For Mature Readers Only

#1
October '01

Strange Tales Presents

Werewolf by Night

Funeral Song
Part 1

Written by Chris Munn

It's been my experience that God loves to watch his bastard children squirm under the magnifying glass, relishing in the fact that each of us are petitioning the heavens for a little piece of tranquility on Earth. I wonder what we did all those millennia ago to displease the one being that could have led us to salvation... never mind all that Adam and Eve shit.

Take me for example, one of the biggest bastards of all in this double-jointed race called homo sapien. I had so much potential as a kid, doing nothing but surfing and chasing girls while my dad, sis, and I tooled around Europe. My dad was a bit of a philanthropist, possessing some of that old-money Eastern-European blood. How did I know that his blood is exactly what would damn me a few years down the road? What could have clued me in that I was gonna pay for something that happened to one of my ancestors hundreds of years ago?

I guess that maybe I'm jumping ahead now, though. For the record, the name is Jack Russell (no terrier jokes, please), and I've got a little problem. Ever since my eighteenth birthday, the moon and me have had some pretty tough arguments. In case you didn't know, I'm a werewolf. That's right, fur, fangs, and all that. The curse started with my ancestor Grigori back in the eighteenth century, resulting from his bite by a lycanthrope in the wild forests of Romania. Sucks to be a Russell, let me tell you. My dear ol' dad knew this, seeing as how he was cursed to become a howling beast during the three days of the full moon as well... guess he didn't tell me out of fear. Oh well, I wouldn't have listened to him anyway.

The curse hit on my eighteenth birthday, and it scared me and my sis Lissa to death. Dad died in Europe shortly after and my mom ran to America. For a while my homicidal step-dad wanted to put me out of my misery, but I was having too much fun being a Teen-Wolf wannabe. I'd go out on the town and have a few fights with the spandex circuit, wake up the next morning, and remember how cool it was to hang out with Spider-Man. Little did I know that the curse was about to put a strangle hold on my life that I still to this day haven't rid myself of.

I don't do the super-hero thing anymore, seeing as how I can't control the beast once it's out of the gate. Sure, I can turn into the wolf any time I want and still think for myself... it's those full moons that destroy me. I turn at nightfall and wake up three days later with little to no memory of what I've done. That's why I'm here, sequestered in the wilds of Washington State. Nobody to kill out here but other animals... which is exactly what I've become. I still wake up every morning, though, afraid that my little secret world is gonna come crashing down on top of me. But what do I have to worry about?

Other than life itself, of course.

The light of day brought recognition to Jack's weary face, signaling that another lonely period of solitude amongst the dead forest awaited him. He stretched and yawned, thankful that the full moon wouldn't be hitting for a few more weeks. He couldn't stand himself when he wasn't in control, but he'd long given up his search for a cure. He was trapped, and there was nothing he could do about it.

The air was cold, but he had gotten used to it after a few months of living in the cabin. He hadn't lost track of time, though. The cycle of the moon had kept him current; it was what he lived by in his current mental state.

The game wasn't scarce, either. He had plenty of food to hunt for while the wolf was dominant, and he never went hungry. Nature took care of that for him, seeing as how he was more or less a predator. Jack went about his usual morning routine, unaware that his peaceful little existence was about to end.

The hunter had been tracking the beast through the forest, hoping to find the lair. He had been sent by a man that professed to know more than he could tell, a man with infinite resources and money. He claimed to know the hunted intimately, even calling it by its given name. The hunter didn't care about these things, though. All he cared about was the prey... and the consequential conquest that he knew would be his.

The beast hadn't even attempted to hide its tracks, he noticed. It was secure in the thoughts of its seclusion. The hunter reached around to his backpack and removed the picture of his quarry.

"I don't care if you do look like a man," he muttered to himself, "you're just another animal to me." With that, he returned the photo to its rightful place and set forth, confident that he would reach Jack Russell within a few hours.

Why did I keep looking? I spent the better part of my life looking for a cure and look where it got me... sitting on a bench in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes I feel like eating a bullet, a nice shiny SILVER one. But then the world would be without my charm.

Jack shifted his head; the sun was directly above him now. How did he always seem to lose track of daylight? He shrugged to himself and went on with his woodcarving. He'd picked it up rather easily, simply because if he didn't have a hobby he'd have gone insane. Jack laughed to himself... like he wasn't crazy already.

"Next thing you know I'll be talking to myself," Jack said as loudly as he could. It wasn't as if someone would hear him, there wasn't another person for miles.

