Lycanthropy, pronounced lI-'kan(t)-thrO-pE. According to Webster's Dictionary, the term comes from the Greek word lykanthropia and is defined as a delusion that one has become a wolf.

The word was first used in 1594, coined by Reginald Scot in his book, appropriately titled The Discovery of Witchcraft. According to him, the term denoted an "extreme form of violent insanity in which the individual may imitate the behavior of a wild beast, especially a wolf". Such a declaration naturally incurred the wrath of the Inquisition, fully in power at this time, as Scot argued against the Church's stance on torture to punish accused witches and werewolves. Scot's definition of lycanthropy is more or less the same used by modern mental health professionals today.

As one such professional, this definition of lycanthropy is the one I subscribed to. The thought that one could physically become the Hollywood stereotype of the "werewolf" was ludicrous, a myth from the days of fear and medieval times. My clinical mind had never once been challenged, even in a world filled with thunder gods and web-slinging super heroes.

Until the day he was admitted into my hospital.

We didn't know who he was when the police admitted him, but would it have mattered if we had? All we knew was that he needed help, a lost soul without memories and barely able to speak, having been exposed to the harsh Colorado wilderness for lord knows how long.

How were we to know his delusions were true? How could we have known that he really was a...

For Mature Readers Only

#7
August '03

Strange Tales Presents

Werewolf by Night

Drop the Leash
Part One of Four

Written by Chris Munn

"So what's the story with the newcomer?"

"Well," Nurse Ankers replied as the two of us walked down the hall, "the state police brought him in at about 5 this morning. He was found by a Parks and Wildlife Official, digging through the trash of a remote outpost deep in the woods. They had to tranquilize him."

"I see," the file told me the same thing she was telling me. That's how I preferred things though, to hear the human explanation instead of reading it in a cold report. How naïve I was then.

"Didn't have a stitch of clothing on him, was almost frozen from the snow storm that hit last week. He's lucky he didn't die from exposure."

"So, he doesn't have a name yet?" I asked, even though I presumed to already know the answer.

"The cops are running his fingerprints through their database, but aren't expecting much. According to them, the tips of his fingers had the skin missing, almost like he...chewed them off. The orderlies have taken to calling him Lawrence."

"Lawrence?"

"As in Lawrence Talbot...the Wolfman."

I snickered as I wrapped my fingers around the door handle and twisted my wrist. Nurse Ankers rolled her eyes at me and smiled, having clued me in on why I had been requested to observe the man. I'd spent a lot of time researching things such as this, the so-called unexplainable. Of course, everything could be explained. Just took some effort.

"Hello there, I'm Dr. Walter Zevon. I would address you by your name, but you didn't seem to have any identification on you when you were found."

He was curled up in a sitting fetal position on the couch, a white gown covering his body. His brownish-blonde hair hung in strands in front of his face, clean for probably the first time in weeks. Standard procedure for any new patient, to have them stripped (though that obviously wasn't needed in this case), bathed, and dressed in the hospital attire. According to the report, "Mr. Talbot" had ripped the ear off one of the orderlies with his teeth during the bathing process.

"I don't have a name," he muttered through the drapery of hair, "not anymore."

"I don't think you remember, do you?" I asked, confident that I could help this man. Again, how naïve.

"I remember...I remember being chased. The ghost...the ghost tried to help me. The fire and the blood. Those are my memories."

"That's the last thing you remember? A ghost?"

"Yes, and then I woke up here. Restrained."

"What's the last date you remember?"

"December 30th."

"Today is January 23rd," I related to him, "you've been wandering the woods for almost a month? How did you survive?"

"I told you," he stated with a growl, "I don't remember."

"It's okay, I'm going to try and help you. Sometimes this type of thing happens to people after a traumatic event, it's called a fugue. The mind enters a repressed state, essentially forgetting everything about the person's previous life. People diagnosed with this usually come out of it okay, though you're going to need help."

"January 28th," he mumbled.

"Something significant to you, concerning that date?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

"January 28th," he repeated through a, dare I say it, "wolfish" grin, "you're going to want to stay very far away from me."

A Dr. Mary Matossian, a professor of history at the University of Maryland, had her own theory pertaining to lycanthropy. Her research led her to a fungus called ergot that grows on rye plants and when ingested acts as a type of hallucinogen, much like today's LSD. A widespread epidemic in France between 1520 and 1630 caused by ergot gave over 30,000 people "bad trips", to which Dr. Matossian explains as being the reasons for the myths of werewolves, witches, and vampires. Because ergot was an unknown factor in these cases, the affected were tried as demonic creatures due to the chemically enhanced behavior they exhibited.

I sat in my office throughout the night, researching anything that might have pertained to the stranger's case. In almost every case of documented modern lycanthropy, the subject had been treated with anti-psychotic drugs in order to cure the schizophrenia with which they were afflicted. Some cases though, to my amazement, defied any known explanation.

