The Lycanthrope by Peter Davis-Parker

I met Peter a few months ago through a mutual friend. His love for wolves and writings about them are facinating. You’ll see with this piece he wrote for us.

The Lycanthrope

I tried to kill myself today but this… affliction I have seems to make that a lot more difficult than I ever could have anticipated.
I am horrified it’s come to this. I always said my death was and is a last resort and even then I would have denied it.
The police refuse to arrest me because I “May” kill and the doctors refuse to lock me up. They tell me it’s because I am aware of my actions and the actions I may later commit but I am not sure I believe them.

I stare into the mirror as I take the last two pills on the strip, I lost track of what medicine I was taking two strips back.
I don’t want to die but I can’t turn into that thing. If I hurt someone the grief and self loathing would kill me. I hear the neighbour’s front door closing and see her headlights cast through my window. I look back and the wolf stares snarling at me through the mirror, I jump back a few feet and am overtaken by a strong wave of violent nauseousness. I dive to the toilet but at the last second close my mouth, swallowing it back. Did it do that on purpose? Did it make me sick to keep itself alive or just my mind’s drug addled vision of what I fear?
I can’t take the risk that the pills wont kill me and yet I fear the blade and the shot, That monster wont hesitate to kill.
I’ve felt it growing stronger the last three and a half weeks. Ever since I was bitten by a wolf in the wilds of Germany. I tried to deny it, even to myself, god how I tried to deny it to myself, but this last three days I have discovered real changes. I’m angrier, hungrier for red meat, I even catch myself physically prowling around the home. The world grows dark as the pills take me away. The last thing I hear is Cindy leaving for work. Thank god she wont be here, she’s safe. More than can be said for me…

The pain rips through me, bringing me back to consciousness. I thought it was over. I thought, I wished I was dead. I look outside through pain and tear filled eyes. I see the night sky, my bane, the silver goddess demanding her blood tribute. The pain doubles me over, causing me to vomit up the pills I took, it begins. I want to die.
I know everybody says the wolves revere the silver queen and that they aren’t said to kill for her, not just for her anyway. I wish that was true and maybe to some it is but I can feel it inside me and I can say this beast wants blood for the goddess.
My neck locks up as I try to turn away from the moon, why cant I turn my head?
I force myself up off of the couch and drag myself toward the kitchen, a knife, I need a knife while my mind is my own.
The next wave hits me, breaking my jumbled thoughts and bringing me to my knees, I struggle to stand when I feel a pop in my calves.
My heart seizes in my chest and my fight against the beast abruptly ceases.
I reach for the draw but my wrists lock up, my hands locking as though a claw or talon, no longer able to grip or touch.
My anger knows no limits, why? Why such rage?
My head splits with pain, the pressure builds behind my eyes, I collapse, no longer capable of coherent thought.
I try to look around but my body refuses to comply.
I feel the wolf, it’s rage and then it happens, the beast rises up inside my human flesh, hunched over and stalking about the room, trying to explore it’s new found territory. Looking for a way to expand it.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror on the wall for all of a second and whatever humanity I may have left I feel shatters. The neighbour’s cat jumps on the windowsill and immediately hisses at me, it’s usually so nice toward me the instincts of the beast take over. In one fluid move I turn and grab it by the throat, snapping it’s neck I pull it up and sniff it’s corpse, savouring the scent of the primal fear of the small prey.
I grip the once pet in my jaws, ready to feast on the lithe flesh when I hear Cindy pull up and say goodnight to her friend who then proceeds to drive off.