A few ridges over, the hunter's head shot to the sky upon hearing another man's voice. The prey was close, and it would soon be time to put his skills to work yet again.

Roberto Stolanetti sat in his office, which was set squarely in the downtown district of Wall Street. The years he had spent serving as an assistant to the wealthy had paid off, giving him the reputation as a man that could get any task done no matter the cost. This reputation had brought him to the attention of a former employer, one that had held a secret few men lived to remember.

He looked down at the file in front of him, which was loaded with photos and information on Jack Russell. He knew his hunter would find the recluse, and he had given him orders to shoot on sight after delivering the message. He also knew that the hunter would fail, no man could kill a lycanthrope with conventional means. Of course, Stolanetti had withheld any information about Jack's curse from his messenger. The delivery of the note was what mattered, and he was fully aware that the hunter would die in those woods. That was Stolanetti's way of getting rid of evidence, leave no one alive that wasn't part of the plot.

He smiled to himself, confident that his former employer's wishes would be met. The will had stated in very certain terms that the son was required to attend the funeral... and Stolanetti was sure he would be.

Jack finished his carving, one of a wolf baying at the moon. He looked at in disgust until finally throwing it into the fire he had built. The lycanthrope within was influencing him more and more lately, and he wondered how long his sanity had left.

Suddenly, a hail of bullets tore through the landscape around him. Jack jumped from his position and immediately sought cover, not knowing whether the assailant was firing silver or not. The assault lasted a few moments more before ceasing, leaving Jack hiding behind his cover.

The hunter was pleased. He had used his vantage point well, not intending to kill Jack right away. The game was on now, and he hoped Russell wouldn't disappoint.

Back at the cabin, Jack examined one of the bullets that had hit near him. No silver, so evidently whoever it is must not know what I am. Too bad for him.

The hunter was making his way down the slope when he heard a sound that made him stop dead in his tracks. He wasn't able to see Russell from his position, but the sounds coming from the cabin were strange. A scream, slowly transforming into a howl, followed by the sounds of snapping bones and ripping flesh. A chill ran through the hunter, who now wished he'd pressed Stolanetti for a little more information.

He dropped his rifle, opting for two 9mm pistols that would stop a man in his tracks with one shot. The sun had started to make its decent behind the trees, and he cursed himself for taking so long to reach the cabin. Russell would have an advantage, with knowledge about the terrain that the hunter didn't have. He continued his way down the slope, thinking that he could have hit Jack accidentally with his opening barrage. That would explain the screams, after all.

The hunter reached the cabin within minutes, but Russell was nowhere to be found. He steeled his nerves, and with a swift motion kicked open the cabin door. The cabin, which in essence was one big room, was draped in shadow and darkness. The hunter surveyed the room, finally stopping at a dark corner.

"Jack Russell!" the hunter yelled.

"I don't know who you are or why you're here," an inhuman voice responded from the shadowy corner, "but I also don't really care." Jack stepped into the light, now fully transformed into his werewolf state. The hunter recoiled in fear, shocked at the creature's size. He threw himself back while emptying both clips into the wolf's chest.

"Forgot the silver," Jack replied with a toothy grin.

The hunter attempted to make it out the door, but the werewolf had already pounced. He landed with a thud on the man's back, snapping the hunter's spine in two.

The hunter coughed up blood as he was turned over onto his back. Russell had returned to his human form, but the man was in no condition to offer resistance.

"Now why are you here?" Jack asked as he searched through the hunter's pockets. He came across the photos and files the hunter had procured on him, followed by a miniature tape-recorder.

"You just found it," the hunter said weakly before his body gave up the fight for life. Jack sat down on the man's corpse and pushed the play button on the recorder.

"Mr. Jack Russell, your presence has been requested to attend the funeral of one Mr. Alexander Rossoff, your father, in Brooklyn, New York. Upon arrival you will be apprised of your father's last will and testament, in which your name is exclusively mentioned. The funeral will be at St. Germania's Cemetery at midnight tomorrow. I look forward to seeing you in attendance."

There has to be a mistake. There's no way this could be happening. My dad can't be having a funeral, not now. This is impossible... my father died years ago.

Next Issue: Jack returns to the urban jungle of New York to attend his father's funeral, only to find that the dearly departed led a life kept secret from his son. Reflections, reunions, and other worldly mourners abound in next month's issue of Werewolf By Night!