In 1992, a biker gang called the Braineaters terrorized the West Coast, murdering innocent people and consuming their flesh. One such massacre occurred at a drive-in in up state California, resulting in eighty-five people dead. Their tour of murder stopped shortly after, with no documented record of how or why.

A report from a soldier stationed at Hahn Airforce Base in Morbach, Germany claimed that a shrine just outside of the town contained a candle that always burned. The local legend stated that if said candle ever went out, a werewolf that once terrorized their village would return. Two security officers at the Airforce base noticed the candle was out during a walk home. Perimeter alarms sounded later that night, where a "huge, dog-like" animal stood up on its back legs and jumped over the eight-foot fence. That was in 1988.

I could hear Lawrence's howling, even from the other side of the hospital. The sound was soothing for some reason, eventually putting me to sleep in the office, the couch comforting me the way it had so many other work filled nights.

*Knock, Knock*

"Dr. Zevon?"

"What is it, Nurse Ankers?" I asked through messed up hair and crusted eyes, my back facing her as I rolled over on the couch.

"Salinger's been asking for you all morning, says it's important."

"Tell him I'll be there in ten."

"What can I do for you, Greg?"

"Dr. Zevon, you have to let me out of here!"

I sighed as Greg Salinger gesticulated his pleas for release, the third time that month he'd tried to convince me that he was sane. I knew for a fact that the man was far from it, but it seemed to keep him calm when I let him go through the motions. Keeping Salinger calm was important; he didn't take being turned down well.

"Now Greg, how can I know for sure that you're as rehabilitated as you say you are?" I asked with a smile. "What's to stop you from all that 'foolkilling' nonsense if I let you go?"

"That doesn't have anything to do with it!" he exclaimed, arms waving above his head. "I'm scared, man!"

"Scared? What are you scared of, Greg?"

"The new guy, the one the cops brought in yesterday," he whispered to me, "he's not human. He's a monster."

"Now Greg, I will admit that he's a very interesting individual...but he's far from being a monster."

"He was up all last night howling, Dr. Zevon! You've got to let me out of here, this monster's gonna kill us all!" His voice had returned to the shouting volume that he always seemed to maintain, no matter the conversation.

"I'll have a talk with Lawrence, get to the bottom of this," I said as I made my way out the door. "Don't worry about it."

"Only a fool would ignore what he is, Doctor, and you know what I do to them..."

"Little old lady got mutilated late last night..."

"Excuse me?"

"Werewolves of London again."

Our first discussion of the day, and Lawrence had already begun talking in riddles. The atmosphere, at least, had lost some of the tension that I'd noticed during our first meeting. One thing a psychologist picks up with time is how to read their patients' eyes. Large dilated pupils are a sign of mania and/or paranoia, and while his eyes had fallen into that category the day before, he exhibited much different symptoms that day. The eyes were cold, like malice aforethought.

"Let's talk about your hands," I said in a vain attempt to jumpstart any spark of memory.

"What about 'em?"

"Well, I see you removed the bandages. Can you remember what caused the injuries to your fingertips?"

"What injuries?" he asked as he held his hands up to my shocked face. The fingertips that had been nothing but bloody stumps just the day before were now completely healed. The smirk was still ever present on his face, almost as if shocking me had been his entire reason for chewing off his fingers. I quickly collected myself...doctors weren't supposed to be shocked or surprised by anything, it lessens our credibility.

"You did that to yourself, didn't you...chewing off the fingertips," I asked slowly, though I already knew the answer.

"You're the shrink," was the reply, "you tell me."

"God damn it!"

Looking back at it, I was probably a little more upset than I should have been. I threw things, probably scared the hell out of Nurse Ankers. It had been all I could I do not to loose my temper in front of Lawrence, but he infuriated me to no end. How could I help him if he refused to let me?

"I'm sorry, Evelyn."

"It's okay, Doctor," she said slowly, using her voice and a small touch on the shoulder to calm me down, "it happens to the best of us. This is an incredibly hard job, remember that." Evelyn Ankers was my second in command, making sure things ran smoothly from day to day. She was about 5'7'', short blonde hair, and a great ass. There was an ongoing contest amongst the orderlies concerning who could sleep with her first. All I'd managed so far were a few handjobs in my office. But that's neither here nor there, I suppose.

"I want to run a test," I told her after I collected myself, "put Lawrence into the populace during recreation time today. Then let Salinger into the room."

"Dr. Zevon...are you sure that's a good idea?"

"For the four weeks that Greg's been a patient here, he's never once shown any kind of intimidation from another inmate. Something about Lawrence scared him, and I want to know why."

Mental hospitals have received a bum rap in Hollywood. The movie 12 Monkeys had Brad Pitt and Bruce Willis in a run-down asylum that looked like it'd come from the 18th century, what with the cold stone walls and white interiors. The reality is that most mental health facilities don't look much different than a standard class hotel, inviting and thankfully roach-free. The recreation room was the nicest place in the building, what with televisions, couches, and other games strung out in the expansive area. I sat in the far corner of the room that night, with my notepad out and a studious look on my face. The orderlies had brought Lawrence in first, and for a half an hour he did nothing but sit alone on a couch with his eyes locked on the television.

