The Mammoth Book of Wolf Men

by Stephen Jones

  The desk clerk did not look the least bit disgusted when he saw that I was unshaven. I always took the precaution of not shaving for a day or two before I went to a hotel, just in case someone were to see me when I was being ill. They might think it funny that a man’s beard could grow so rapidly, grow in just a few hours. It was just one of the small details that I was so careful about. I am sure that no one ever suspected. But then, it is not a thing that one tends to think about in this day and age. In the day of the psychiatrist, I am a legend.

  The clerk in that place was unshaven himself, and he acted as if all the guests at the place went without a razor. Even though I had a suitcase he asked for the money in advance. I went up to my room and closed and locked the door and turned all the lights out and lay down on the bed. I kept my clothing on. The only window was small and greasy and looked out on a brick wall so that I could not see the moon. It was always harder and more painful to change when I could not see it and had to imagine it, big and yellow and round in that black sky. I wanted so much to leave that horrible little room. I remember how I waited, almost wishing for the change to come so that I could get it over with I kept getting up and walking to the window, pacing the room, going to the filthy sink and splashing water on my face. And then I must have gone to the bed again, because the next thing I remember, I had already changed. I was lying on my back, tossing and turning and groaning. I was soaked with sweat. The bed was soaked. The grey sheets were all twisted beneath me and I gripped the brass bedstead with one hand. One changed hand. It was bad. It was like having a high fever and hallucinations. But I was strong and I stuck it out and all the while I was thinking that it had never been so bad before.

  And then I heard the drunkard come down the corridor. I have always despised drunkards – anyone who has to seek artificial aids to life and cannot be content and happy without stimulants and drugs. This drunkard was singing loudly and his footsteps were clumping. I lay very still as he came near the door to my room. And he must have got the rooms confused, because he stopped outside my door. He tried it. I heard the knob turn and rattle. And then he tried to fit his key into the lock and I heard it scraping and clanking. I did not move at all. I lay there with my eyes rolling and the froth on my lips. I could hear him cursing and swearing and I hated him. I have never hated anyone as much as I hated that drunkard. And I had a terrible thought . . . suppose, in this cheap hotel, his key could open my door? Suppose he were to come into the room and see me? Rage and fear moved me. I leaped from the bed and was across the room, leaning with my ear against the door. I listened. I heard his laboured breathing and his muttered words. I pressed against the door so that he would not be able to open it. I am exceedingly strong when I have changed, and he could not have opened the door against me. The door felt hot and smooth against my bristly cheek and hands.

  And then he began to pound on the door. He pounded very loudly, and I was afraid that he might awaken everyone, that there might be a dispute, that the night clerk might demand that I open up so that it could be settled. I waited, silently, while my insides boiled and bubbled, and he continued to bang on the door.

  I think that I opened the door then.

  I didn’t really hurt him. But I will never forget the look on his face when he saw me! His eyes, his mouth, his skin . . . He took a step backwards, and I wanted to go after him but I knew that I must not. I possibly might have struck out at him. I do not remember. But he collapsed very suddenly. He was just a bundle of rags on the floor with the horrible smell of alcohol and the other smell of blood. I stared for a moment, my fingers hooking at the air, and then I controlled myself and slammed the door and locked it again. I remember leaning against the door and panting. I must have been very frightened. I was sure that when he awoke he would get help and they would break into my room, and I knew that I must change back to myself before they did. Perhaps the fear acted as a catalyst, because very shortly after that I lay down and when I opened my eyes I was all right once more.

  In the morning the clerk was very excited. Apparently they had just taken the body away. He asked me if I had heard any noise in the night and I told him that I thought I had heard someone singing in the hall – someone intoxicated. He told me that one of the residents had been found dead in the corridor by my room. I was very surprised and asked about it. Apparently the man had died of a heart attack. That seemed the obvious solution. The clerk told me that he had been drinking and had walked up the stairs and it must have been too much for him. Drinking is very bad on the heart. The man had had a large bruise on his temple, but that must have happened when he fell down. Anyway, that is what happened with the drunkard in the hotel, and so it wasn’t really my fault. I didn’t hurt him.

  June 11

  I am afraid that the librarian is suspicious of me! It came as a terrible shock. I had never considered her intelligent enough to suspect anything, but I see now that that was my mistake . . . She is one of the types that are stupid enough to believe in the things that intelligent people laugh at. That makes her very dangerous. I don’t know what I should do about her. I won’t go back there, of course, but if she already suspects . . . I don’t know. I would hate to suffer because of such a stupid woman.

  I first began to distrust her when I went into the library today. I walked past her desk and nodded and she nodded back as usual, but I noticed that there was a calendar on her desk. It was right there in full view, as though she had been studying it. There had never been a calendar there before. Why should there be one now? If it was necessary in order to keep track of how long books had been out on loan she would have always had one. Anyway, the books are all stamped in the back or something. No, I am sure that she has the calendar to keep track of the full moons!

