The Wolf of Dorian Gray - A Werewolf Spawned by the Evil of Man

by Brian S. Ference

  At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street, a woman passed him in the haze. She was wearing a mink coat and walking very quickly by with a heavy cowhide bag in her hand. Though blurry in the fog, he recognized the gait and dress of the woman. It could belong to none other than his estranged friend, Sage. Dorian made no sign of recognition but went hurriedly on in the direction of his own house, hoping he had not also been recognized in the gloom. But she had seen him. Her footsteps stopped on the pavement about a meter after they passed each other and then the sound turned and began hurrying after him. In a few moments her hand was on his arm.

  “Dorian! What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting for you in your library since nine o’clock. Finally I took pity on your valet and sent him home. He was anxious to begin his holiday this weekend. I am off to Paris myself, by the midnight train then ferry. I needed to see you before I left. Strange, I thought I had seen two shapes dressed in heavy fur coats as you passed me, but now I see that it was just you. Didn’t you recognize me?”

  “Not in this murk, Sage. Why, I can barely see my own hand right in front of my own face. I am sorry to hear that you are going away, I have not seen you for ages. I suppose you will be returning soon?”

  “No, I will be away from England for at least six months. I will be working in a small studio in Paris on a new great work that I have trapped in my head. But let us go inside and talk for a moment.”

  “I would be quite pleased to do so. But won’t you miss your train?”

  “I have at least an hour and I have already sent on ahead the majority of my luggage. All that I have with me is my bag.”

  “What an adventure. Come let us get out of this frigid fog and into the warmth of the house.”

  With that the two made their way quickly down the empty street and up the steps to Dorian’s door. They went inside and were greeted by the light of a pleasant fire and the lamps still lit. The two hung up their coats and Sage placed her bag in the corner. After they were seated, Dorian served the brandy-and-soda himself—now regretting allowing his valet to leave early on holiday. Sage spoke up immediately. “Now, Dorian I want to speak to you quite seriously.”

  He answered her in a petulant voice. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “Dorian, you need to know that people are saying the most dreadful things against you in London. They are talking as if you are some vile and degraded fiend. Mind you, I don’t believe these rumors at all. When I look at your face, I can’t believe them. Sin is something that cannot be hidden. It is written plain across one’s countenance. Whereas your face is so pure and innocent from any fault. I see you so seldom now, you never come by the studio anymore to visit. But tell me Dorian, why a man such as the Duke of Berwick leaves a room when you enter? How is it that so many other gentlemen refuse your invitations to dine at your house, and never invite you to dine at theirs?”

  Sage paused with tears brimming her eyes. Dorian extended his handkerchief to her and she dabbed her eyes before continuing. “Do you remember Lord Crawley? The two of you were once such close friends. I met him at dinner last week. When your name came up in the conversation he curled his lip and remarked that no pure-minded girl should ever be introduced to you, nor any chaste woman even sit in the same room as you. I told him I was a friend of yours and asked him his meaning. He gave me so many terrible examples! He mentioned the wretched Pickering girl who committed suicide, and Sir Robert Medcalf who left England with a ruined name. He spoke of the dreadful end that befell Clara Cosgrove. What about the young Duchess of Perth? What sort of life will she have now and who will associate with her? What of Lord Donohoe, who was so broken with shame and sorrow over the fate of his only daughter—only to disappear entirely.”

  Dorian’s voice was heavy with contempt as he answered. “Stop it Sage! You have no idea what you are talking about. How could Berwick not leave a room when I enter, when I know everything of his life, and he knows nothing of mine? Did I force the Pickering girl to end her own life? Did I teach Sir Robert Medcalf his vices? Did I force Clara Cosgrove into a life of debauchery? If the Duchess of Perth has taken to writing her friend’s names across her bills, how am I her keeper? What is it to me if Lord Donohoe’s daughter has taken to the streets and he has fled the country in disgrace? It is all the mindless chatter of the middle classes and their moral prejudices. They simply pretend to be part of intelligent society, while they ignore their own sins and slander their betters.”