He apparently enjoyed Fraiser quite a bit.

Salinger was brought in a little while later, after I'd had a chance to observe Lawrence in the setting. Greg was his normal exuberant self as he was escorted in, but quickly shut up once he saw the stranger sitting on the couch. Salinger was a nice guy, unassuming for all intents and purposes. That's not particularly strange for a serial killer, though, as quite a few are able to hold down families and stable jobs while they kill. Greg Salinger had no family that we aware of, having been sent to us after a rather peculiar incident in New York City, where he'd been apprehended by a group of super-heroes.

There was one thing I'd learned rather quickly about him, though. Always watch what you say, and never come off sounding stupid. Greg had a deep seated hatred for people he deemed as "fools", so much so that he had taken up an alternate identity called the "Foolkiller" and went around executing those he decided were too stupid to live. He was caught eventually, after trying to kill Spider-Man, but had successfully managed to escape incarceration a few years later. This was his second time in a mental hospital, and he didn't seem to care for the experience.

Greg took a seat behind Lawrence, obviously uncomfortable about being in the same room with the "howler", as he affectionately called him. Salinger was constantly on watch by the guards, seeing as how he was the most dangerous patient here. Perhaps that's why he felt threatened by the newcomer? Maybe something about him had convinced Greg that he was no longer the most dangerous?

They sat in silence for about an hour, practically the only people in the room not speaking. The other patients buzzed around them, doing various things to keep themselves entertained, while Lawrence continued to watch the television. Salinger pretended to watch along, although I could tell he was staring at the back of the other patient's head. I began to think the two would sit there all night, but I shouldn't have doubted Greg's psychosis.

He shot from his seat like a bullet, throwing himself over the couch as he tackled Lawrence to the floor. The orderlies were on the move with me as soon as it happened, but the other patients decided to take that moment and turn it into a breakdown frenzy, effectively stopping us in our tracks. I could see the two fighting on the other side of the crowd, going at it like two wild animals. It was frightening, to say the least. I knew Salinger claimed to have enhanced strength, but if that was true it certainly wasn't helping him much.

I managed to break through right as the howling started. Salinger flew over my head, his face on the receiving end of the back of Lawrence's fist. It was amazing, seeing the craziest of the crazies taken down like he was a small child. My amazement ended as soon as I looked at Lawrence, who was all drool and blood...most of it not his own. The howls continued to erupt from his throat as the orderlies jumped him, and the four managed to take him down. The look in his eyes as injected the sedative into his restrained arm still haunts me to this day.

As they helped him to his feet, I could see Salinger's shock in what had just happened. He was shaking, rubbing the blood away from his face as the tears came down from his eyes. He kept muttering the word "fool", over and over and over. I'm pretty sure he was referring to himself.

"What the hell was that all about?" I asked as I helped escort Greg to his room. He had to be carried, like he was too scared to make his legs work anymore.

"He's evil, a sinner," he whispered to me, "I had to try. But I failed. Now we're all going to die."

"That's an interesting thing to say, Greg."

"Look in his eyes, Dr. Zevon," he said as the orderly strapped him to his bed, "eyes of a killer."

"Fucking Hell," were the only words I could spew out as I walked back to my office. I could hear the phone ringing from the other end of the hall, which struck me as really odd.

"Nurse Ankers?" I asked as I entered the office, now wondering where the hell everyone had went. I looked at the clock and slapped my forehead, realizing that everyone was doing his or her rounds on other floors. I'd lost track of time during the commotion. A few seconds later, I realized the phone was still ringing.

"Silver State Sanitarium," I answered into the receiver, "Dr. Zevon speaking."

"Dr. Zevon," a deep, obviously male, voice replied, "this is Sheriff Kaplan, I'm calling from the station."

"What can I do for you, Sheriff?"

"I just wanted to check up on the guy we brought in the other morning, see how he's doing. We ran what was left of his fingerprints through the NCIC database, but didn't have enough for a match. He gave you any information on his identity?"

"I'm afraid not." My eyes caught a glimpse of a pill bottle on my desk.

"Well, I need you to try and spur his memories a little. We've got a situation."

Before I knew it, the bottle was in my hand, the lid popped off.

"We found something in the woods. Someone dug a hole. We're still pulling out bodies."

Valium.

"I want to question the guy. Tomorrow."

"Sure thing." The pills slid down my throat like candy.

As I cradled the phone, my mind kept going back to what Salinger said to me in his room.

"The eyes of a killer."

Next Issue: More psychotic episodes, less exposition. Time to bring on the carnage...

WEREMAIL BY NIGHT

Some of you may be thinking that this issue seems reeeeaaaallly familiar. Well, uh, yeah, that's because it is. This was the first issue of an arc I did for MV1's Werewolf by Night title, but for various reasons the story never got finished. So, I've reworked the story to fit here at Startling. Please enjoy. :-)

~ Chris Munn
07/29/03