  I thought that as soon as I saw it, but I wasn’t sure. There was a chance that she might be innocent. I always give a person the benefit of the doubt. But then, when she followed me into the dark back room . . .

  It is very silent and gloomy in the back, where the big research books are. No one seems to use that room much. I was looking through an old volume and suddenly the librarian came in. She had her arms full of books, and pretended that she had come to put them on the shelves, but she didn’t fool me. She was watching me. When I turned and stared at her she blushed. She said something inane, and I kept staring, and she shoved the books in at random and hurried off. She has a disgusting way of walking, so that her bottom bounces suggestively. She is overweight and unclean looking. She is an old maid, although not really so old. I have often seen young men talking to her at the desk, pretending that they are interested in some books and leaning towards her. I am sure that she has foul habits. It is no wonder that she has never married. She doesn’t look like a virgin, either. But I am afraid of what she suspects. She is dangerous. I don’t know what she might try to do . . .

  When I left she tried to strike up a conversation. I had not stayed long and she mentioned that, just to get me talking. She was smiling and flushed, pretending to be interested in me in ways other than she is. I gave her a crisp nod and went right past the desk without saying anything. I could feel her looking at my back until I had left the building. I know that she wants to get me into a conversation so that she can find out more about me. She pretends to be flirting with me, but she has other motives. That is a pretence. But it is a mistake on her part to imagine that I am the type of man who would be interested in a flirtation.

  Still, I must admit it is a possibility that she is genuinely trying to strike up an acquaintance. I know that I am appealing to women, and she is quite wretched and probably has few friends. She is much homelier than Helen. If that is the case then I have nothing to fear from her, although I must feel disgusted that any woman should attempt to start something with a happily married man. Any woman who would do that is better off dead. They are not fit to live, to corrupt our society.

  Perhaps it would be better not to suddenly stop going to the library. That might simply arouse any suspic
ions that she has. It might be better to talk to her, and see just how much she suspects . . .

  June 15

  I went back to the library today. She tried to strike up a conversation again. I talked to her for a few minutes this time, just to see how she reacted. It is hard to tell what she is thinking. I have never had much experience with women of that sort. She appeared to be trying to tempt me. It is monstrous, but I believe it may be true. I feel relieved that she did not ask me any questions that showed she was suspicious of me, but it sickened me to see the way that she carried on. I had all I could do from letting her see how angry I was. It was hard to keep from screaming at her when she twitched her hips and looked coy and leaned over the desk towards me. She had a disgustingly tight sweater on. It makes a man wonder what could have happened to turn a woman out that way? The calendar was still on the desk but I had a chance to look at it and saw that the stages of the moon were not marked on it. So I no longer think that I have anything to fear from her. She is more stupid than I supposed.

  Afterwards I went to the poetry section and pretended to be reading some poems so that it would throw her off the trail. I hate poetry. It seems so useless. But I fooled the girl. I just hope that no one saw me talking to her and got the wrong impression.

  June 24

  Well, the librarian showed her hand today. It was just as I thought, she is an immoral woman. She suspected nothing of my disease, she merely lusted after me! I believe that she makes a practice of seducing men. She certainly seemed experienced.

  She followed me into the back this afternoon. It was late and we were the only ones in the whole library. I didn’t hear her approach, I was reading, concentrating because it was hard to see in the dim light between the high shelves, and all of a sudden she was right there beside me. When I moved, startled, she giggled. She asked if she had scared me, and then, before I could answer, she said that I needn’t be frightened of her. She has very wicked eyes, they seem to reflect her soul. They gleam. I could not help but look into those terrible eyes. It was like staring at a flickering fire . . . it was hypnotic. Why is that? Why should a moral man be fascinated by evil and degradation and be unable to take his eyes away? Is the horror of seeing wickedness so strong? Try as I would I could not look away from her, and the creature mistook my loathing for interest. She moved closer to me. I forget what she said. It was meaningless, just something to say as she smiled. I think that she asked me why I was so shy and timid. I couldn’t answer, I couldn’t force myself to speak to her. I remember opening my mouth to tell her how I despised her, but words failed me. And then she reached out and touched my arm. Her fingers brushed my arm and it was like the touch of the Devil himself. An icy hatred moved from my arm to my heart itself, and everything faded away, the shelves and the books and the walls all vanished into a red haze and all I could see was her gruesome countenance, drawing closer and closer to mine.

  I believe that she would have actually kissed me, if I had not struck her! I don’t remember telling myself to slap her, so it must have been a purely reflex movement. Self-preservation works for the soul as well as the mortal life, and I had to stop her. I slapped her as hard as I could, in the face. I have never struck a woman before, but I do not regret it. That creature was less than a woman, less than a human. She was an abomination on life itself, a bloated parasite feeding on men’s bodies.

  After I struck her, I turned and walked away. She didn’t pursue me. She did not say a word. I suppose that she was stunned by my blow. Perhaps she fell down, I did not wait to see. I just walked out of that library and came home. My hands are still trembling. It was a dreadful experience and I know that I shall never forget it. I only hope that I may have done some good; that my strength and resolve will show her that not every man can be ruined by her perverted desires.