  Sage was no longer able to stop the tears from tumbling down her cheek. “Dorian that is not what I am asking you. I know that England is a corrupt and evil place. The people here have developed a delirium for pleasure. But they have sunken even further down into the depths and all claim that it is you who have led them there.”

  “You go too far.”

  “I must speak, and you must listen. When you first met Lady Collingwood, she was untouched by any thread of scandal. Now, no decent woman will drive with her in the park. Even her children are forbidden from living with her. There are all these terrible tales of you seen creeping about at dawn, leaving from dreadful houses and slinking about in disguise. Your face has been associated with all of the foulest dens in London. Are these rumors true? Can they be? I don’t mean to preach at you, but you should live a life that commands the respect that you deserve. I want you to clear your name and end your association with these dreadful people. Let your influence be used for good and not evil.”

  Sage paused and looked at Dorian with an imploring look, wanting to see the good in him.

  “Go on Sage, finish what you have to say to me.”

  “You must give me some answer to these horrible charges against you. Tell me they are false and I will believe you. Deny them! I wonder, do I even know the real Dorian Gray? I should like to see your soul.”

  “See my soul!” Dorian exclaimed as he leapt up from the sofa, his complexion turning white with fear.

  “Yes,” answered Sage, “but only God can do that.”

  A laugh of mockery broke from his lips. “But you shall see it for yourself, you shall be as God—tonight! Come, the inconceivable truth is written in your very own handiwork. You might as well look at it now. Witness the corruption of it face-to-face.”

  With a mad sort of pride, Dorian picked up a small lamp and beckoned Sage to follow him. He started up the stairs towards the locked room above. As they reached the top of the landing, Dorian set down the lamp and opened the metal bars with his well-worn key. He hesitated for a moment and turned to Sage.

  “You are the only person in the world who is entitled to learn this secret about me. You have more to do with forming my life than you know.”

  They entered together and Dorian shut the door behind them and locked it. Sage glanced around with a puzzled expression. The room had not been lived in for many years. It was bedraggled and empty, save for a lone open armchair and ebony lamp table. Most of the room was covered with a film of dust and an alarmed mouse ran silently through a ragged hole that was chewed into the corner wall.

  Dorian gestured to the stained shroud hanging on the wall. “Is it only God that can see the soul, Sage? Draw back that filthy curtain and see mine.”

  “You are mad Dorian.”

  “So you won’t do it? Then I must reveal it myself.” With that Dorian tore the curtain from the metal rod and flung it savagely to the ground.

  A gasp of horror escaped from her lips as she saw the hideous beast that was depicted on the canvas. The once-innocent wolf cub had grown immense and was now the most gruesome thing that she had ever seen. It had changed into a terrifying beast, whose shape now dominated almost all of the picture—save the beautiful, smiling face of Dorian in the background. Its elongated fangs and treacherous claws were covered in a black foulness that could only be rotten, hardened blood. The sinew and muscles had grown more pronounced, but also more sickly. It looked wrong in a way that compelled the eye to shy away from the raw savagery of it. And the f
ace—that was the most frightful thing of all. The eyes of the monstrosity glowed blood-red with hate. They bore down into the very depths of the soul, seeking to devour any light or goodness found there. They spoke of a deep and unquenchable thirst for blood and violence. They were calculating, cruel, and disturbingly intelligent—as only a man’s eyes could be.

  Tears came unbidden to Sage’s eyes. It was impossible. Who had done this wretched thing? To paint over the small wolf cub with such vile menace. Yet, she seemed to recognize her own brushwork. The creation was too terrible to comprehend and she became afraid. She seized a lighted candle and held it up to the picture. Surely it was some foul parody. A joke of some sort. That was not her picture. But it was. Her thoughts went back to the wolf that had bitten her hand before returning to the forests. It had not been seen since.

