“‘What!’ cried my father, ‘the wolves are there, are they?’
“He jumped out of bed, threw on his clothes, and in his anxiety did not appear to perceive the absence of his wife. As soon as he was ready, I opened the door, he went out, and I followed him.
“Imagine his horror, when (unprepared as he was for such a sight) he beheld, as he advanced towards the grave, not a wolf, but his wife, in her night-dress, on her hands and knees, crouching by the body of my sister, and tearing off large pieces of the flesh, and devouring them with all the avidity of a wolf. She was too busy to be aware of our approach. My father dropped his gun, his hair stood on end; so did mine; he breathed heavily, and then his breath for a time stopped. I picked up the gun and put it into his hand. Suddenly he appeared as if concentrated rage had restored him to double vigour; he leveled his piece, fired, and with a loud shriek, down fell the wretch whom he had fostered in his bosom.
“‘God of Heaven!’ cried my father, sinking down upon the earth in a swoon, as soon as he had discharged his gun.
“I remained some time by his side before he recovered. ‘Where am I?’ said he, ‘what has happened?—Oh!—yes, yes! I recollect now. Heaven forgive me!’
“He rose and we walked up to the grave; what again was our astonishment and horror to find that instead of the dead body of my mother-in-law, as we expected, there was lying over the remains of my poor sister, a large, white she wolf.
“‘The white wolf!’ exclaimed my father, ‘the white wolf which decoyed me into the forest—I see it all now—I have dealt with the spirits of the Hartz Mountains.’
“For some time my father remained in silence and deep thought. He then carefully lifted up the body of my sister, replaced it in the grave, and covered it over as before, having struck the head of the dead animal with the heel of his boot, and raving like a madman. He walked back to the cottage, shut the door, and threw himself on the bed; I did the same, for I was in a stupor of amazement.
“Early in the morning we were both roused by a loud knocking at the door, and in rushed the hunter Wilfred.
“‘My daughter!—man—my daughter!—where is my daughter!’ cried he in a rage.
“‘Where the wretch, the fiend, should be, I trust,’ replied my father, starting up and displaying equal choler; ‘where she should be—in hell!—Leave this cottage or you may fare worse.’
“‘Ha—ha!’ replied the hunter, ‘would you harm a potent spirit of the Hartz Mountains. Poor mortal, who must needs wed a weir wolf.’
“‘Out demon! I defy thee and thy power.’
“‘Yet shall you feel it; remember your oath—your solemn oath—never to raise your hand against her to harm her.’
“‘I made no compact with evil spirits.’
“‘You did; and if you failed in your vow, you were to meet the vengeance of the spirits. Your children were to perish by the vulture, the wolf—’
“‘Out, out, demon!’
“‘And their bones blanch in the wilderness. Ha!—ha!’
“My father, frantic with rage, seized his axe, and raised it over Wilfred’s head to strike.
“‘All this I swear,’ continued the huntsman, mockingly.
“The axe descended; but it passed through the form of the hunter, and my father lost his balance, and fell heavily on the floor.
“‘Mortal!’ said the hunter, striding over my father’s body, ‘we have power over those only who have committed murder. You have been guilty of a double murder—you shall pay the penalty attached to your marriage vow. Two of your children are gone; the third is yet to follow—and follow them he will, for your oath is registered. Go—it were kindness to kill thee—your punishment is—that you live!’
“With these words the spirit disappeared. My father rose from the floor, embraced me tenderly, and knelt down in prayer.
“The next morning he quitted the cottage for ever. He took me with him and bent his steps to Holland, where we safely arrived. He had some little money with him; but he had not been many days in Amsterdam before he was seized with a brain fever, and died raving mad. I was put into the Asylum, and afterwards was sent to sea before the mast. You now know all my history. The question is, whether I am to pay the penalty of my father’s oath? I am myself perfectly convinced that, in some way or another, I shall.”