  June 24 (evening)

  Well, I just had a shock. It was a remarkable coincidence, no doubt about that. I had just finished this afternoon’s entry in this journal and gone downstairs to listen to the news on the radio. It appears that someone has murdered the librarian. The announcer said that she was found in the back room of the library, between two high bookshelves. Her neck had been broken by a tremendous blow to the side of the head. It must have happened in the very same place where she tried to work her evil designs on me. I expect that it was under much the same circumstances. She was undoubtedly in the habit of following men back there and approaching them without the slightest trace of modesty. Well, after being rebuffed by me she was most likely feeling frustrated or desperate or whatever it is that lewd women feel when they come up against a man strong enough to resist them, and I imagine that she tried harder with the next man that she managed to trap. The great coincidence of it is this man, the murderer, must have been a very moral person, the same as I, and he reacted to her foul advances with uncontrolled anger. He probably did not mean to kill her, although surely she is better off dead, but he must have hit her the same way that I did, except he had less control over himself and struck her too hard. That is what I think has happened. I may be wrong. But whatever it was, I cannot feel sorry for that woman. I am sure that it is better she is dead.

  My wife heard the broadcast too, and asked me if I had not been at the library at the approximate time of the murder. I said that it must have happened just after I left, but I didn’t tell her that I was sure I knew how it had happened. That would have been too embarrassing, and I’m sure that Helen could not conceive of such a woman and would only be confused. She said that I should go to the police, that I might be able to help them. But I saw no one else, there is nothing that I can do. I don’t want to get involved and, besides, I cannot help but feel sympathy for the man. Murder is a dreadful crime, of course, but under certain circumstances it is justified, and when one’s morals are outraged it is very easy to lose control and to do something that would normally be out of the question. I couldn’t explain this to Helen. She is not intelligent enough to understand that, in certain instances, the letter of the law is not necessarily correct. I just told her that I was sure I could not be of any assistance to the law and she agreed, although I cannot help but feel she thinks I am shirking my duty to society.

  Well, the police will undoubtedly apprehend the man. It seems likely that he will give himself up after he has had time to consider and realize that it was justifiable homicide or self-defence or with extenuating circumstances, and the law should not be too harsh with him once he has told his story. I suppose he must be punished in some way, because that is the law, but for myself I think that he is more to be admired than punished. His only crime was in failing to keep himself under control, as I did in similar circumstances. But, of course, I am a remarkable man and cannot expect everyone to be as strong-willed and restrained.

  June 27

  I had a rather curious conversation with Helen while we were taking coffee this morning. For several minutes she seemed to want to say something, but kept hesitating. I presumed that it was about the time of month (it draws near again) or the cell or, perhaps, about seeing a doctor. But it wasn’t.

  “They haven’t caught that murderer yet,” she said.

  She meant the man who killed the librarian. The police had apparently found no clues. It must be difficult to solve an unpremeditated murder, since there is no motive, and in this case the man was most likely a complete stranger to the librarian. I find myself hoping that he will escape the written law, for his actions were ordained by the higher law of morality.

  I said, “Perhaps they won’t.”

  “Don’t you think that you really should go to them and tell them that you were there?” she asked.

  I asked her why.

  “Well . . . you must have been there at almost the same time as the killer. She was murdered before you came home, apparently. There might be something you could tell them . . .”

  “I’ve told you. I saw nothing.”

  “You aren’t . . . afraid to go to the police, are you?” she asked me. She
looked away when she said it. I don’t know what could have given her that idea. What would I be afraid of? I repeated that I knew nothing, and then I told her that I hoped the man would escape punishment because the librarian had obviously been a bad woman. I did not tell her that the woman had tried to work her ways on me, but maybe she guessed it, because she looked at me in a very strange way and then left the table and went to her room. It was a funny way for her to behave. I suppose it is her upbringing. The middle classes have such a ridiculous idea that man-made laws have some higher right than man who is behind them. I cannot understand how people can be so dense, so easily led. How can they regard the rules of society as the rules of God? They make no distinction between descriptive laws and laws that are relative to the situation: between the eternal laws of nature and God and morality and the fluctuating and often wrong laws that men create to hinder themselves and others. It truly bothers me that this is so, that prejudice has made it so. Just think how it applies to myself . . . I would be scorned and hated and punished if anyone knew of my affliction. The authorities would most likely pass a law to make it illegal to have this disease. But what good would that do? Diseases are not governed by the laws of governments, and I would be thought a criminal although powerless to help myself. That is why no one must ever know about it. The old, almost forgotten prejudices and fears and superstitions would join forces with the new power of the authorities and destroy me. It is a terrible thing. One sees it everywhere, and can do nothing to combat it. I feel very bitter about it. If I had lived three hundred years ago I would have at least been feared and acknowledged by anyone who knew. Now I would simply be legislated against. It is a good thing that I am a well-balanced man, or there is no telling what such stupidity would drive me to.