To Those Who Follow After

Word Count: 694



October 18, 1908



To Those Who  Follow After Me,



It has been a terrible burden to bear, alone and without support.  But if you’re reading this letter, the time has come to share my secret.



I was born in England in 1857, and even as a young lad I knew I wanted more for my life that the daily drudge of my father.  I worked hard soon earned my passage, home and to Canada.



I heard about the gold strikes in the Yukon, and decided to try my luck at prospecting.  After a grueling journey of nearly eleven months, I arrived to find a settlement consisting of saloons, gambling houses and brothels.  And I changed career paths and chose law enforcement instead. 



There was much more territory than officers to police it.  We each had large patches of wilderness to cover. Patrolling was arduous and often I would be alone for weeks, or months at a time.



Winter comes early in the Yukon, and by mid October there was already several feet of snow.  I traveled by dog sled and had gradually built up a good, team of dogs. And, because I was alone, I would often find myself talking to them as if they were people.



I had pitched camp at the edge of a thick forest.  A snowstorm blew in, and I knew it would be better to stay where I was until the storm had passed.



I needed to gather as much firewood as I could before it was buried by more snow, and ignored the lateness of the day. But I had started my fire, and kept track of where camp was as I went in search of more wood.



I should have been worried, but I wasn’t.  I should have noticed the dogs—how they sniffed the air, and pulled on their leads.  But I didn’t. 



The only noise was the soft sound of snow piling on top of snow, and the occasional creak of tree branches.  It was dark and the sky was filled with those curdled milk snow clouds.  I returned with an armful of wood.  The dogs were twitchy, and one had begun crying out in an ear-piercing whine.  And still I didn’t notice.



The clouds suddenly parted, bathing the snow in an eerie glow from the full moon, shining, yellow white in the grayed sky.  The hairs on the back of my neck rose, and tingles ran down my spine.  I could feel it looking at me, even before I turned and saw it.



I moved towards my rifle, but it was too late.  It was upon me—it’s teeth sinking deeply into my calf.  The pain was excruciating, and the grayness went black…



I don’t know how long I was unconscious.  It was morning and had stopped snowing.  My camp had been destroyed.  All my food was missing, the tent was in tatters and the dogs were gone.  But the snow was soaked in blood. 



I bandaged my leg, and tried to think.  Luckily the fire was still smoldering and there was still a supply of wood.  And while I was not at all hungry, I was inexplicably thirsty. After awhile I fell asleep.



When I woke the full moon was rising slowly in the black velvet sky.  I felt a bit strange, but wasn’t worried.  My wound didn’t seem as bad as I had first thought, and had decided to start walking in the morning.



But the higher the moon rose, the stranger I felt.  And then it happened.  I stood, lifted my head to the sky and howled at the moon.  It was then I knew.  I had eaten the dogs.  I had ripped into the packs and tent.



At last I understood.  I, Sargent Preston, had been bitten by a werewolf.  I had become a werewolf.



This was why I never returned to your great-great-grandmother, why I could never return to civilization. 



I end this with a warning…never let yourself be caught out in the woods on a night with a full moon.  It is not worth the risk of becoming this…thing that I’ve become.





Sargent Preston of the Yukon