It knows… I know she is a better tribute to the silver goddess. I charge at the door, scratching at the handle in vain and thrash wildly till my hand print in blood marks it. I turn and head for the window and climb out on all fours.
I can smell her scent, her perfume that wafted through my window, all around driving me wild. I stalk around the building looking for a way in. The wolf’s instincts taking over completely HE finds a way, an open window around the back.
I scratch at the front door and kick over a dustbin, running around the back as soon as I hear her footsteps approaching the door. I must admit to myself but this preternatural speed thing in the movies is real. My body is controlled by the wolf, I am but a prisoner in a glass jar inside my own head along for the ride. I climb through the window into a dark, damp room. Even with slightly enhanced night sight it is dark, and the smell of new, musty smelling potatoes fills my nostrils. I’m in the walk in larder. I creep through the room and listen at the door, I sigh in my head as I find it open just a crack. I hear her mutter a curse or two under her breath as she closes the front door and a solitary creak as she pads up the stairs. I know that creak, had stepped on that stair enough times before. I skulk up after her, the wolf following a different set of instincts; my blood boils as though my veins full of fire. My thoughts are now full of blood, death, and hunger. Not just the hunger for meat, but for something much deeper, a much older hunger.
Oh god, oh dear God No!!! Not her. I never pray but God if you ever existed, ever heard a person hear me now. Please don’t let me, no It, hurt her, please Anybody but her.
I hear the water running in the bath but her shadow moving my way stops me in my tracks, she turns before she can see me, stepping into her bedroom momentarily looking for something only she knows what, I reach the landing just as she leaves the room, a hair’s length from me in a pair of pink panties and a partially buttoned blouse. I reach out toward her but with a herculean effort I restrain the wolf and pull my hand away. She pads off into the bathroom unaware of just how close she came to being a victim, how close she was to death… or worse.
I follow her, silent as the shadow into the bathroom with her, I see the mirror before me and it distracts me, round and though already fogged a part of me is drawn to it as the light cast into it resembles the full moon outside and my focus away from her. A part that I am grateful too. I sadly loose that newly found focus as her blouse hits me in the face.
“Oh John, what are you doing in here? In my bathroom? You have to leave” the wolf looks at her hungrily and a sound akin to arousal escapes from it’s mouth as it stares down at her breasts. She slaps me in abject disgust and the attack can no longer be restrained as any tenuous hold I may have had is lost. The beast, stunned by this sudden assault flies into a huge rage through my body growls low, lip curling right up on one side strikes, grabbing her by the throat and pushing her head under the water. I watch as her thrashing lessens, pulling her out and sniffing her near unconscious form. The perfume smell has lessened, washed away mostly by water, replaced with the strong scent of fear. I bite into her neck and no sooner than the blood trickles down to her breast does she wakes and rakes at my face with claws of her own, gouging deep valleys in my face, almost blinding me in her blood fuelled frenzied state. She pins me down under the sink chocking me, good, at least she will live, I will happily sacrifice my life for her, if that would ever let me.
I bite her arm and shove her back against her bath. She runs for the door, for the stairs… for safety from me but the wolf is maddened, almost rabid and no longer will it be denied it’s prey, not even by the strongest of my willpower, limited may it be.
I give chase and watch as she banks right for the stairs, I bound after her and my balance is thrown as she trips me. I tumble down them like a doll of blood and flesh and fire. I start to lose consciousness, my vision starting to fade as I see her descend them. The human part of me is out cold, only the wolf remains.

Cindy reaches the bottom and kicks her neighbour’s form gently, checking to see he’s really unconscious. She recedes back into the kitchen, feeling cautiously optimistic and checks her work cupboard by the back door, taking out a length of rope before heading towards the phone hanging from the wall. She quickly calls the police.
“Yes officer, I wish to report an intruder, my neighbour broke in and attacked me…” after a moment receiving instructions from the police she speaks again. “Yes officer I don’t have handcuffs but I have rope to tie him up. Please hurry, I fear they’ll not hold long”

The wolf in man’s flesh slams Cindy’s head against the wall and throws her across the room. It charges across at her, jamming it’s knee into her chest and pulling on her arm, biting deep, blood running free.

Cindy grabs the tea towel between trying to grab sparse, winded breaths and yanks it out from under the knife block, pulling it down, the knives skating across the floor. She picks up the largest one, her pain, her injuries from her assault are severe and she knows it. “John, please, please don’t make me…” he charges at her, she lifts the knife defensively, almost without thinking and is horrified by the soft squish she hears.
“Oh god, no. I… I didn’t mean to.” she collapses into a crying heap, cradling his head in her hands.

John wakes to find himself floating above his own body, a white light at his periphery brightens swiftly, getting closer and he knows. It’s the end, he’d smile if he had a face and lips but instead his heart brightens along with the growing light, his only sadness comes from seeing his body like this, the same thing he saw in the mirror, the thing that terrified Cindy in the bath reflections.

I’m become a twisted shell, a mockery of both man and wolf.
My eyes deeply sunk into their orbits, bloodshot with pupils all but completely dilated, are hooded by protruded brow ridges giving them a blackened appearance. The cartilage in my nose must have snapped forming a muzzle like appearance. My upper jaw protruding forward pulling my lips back over my canines to give me a perma-snarl.
The changes to my face pulls my head forward on my neck which gives a remarkably hunchback appearance. This of course coupled with the lithe hairy forearms ending in these clawed hands and my twisted legs where my calves sprained themselves in my transformation gives me the visage of a great bipedal wolf. A vision remarkably similar to the images from folklore. Are there real werewolves in the world at large or are the legends really just accounts of clinical lycanthropy misdiagnosed by primitive society unable to comprehend?

You can find Peter here:
Peter Davis-Parker Facebook


4 thoughts on “The Lycanthrope by Peter Davis-Parker

  1. THAT is one EXCELLENT piece of writing 🙂

  2. Great story, Peter. Loved the descriptive detail! Thanks for the share, Mari.

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