On the twenty-second day the high land of the south of Sumatra was in view; as there were no vessels in sight, they resolved to keep their course through the Straits, and run for Pulo Penang, which they expected, as their vessel laid so close to the wind, to reach in seven or eight days. By constant exposure, Philip and Krantz were now so bronzed, that with their long beards and Mussulman dresses, they might easily have passed off for natives. They had steered during the whole of the days exposed to a burning sun; they had lain down and slept in the dew of night, but their health had not suffered.
But for several days, since he had confided the history of his family to Philip, Krantz had become silent and melancholy; his usual flow of spirits had vanished, and Philip had often questioned him as to the cause. As they entered the Straits, Philip talked of what they should do upon their arrival at Goa. When Krantz gravely replied, “For some days, Philip, I have had a presentiment that I shall never see that city.”
“You are out of health, Krantz,” replied Philip.
“No; I am in sound health, body and mind. I have endeavoured to shake off the presentiment, but in vain; there is a warning voice that continually tells me that I shall not be long with you. Philip, will you oblige me by making me content on one point: I have gold about my person which may be useful to you; oblige me by taking it, and securing it on your own.”
“What nonsense, Krantz.”
“It is no nonsense, Philip. Have you not had your warnings? Why should I not have mine? You know that I have little fear in my composition, and that I care not about death; but I feel the presentiment which I speak of more strongly every hour. It is some kind spirit who would warn me to prepare for another world. Be it so. I have lived long enough in this world to leave it without regret; although to part with you and Amine, the only two now dear to me, is painful, I acknowledge.”
“May not this arise from over-exertion and fatigue, Krantz? Consider how much excitement you have laboured under within these last four months. Is not that enough to create a corresponding depression? Depend upon it, my dear friend, such is the fact.”
“I wish it were—but I feel otherwise, and there is a feeling of gladness connected with the idea that I am to leave this world, arising from another presentiment, which equally occupies my mind.”
“Which is?”
“I hardly can tell you; but Amine and you are connected with it. In my dreams I have seen you meet again; but it has appeared to me, as if a portion of your trial was purposely shut from my sight in dark clouds; and I have asked, ‘May not I see what is there concealed?”—and an invisible has answered, “No! ‘twould make you wretched. Before these trials take place, you will be summoned away’—and then I have thanked Heaven, and felt resigned.”
“These are the imaginings of a disturbed brain, Krantz; that I am destined to suffering may be true; but why Amine should suffer, or why you, young, in full health and vigour, should not pass your days in peace, and live to a good old age, there is no cause for believing. You will be better to-morrow.”
“Perhaps so,” replied Krantz;—“but still you must yield to my whim, and take the gold. If I am wrong, and we do arrive safe, you know, Philip, you can let me have it back,” observed Krantz, with a faint smile—“but you forget, our water is nearly out, and we must look out for a rill on the coast to obtain a fresh supply.”
“I was thinking of that when you commenced this unwelcome topic. We had better look out for the water before dark, and as soon as we have replenished our jars, we will make sail again.”
At the time that this conversation took place, they were on the eastern side of the Strait, about forty miles to the
northward. The interior of the coast was rocky and mountainous, but it slowly descended to low land of alternate forest and jungles, which continued to the beach: the country appeared to be uninhabited. Keeping close in to the shore, they discovered, after two hours’ run, a fresh stream which burst in a cascade from the mountains, and swept its devious course through the jungle, until it poured its tribute into the waters of the Strait.
They ran close in to the mouth of the stream, lowered the sails, and pulled the peroqua against the current, until they had advanced far enough to assure them that the water was quite fresh. The jars were soon filled, and they were again thinking of pushing off; when, enticed by the beauty of the spot, the coolness of the fresh water, and wearied with their long confinement on board of the peroqua, they proposed to bathe—a luxury hardly to be appreciated by those who have not been in a similar situation.
