Lycanthropy

Mrs. Wallace received the expected invitation that she swore she would not refuse again.

Christ knew her marital circumstances made her social life difficult for the past three years. Then there was the expense of constructing a den in an interior space which had been earmarked for quite another purpose - A sewing room, exercise spot, bondage Hideaway - at this point she could not recall which.

Instead the den, aptly named, became a persistent thorn in her side since the inception but no other solution seem possible short of a well-placed silver bullet.

Horace did have to insist on his boy’s hunting trip each year. Frankly it would’ve been simpler if he had actually gone boy hunting instead of traipsing off with his pals only to return the sole survivor of the group.

Horace had no memory of the day of the attack although the scars that could be seen when he stripped to the buff made it clear that no one had been playing snap the towel.

Tricia Wallace stopped having her monthlies and Horace began having his.

She went to the den, took out her key and unlocked the innocent looking oak door behind which was the thick steel number with the sliding peephole and at the bottom the space to push through a pie tin of feed. No use sending in utensils. When Horace was having one of his spells he mainly ate his with his fingers or directly muzzle to the dish.

The sink and commode has been installed along with steel plating to prevent breakouts but unfortunately the hygienic facilities were wishful thinking. The steel was covered with sound deadening panels which helped but we’re not perfect.

The week before the three bad days were, it must be said, sexually exhilarating. Lord knows, Horace otherwise had been a listless lover. During that time frame he was vigorous although the biting seem to be a bit much.

Plus he insisted on always approaching her from behind. And he howled.

During the worst of the three bad days her nerves tended to be jangled, but, she said to herself who’s wouldn’t be. After it was over he could go back to being the Wolf of Wall Street.

She thought once again that she was going to miss the social event of the season, The Harvest Moon Ball.The last two years she ground her teeth and made up excuses. Two years ago she invented a dying relative and last year it was a sudden business emergency. She knew it would not wash again and Tricia was damned if she would go solo. That would only intensify the rumors that had been floating around since Horace was discovered, the only survivor of - what?

She began to look into ways of reversing this horror since she was forced to recognize his monthly transformations.

Horace was found more dead than alive, barricaded in the basement of the hunting lodge where he and his buddies had been passing their time drinking and telling lies about the size of their portfolios and their members. The dogs sniffed him out or rather had apparently gone berserk when, they picked up his scent. The floorboards were ripped up and Horace extricated more dead than alive.

What the story was he could not say. He profess to having no memory of the attack. The cops took photos of the wounds and hunting parties were dispatched to look for wolves, wild dogs or other savage beasts but found nothing conclusive.

Horace remained in the hospital for a few weeks and then return home where he was served intensive rehabilitation for an extended period. The remains of his hunting crew were transported back in sealed containers. Thank God for genetic testing and for closed coffin ceremonies.

The changes, when they began, were gradual. At first there was just snappishness and ill humor around the time of the full moon. Next, shagginess and a disinterest in personal hygiene. Then her husband, who had always been a steak medium well man, started demanding them cold and blue in the center. Finally, late one evening, he went missing and she discovered him in the adjunct kitchen freezer, gnawing on a frozen rib roast that had been earmarked for an upcoming dinner party.

The recognition however came too late for their prize pug Max, his bloodied collar discovered under Horace’s bed.

At least her husband recognized the changes and knew what they suggested. He agreed with precautions to be taken for the safety of the neighbors, staff and family. It was evidently too late for poor Max.

After the first three days, when he emerged from his den looking chastened and exhausted, she went in herself to sweep up the debris. Many of the soundproofing panels were scarred or ripped from the steel plates and even the steel itself showed dents. The furniture, such as it was after the first really bad time was so mauled that it seemed useless to replace. Instead cheap pillows formed the floor covering.

As for the bathroom conveniences, let us just say that when the moon was full Horace did not know what they were for. He apparently sprayed at will and left himself unwashed and unwiped.

Poor Horace looked so exhausted however that she hadn’t the heart to have him clean up his own mess. She was too embarrassed to ask Maria, the live-
in , to do it. Therefore she also did not wish to bring in an outside cleaning service. The rumor mill would be working at full tilt if she let strangers see that reeking room.

Horace would emerge haggard, with broken nails and matted hair. The saving grace was that he healed so quickly after plunging into a hot bath and changing the water at least twice, he’s soaked off the filth shaved himself and scrubbed and shaved he crawled into a warm bed for and slept around the clock. After this he was able to go back to work.

They had to dance about the 4 to 5 day period out of 28 but after time his staff began to understand and accept his pattern. One of his more literary employees read about Faulkner’s binges and the rumor spread that Horace fell off the water wagon once a month and otherwise he was teatotal. This theory was a convenience that she did not attempt to deny.

She and Horace surreptitiously explored the occult to find some way to explain and reverse the horrific that entered their lives and were met by a parade of psychics, psychos and sucker seducers that gravitated around an American population ripe for plundering. It wasn’t just the religious who are out there separating the public from its coin. Con artist of all stripes had their sheep shearing tool sharpened for the would-be witches, abduction weirdos ( why oh why is it always anal probing?) and other true believers. Mrs. Wallace sometimes felt ashamed to be an American in the 21st-century.

By pure chance she saw a reference to Dr. Barlow on an obscure Internet site and at first she was ready to count him among the victimizers, but search of his bona fides let her to regard the good man as someone to study.

Dr. Lawrence Barlow concluded that the victims of a Lycanthrope rarely survived an attack as for example Ted, Sam and Barry. They all ended in pieces, the choicest parts apparently devoured with relish. Horace probably benefited from the cowardice which sent him howling with fright and crapping his pants to hide in the basement. The few survivors, Dr. Barlow postulated, from the progressive effects of their symptoms, acted as if the lycanthropy wasn’t a curse but a contagion. He guessed that saliva from another infected party inoculated the victim and after an incubation period in the absence of immunity would begin to develop ever increasing symptoms. Dr. Barlow was searching for a victim on whom he might run tests. The mere musing of this in a public forum had the unfortunate effects of cursing the poor doctor with the mark of Cain. Despite appropriate degrees and fellowships he began to be known as Dr. werewolf, Professor Wolfman and Larry the Lycanthrope lover. He left the university of Iowa under a cloud and established an inner city practice doing good work for an underserved population but maintained his hope of some day finding a willing subject

After some debate the Wallace’s declared they were going on holiday to Rio and instead went to the Rio of the Midwest, Des Moines. When ushered into Dr. Barlow‘s presence he asked them why they had not filled in the medical history form. Their reply made Barlow shut up like a clam. Apparently he, on several occasions had visitors from investigators from the Iowa Board of medical examiners, fraternity practical jokers and various television programs of the punk’d variety.

it took all the Wallaces’considerable charm plus copies of newspaper accounts, pictures of the den before and after the 72 hour event and the construction bills for the new room to convince the doctor that he was not dealing with investigators, jokers or nuts.

He rose convinced and asked if they could stay on for several days. After consulting the calendar for moon phases the doctor did an extensive physical examination and like the police took pictures of the scars. He then drew several vials of blood and took saliva samples. Plans were made for drawing blood daily and taking recurrent fluid samples to look for rising titers of infectious agents and hopefully for antibody levels indicating that there was some element of resistance to a virus or prion. He planned on doing assays of macro phages and lymphocytes particularly assessing helper and suppressors cells and assets of killer T cells. A proper plan had been formed. Mrs. Wallace selfishly thought of the harvest moon ball and her hopes rose once more.