Journal of Frights

         Midnight. Snow was falling and a terrible wind rushed about, stinging the faces of those in its path. The moon engulfed the horizon and a few thin clouds floated by from time to time. That night, I walked the trail; the trail that so many great writers walked when in need of inspiration. What a night for such.
         Whitened trees on either side, I walked alone, pencil and journal in hand. The moon watched on as I inhaled the inspiration of the night. Those trees, they look like hands; the clouds, like horrible ghosts searching for a soul to haunt. It seemed that the night would bring me an endless flow of ideas, all of which were worthy of being included in my new writing, Journal of Frights.
         As the first half of the woods came to an end, a white void of a hill would be my next travel. I felt naked, fully uncovered, much to the moon’s delight. This was the least inspirational of my encounters that night.
         As I entered the second half of the woods, a terrible fear came over me. I wanted to write it down, but I could not and cannot describe it. Maybe you feel it sometimes if you wake up in the middle of the night. You don’t hear any sounds or see any shapes, you just become frightened; you can’t help but turn on the light for a few minutes until you become too tired to keep your eyes open. That is how I felt the very moment that I entered the second wood. The moon was much higher now, and certainly no smaller. The wind became more violent, forcing my eyes to squint. The trees screeched out cries of friction. Beautiful. Horrendous. I knew that this night would give me more than enough inspiration to finish my most beloved work. Not far off I heard the howling of a wolf. This is unbelievable. This night is unfolding a story for me on its own! A second howling echoed nearby. A third. Each howl grew louder and closer. That’s odd.

         They were upon me just as I finished writing my thoughts of the horrific howls that surrounded me. Four bear-like wolves took turns in ripping away at my skin, never taking from the flesh beneath. My screaming only made them more ravenous. After tossing me over and ripping the skin from my entire backside, the wolves retreated to the wood, leaving me skinless on the path.
         I awoke the next morning in a cave: a dark, damp cave with the smell of rotten road kill. I heard a pesky fly, buzzing around me. I felt it land on my nose and attempted to swipe it away. Who’s there? I shouted as something hairy brushed up against my nose. I stumbled backwards and saw a light off to my far right. I stumbled as quickly as I could in order to get out of this horrific cave. Just as I reached the exit to the light, however, I saw that it was too late; two large, hairy arms were at my sides, waiting to wrench me back into the cave.
         It can’t be. It’s…me? How? The two large arms never took me in. Rather, they mimicked my every swing of my own arms. In fact, I came to realize, they were my arms. The memory of the night before flashed vividly in my mind. So this is the truth about werewolves? The truth of the events became clear to me. The wolves. The reason they didn’t tear me to pieces, the reason they only took my skin was because they were making me one of them!
         You see, the truth of the werewolves, as I have come to know it, is much different than that of the “fairy tale” werewolves. The saliva of their bite is what transforms you. However, they must shed you of the skin you once wore so that you may grow the garment of the wolves. Once you become one of them, you never turn back to your human form; rather, you keep the deepest desires that you had as a human.
         That is why I am telling this story. I pity the young man recording this (sorry, young man), but I am consumed with the need to get my work published. I saw this young man walking about our trail one night, talking into a recording device. At first my werewolf instinct kicked in, encouraging me to attack and devour this young man. But the desires of my heart rose above the instincts (as happens as long as the desires of your heart are stronger than those of your instincts). I took the frightened young man into my cave and forced him to record my story. It saddens me that I may no longer write stories in the proper manner (these claws make for poor writing instruments). It is because of this that I must take in humans of normal form to record my writings for me. It’s a shame that at the moment that my heart’s desire has seemingly been fulfilled, the instinct of the wolf acts out (for it is at this point that the power of the instinct becomes greater than that of the heart’s desires).

         “What do you make of it?” said a young officer, staring at the tape recorder.
         “It’s a bunch of rubbish! Some lunatic is all.” The detective shut the case file, put out his cigarette, and stood up to face the young officer. “What do I make of it? As if I could make anything else of it!
         “Yeah, but the body…it was…
         “I saw the pictures! I know what the body was like!”
         “And the tape…it was found in a cave! Just as that thing said!”
         “You better not believe in this fantasy!” The elder detective tucked the file under his arm and grabbed his keys from the table. “Son, nut jobs like him love to get under your skin.”


Word Count: 1001