They threw off their Mussulman dresses, and plunged into the stream, where they remained for some time. Krantz was the first to get out; he complained of feeling chilled, and he walked on to the banks where their clothes had been laid. Philip also approached nearer to the beach, intending to follow him.
“And now, Philip,” said Krantz, “this will be a good opportunity for me to give you the money. I will open my sash, and pour it out, and you can put it into your own before you put it on.”
Philip was standing in the water, which was about level with his waist.
“Well, Krantz,” said he, “I suppose if it must be so, it must; but it appears to me an idea so ridiculous—however, you shall have your own way.”
Philip quitted the run, and sat down by Krantz, who was already busy in shaking the doubloons out of the folds of his sash; at last he said—
“I believe, Philip, you have got them all, now?—I feel satisfied.”
“What danger there can be to you, which I am not equally exposed to, I cannot conceive,” replied Philip; “however—”
Hardly had he said these words, when there was a tremendous roar—a rush like a mighty wind through the air—a blow which threw him on his back—a loud cry—and a contention. Philip recovered himself, and perceived the naked form of Krantz carried off with the speed of an arrow by an enormous tiger through the jungle. He watched with distended eyeballs; in a few seconds the animal and Krantz had disappeared!
“God of Heaven! would that Thou hadst spared me this,” cried Philip, throwing himself down in agony on his face. “Oh! Krantz, my friend—my brother—too sure was your presentiment. Merciful God! have pity—but Thy will be done;” and Philip burst into a flood of tears.
For more than an hour did he remain fixed upon the spot, careless and indifferent to the danger by which he was surrounded. At last, somewhat recovered, he rose, dressed himself, and then again sat down—his eyes fixed upon the clothes of Krantz, and the gold which still lay on the sand.
“He would give me that gold. He foretold his doom. Yes! yes! it was his destiny, and it has been fulfilled. His bones will bleach in the wilderness, and the spirit-hunter and his wolfish daughter are avenged.
*****
Short Stories Considered
Anonymous
1821 - Hallowe’en in Germany, or Walpurgis Night (passing reference to werewolves)
Catherine Crowe (1803-1876)
1846 - A Story of a Weir-Wolf
H. Laurence
1827 - Norman of the Strong Arm: A Tale of the Sanctuary of Westminster
Sutherland Menzies
1838 - Hugues the Wer-Wolf: A Kentish Legend of the Middle Ages
Frederick Marryat
1839 - The White Wolf of the Hartz Mountains (Chapter 39) from “The Phantom Ship”
Leitch Ritchie
1830 - The Man-Wolf
Joseph Snowe
1839 Ursel. The Water-Wolf
Richard Thomson
1828 - The Wehr-Wolf: A Legend of the Limousin
About Andrew
Andrew Barger takes full responsibility for The Divine Dantes trilogy that follows the characters of The Divine Comedy through a messed-up modern world. He is also the award winning author of Coffee with Poe: A Novel of Edgar Allan Poe’s Life, and The Best Horror Short Stories 1800-1849: A Classic Horror Anthology. His first short story collection is Mailboxes – Mansions – Memphistopheles. He is also the editor of a number of other acclaimed books, including Edgar Allan Poe Annotated and Illustrated Entire Stories and Poems, and The Best Ghost Stories 1800-1849. He is recognized for his scholarly and creative writing and is a leading voice in the Gothic literature space. He would like to start a band if only he could settle on a name for it.
Connect with Andrew Online
Website: AndrewBarger.com
Blog: AndrewBarger.blogspot.com
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Read Other Titles by Andrew Barger
The Divine Dantes
Squirt Gun in Hades
If you’re actually going to waste your time reading this, I suppose you’ll want to know answers to a bunch of squirrelly questions like the name of my band and who my girl is and why I don’t change my sorry name from Edward T. Nad to something rock-n-roll like Sting or Bono or Slash.