  All the reports of animals being killed savagely in the surrounding areas now seemed to make sense. But what about the killings of people, the murders of innocent citizens? Was it not the handiwork of Jack the Ripper, marauding gangs, or vicious Bulldogs? She felt an icy surety now that the responsible party was this beast depicted on the canvas in front of her. Her artist’s eyes detected a resemblance to the wolf that she had so lovingly raised. It could be seen there in the color of the mane and here in the angle of the maw. Was this what had become of the wolf that had deserted and betrayed her?

  Dorian merely stood there, leaning against the black-marble fireplace mantel and observing Sage’s reaction.

  Sage begged for answers in a quiet voice. “What does this mean? It is impossible. I don’t believe that this is my picture.”

  “You don’t see your handiwork in it?”

  “There was nothing evil or shameful in what I painted. I knew I shouldn’t have put so much of myself into the work. I shouldn’t have mixed bloods and herbs into the paints. I shouldn’t have spoken the old words and the spell of making. Most of all, I shouldn’t have linked your names together. I should have listened to my mother’s warning. But how could the wolf have been corrupted so?”

  “It is the face of my soul.”

  “It is a demon!”

  Dorian replied with a shrug of despair. “Everyone has both heaven and hell in them Sage.”

  Sage turned back to the portrait. “If this is what you have done with your life then you must be even worse than they say.”

  Her hand shook, and the candle fell to the floor and began sputtering. She flung herself to the chair by the window and buried her face in her hands to weep. Soon, both she and Dorian were sobbing quietly.

  The tears flowed freely from her eyes. “Dorian, we must pray. We must pray for forgiveness and to have our sins washed away. Come, let us pray together.”

  “It is too late for that.”

  “It is never too late, Dorian. Come kneel down with me now. Can’t you see the way in which that accursed thing leers at us?”

  Sage fell to her knees with a pleading look.

  Dorian looked once more at the picture. Suddenly, an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Sage came over him. Rage and violence warred within him. He loathed this woman kneeling on the floor by the window. It was her doing that had caused this. Her fault. She had to be stopped—killed!

  An explosion of sharp glass and bent metal flung Dorian back from the window. An enormous dark shape crashed through the pane and struck the kneeling form of Sage. As Dorian slammed to the ground his ears were filled with the sound of a terrible growl. It rose above the crashing, tearing, and wet smacking noises. Dorian turned his head to see Sage set upon by the beast from the picture. A stifled scream and the sound of choking on blood came from Sage’s mouth. The brute rose and descended again and again on her form. She was child-sized next to the huge, hairy figure. The claws continued to render flesh and began disemboweling her. With blood splattering everywhere, Sage had only a moment to begin shrieking in pain before the heavy jaws descended upon her throat. They ripped out the delicate flesh there—cutting off all sound. In her last few seconds of life, Sage locked eyes with Dorian in an accusatory stare. Her arms and legs convulsed with a mind of their own, her blood flowing freely onto the floor as she died.

  For a few moments his hearing and vision left him and an enveloping darkness seemed to descend around him. A moment later, his hearing returned first. It was filled with a ragged breathing. The panting was wet with blood and slowing, as from an athlete completing a long run. He heard the great figure shift and turn—long claws scouring the floor as they moved.

  As his vision restored, he could make out the giant form. The beast had turned from Sage and now looked at him with those glowing, red eyes. Dorian was sure that at last his life was over. But the beast only remained still. Motionless. Waiting. Carefully, Dorian rose to his side. There was no response from the monster except for the movement of the huge nostrils, which expanded and contracted as if taking in his scent. Several more moments passed without any other motion from the pair.

  Dorian rose tentatively to his feet, leaning heavily upon the table. Amazingly, the creature seemed to back away and lower its head, breaking eye contact. That’s right. Now he remembered. Dorian was the pack leader to this wolf. He reached out with his senses and felt the renewed connection that he and the wolf had once shared when it was still a normal wolf and not this—thing. He was abruptly confident that the animal would do him no harm. Dorian began to pace the room.

