the great American West where two fists and a full head of hair are all that's needed to wrestle life to the ground as Davy Crockett once did with a big old grizzly bar."

"Yes, Colonials like to drink in ugly pubs . . . but please tell me more about your son."

"His name is Lonnie but the villagers have a nickname for him."

"Larry?"

"No, they call him the Horrible Beast, and since being bitten by a werewolf, they've been much harder on him."

We drank some more. At length, I popped the question: "Is he in the castle?"

"That he is."

"He's unhappy about being a monster, I take it."

"He is that."

"You know there's no cure."

"That I do."

"You've tried to put him out of his misery?"

"Yes, but none of the traditional remedies work! That's why I'm so glad you're here."

"One silver bullet ought to be effective."

"We've run out of silver bullets! He's so full of them that he sounds like a Spaniard when he walks."

I had never heard of such a phenomenon. Just what kind of werewolf was this? He could see my consternation, or else he was peering at the small mole on my left cheek. Taking me by the arm, he led me, gently but firmly, in the direction of the family dungeon.

"It will be the full moon tonight," he said, "as it has been for the last two weeks."

"Wait a moment," I said, "astronomy is not my subject, but the full moon couldn't possibly . . ."

"No time for that now," was his terse reply. "You must see for yourself what has slaughtered half the inhabitants of my village and torn Evelyn's favorite dress."

"Down into the lower depths?"

"More like the upper depths," was his curious answer. While pondering the Baron's epistemology, we descended—I had been doing a lot of that lately—past wall torches that had already been lit along the passageway. I would have preferred taking a kerosene lantern but the Baron insisted that only torches were reliable in the dungeon. The most peculiar sight was that there was a veritable curtain of spiderwebs we had to push out of the way . . . and yet not a spider in sight.

Lonnie was waiting for us, locked in the dungeon's only functional cell. He was a big, beefy man; and every bit as American as a brass band on the Fourth of July. "Dad!" he cried out. "I want to die. Please let me die. Will this man with you help me to die? I can't go through another night of eternal torment! I won't, do you hear, I won't!"

"Evelyn and Lonnie both tend to carry on," the Baron whispered in my ear. Then, in a louder voice, he announced: "This man is going to help you, my son, but first he must witness the transformation."

"Not that, anything but that!" the young man blubbered. Fortunately, the full moon put an end to his monologue.

"Now prepare yourself for a surprise," warned the Baron. I'd seen people turn into wolves before, as well as a horse (a poor peasant named Ed), a pig, several breeds of cat, snakes, and even a baboon once. But I'd never seen anything like this. Young Tahlbot retained the shape of a human being—while accumulating additional features. To see a human face take on a lupine
aspect ...
to see wolfish fangs protrude from human
lips ...
to see hands become—not paws, but claws, still able to grasp as well as
rend ...
to see a hybrid horror that was neither wolf nor man struck me as a professional challenge, and an unparalleled opportunity to receive a larger fee.

The Baron had been speaking for some time, but I hadn't listened. There was something numb in his voice, and I heard him say: ". . . seems to die when we use silver weapons, but come the next full moon, which seems to happen awful frequently 'round here, he's alive again."

"Lycanthropy is only part of your problem," I heard myself say, "because this whole region is under a curse. When did it all begin?"

"There was an old gypsy woman who . . ."

"Say no more!"
Any unprejudiced observer must admit that lycanthropy and gypsies go together like money and a Scotsman. "We must put an end to this damnable business tonight! Er . . . those bars are strong enough to hold your son, aren't they?"

I had good cause to ask such a question as the dirty son of a wolf was throwing himself against the bars of his cage with such vigor that drops of his saliva left spots on my spectacles.

The Baron answered: "We keep putting in new
restraints ... as he
destroys the previous ones."

It was time for action! I removed my best scissors from my satchel, along with a variety of combs. The dental tools would be used later.