That is the opening sentence by rocker Edward T. Nad who is down on his luck after the other member of his two-person band (and girlfriend—Beatrice) leaves their small town for Europe. Once there, Beatrice has second thoughts about the breakup and asks their erstwhile manager cum travel agent, Virgil, to bring Edward to her without him knowing it. This sparks off the hilarious intercontinental journey of the staid, nerdy manager and the young rocker with an active and opinionated mind who struggles with the basics, like settling on a name for the band: “Grain of Sand and the Clams” versus “The Beelzebubbas.” The novel contains the characters of “The Inferno” and tracks their movements through Hades in modern times. Dante’s Infernos: Squirt Guns in Hades is the first in a trilogy of novels that parallel “The Inferno,” “The Purgatorio,” and “The Paradiso” of Dante’s The Divine Comedy through modern times.
Read the first chapter at the end of this book.
[A] lively and good-natured work with a great deal of humor and wordplay . . .. —PUBLISHER’S WEEKLY REVIEWER
[R]eminds me a little of the fun I find in Carl Hiaasen or Christopher Moore, but he definitely has his own vibe . . . . —BREAKTHROUGH NOVEL AWARD EXPERT REVIEWER
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The Best Horror Short Stories 1800-1849
The Best Horror Short Stories 1800-1849 is a book for anyone who loves a classic horror story.
Thanks to Edgar Allan Poe, Honoré de Balzac, Nathaniel Hawthorne and others, the first half of the nineteenth century is the cradle of all modern horror short stories. Andrew Barger, the editor, read over 300 horror short stories and compiled the dozen best. A few have never been republished since they were first published in leading periodicals of the day such as Blackwood’s and Atkinson’s Casket.
At the back of the book Andrew includes a list of all short stories he considered along with their dates of publication and the author, when available. He even includes background for each of the stories, author photos and annotations for difficult terminology.
‘The Best Horror Short Stories 1800-1849’ will likely become a best seller . . .What makes this collection (of truly terrifying tales!) so satisfying is the presence of a brief introduction before each story, sharing some comments about the writer and elements of the tale. Barger has once again whetted our appetites for fright, spent countless hours making these twelve stories accessible and available, and has provided in one book the best of the best of horror short stories. It is a winner.
AMZ TOP TEN REVIEWER
Through his introduction and footnotes, Barger aims for readers both scholarly and casual, ensuring that the authors get their due while making the wor
k accessible overall to the mainstream.
BOOKGASM
[a] top to bottom pick for anyone who appreciates where the best of horror came from.
MIDWEST BOOK REVIEW
Mailboxes – Mansions – Memphistophels
A Collection of Dark Tales
A finalist in the International Book Awards, Andrew Barger’s first short story collection unleashes a blend of character-driven dark tales, which are sure to be remembered. In the collection Andrew unleashes a blend of character-driven dark tales, which are sure to be remembered.
In “Azra’eil & Fudgie” a little girl visits a team of marines in Afghanistan and they quickly learn she is more than she seems. “The Mailbox War” is a deadly tale of a weekend hobby taken to extremes while “The Brownie of the Alabaster Mansion” sees a Scottish monster of antiquity brought back to life. “Memphistopheles” contains a tale of the devil, Memphis, barbeque and a wannabe poet. “The Serpent and the Sepulcher” is a prose poem that will be cherished by all who experience it. “The Gëbult Mansion” recounts a literary hoax played by Andrew on his unsuspecting social networking friends that involves a female vampire. Last, “Stain” is an unforgettable horror story about a stain that will not go away.
Mesaerion: The Best Science Fiction Stories 1800-1849
Looking for sci-fi stories that defined a genre? How about what is possibly the first science fiction tale by a female or the first steampunk short story? There is the first voyage to the moon and first sci-fi story with a lunar alien—Zuloc! What about a darkness machine and the first robotic insect? Andrew has searched old texts to find the very best science fiction stories from the period when the genre came to life. Thanks to Andrew’s scholarship, some of which are published for the first time in nearly 200 years.
The Best Werewolf Short Stories 1800-1849 Page 14