  Dorian did his best to fill his voice with a scolding tone as he continued to observe the creature’s reaction. “What have you done you vile beast? We will be discovered for sure.” The creature knew that it was being rebuked and lowered his ghastly head further, eyes downcast towards the floor.

  But was that true? Would they be discovered? Certainly, there had been a rather loud crash and other—noises. But how effective was the deep, London fog at distorting and concealing sounds? He went over to the landing and listened to the street outside. Everything was absolutely quiet. The hour was late and no one was about. There was hardly any light to be seen on the vacant street. The constables must be currently far away on their rounds of the silent houses, shrouded in white fog.

  Everything was still in the house. The valet! No—he had left on holiday earlier that evening. He turned back to the hulking wolf. He could see that it waited on his command. Quickly, Dorian’s mind formulated a plan.

  “Can you understand me?”

  The ears perked up and turned forward. The murderous eyes raised and softened, as the terrifying head tilted ever so slightly at an angle—as if to listen.

  “I can see that you do. Very well, take Sa—the body, as far away from here as you can. Do not be seen. I suppose you are most adept at that. Make sure the body is never discovered. Devour it if you must, but do so fully. Sage left on the midnight train and nothing must link her remains to me or my home. Now, go!”

  The immense claws seized onto the bloody mass of meat with disturbingly strong hands. The canines of the great beast sank into the flesh with a surprising delicateness. It lifted its kill from the bloody floor and moved towards the shattered window. With a final piercing look, the towering creature leapt away using its powerful hindquarters. It sailed through the broken window and crashed into the soft garden below.

  Dorian collapsed to the floor in relief. He strained his brain as he thought quickly. Sage had left the house at eleven and dismissed the valet. No one had seen him come in again. As far as anyone knew, Sage was on her way to Paris. She would be gone for six months or a year before suspicions would be roused. All of the evidence could be cleaned up and destroyed long before then.

  The servants were surprised to find their master hard at work as they arrived. He was shoveling fresh mulch and moving debris in the garden in a most vigorous manner. It was not unusual for their master to quickly change his fancies and this week it was apparently gardening. They were quite used to his eccentrics by now and could only smile and agree as he began giving orders.

  “Ah, quickly now! Help m
e move away that brush from the old rose bushes. I’ve decided the garden is quite overdue for a renovation, you see. And naturally, this must include removing that small, old window that overlooks the garden. It will be replaced with a new large-pane, machine-polished glass. They are quite fashionable. I’m afraid I got quite carried away in starting the demolition myself and have done just a horrid job. Send for someone from the James Powell & Sons glassworks at once to finish the job.”

  Dorian made a point to speak to his valet in front of the other servants. “I came home so late on the evening before you began your holiday. Tell me, did anyone call?”

  “Lady Holdsworth the artist, sir. She stayed until eleven, then went off to catch her train.”

  “Oh! I am sorry I didn’t see her. Did she leave any message?”

  “No, sir. Except that she would write to you from Paris.”

  “That will do, thank you.”

  Chapter 19.

  The Docks

  An icy rain fell as Dorian rode in a second-rate hansom that moved briskly along the banks of the swelling River Thames. He was dressed commonly with the rough clothes of a laborer and a muffler wrapped about his throat. He wore a shabby bowler hat, pulled down to cover his forehead. The street lamps blurred in the dripping mist, as downtrodden men and demoralized women left the now closing public-houses along the route. As the streets drew closer together, all sorts of ruffians could be seen. They clustered together in groups, forming wicked plans to enrich their fortunes. In one crumbling bar with the sign of a rearing stallion out front, drunkards brawled and a straggled scream shattered the quiet of the night.

  The engorged moon hung full and low in the sky like a yellow skull. Misshapen clouds stretched across the floating orb with elongated hands and bony fingers grasping. As they neared the docks, the gas lamps grew fewer and the streets gloomier. The cobblestones blackened as they passed the deserted brickfields. Bottle-shaped kilns spat their outrage with orange tongues of fire into the cooling air. Mangy dogs snarled in hunger and wandering sea-gulls screamed their displeasure at the hansom’s passage.