The Mammoth Book of Wolf Men

by Stephen Jones

  So I guess it wasn’t so surprising that some people believed what Billy said about me. Gerry-Anne quit talking to me after that. Meantime Hilda got pregnant.

  This turned into a huge discussion about how Hilda had been worried about her biological clock so she and Dad had decided to have a kid, and I shouldn’t mind, it would be fun for me and good preparation for being a mother myself later on, when I found some nice guy and got married.

  Sure. Great preparation. Like Mary O’Hare in my class, who gets to change her youngest baby sister’s diapers all the time, yick. She jokes about it, but you can tell she really hates it. Now it looked like it was my turn coming up, as usual.

  The only thing that made life bearable was my secret.

  “You’re laid back today,” Devon Brown said to me in the lunchroom one day after Billy had been especially obnoxious, trying to flick rolled up pieces of bread from his table so they would land on my chest. Devon was sitting with me because he was bad at French, my only good subject, and I was helping him out with some verbs. I guess he wanted to know why I wasn’t upset because of Billy picking on me. He goes, “How come?”

  “That’s a secret,” I said, thinking about what Devon would say if he knew a werewolf was helping him with his French: loup, manger.

  He goes, “What secret?” Devon had freckles and is actually kind of cute-looking.

  “A secret,” I go, “so I can’t tell you, dummy.”

  He looks real superior and he goes, “Well, it can’t be much of a secret, because girls can’t keep secrets, everybody knows that.”

  Sure, like that kid Sara in Eight B who it turned out her own father had been molesting her for years, but she never told anybody until some psychologist caught on from some tests we all had to take in Seventh Grade. Up till then, Sara kept her secret fine.

  And I kept mine, marking off the days on the calendar. The only part I didn’t look forward to was having a period again, which last time came right before the change.

  When the time came, I got crampy and more zits popped out on my face, but I didn’t have a period.

  I changed, though.

  The next morning they were talking in school about a couple of prize miniature Schnauzers at the Wanscombes that had been hauled out of their yard by somebody and killed, and almost nothing left of them.

  Well, my stomach turned a little when I heard some kids describing what Mr Wanscombe had found over in Baker’s Park, “the remains,” as people said. I felt a little guilty, too, because Mrs Wanscombe had really loved those little dogs, which somehow I didn’t think about at all when I was a wolf the night before, trotting around hungry in the moonlight.

  I knew those Schnauzers personally, so I was sorry, even if they were irritating little mutts that made a lot of noise.

  But heck, the Wanscombes shouldn’t have left them out all night in the cold. Anyhow, they were rich, they could buy new ones if they wanted.

  Still and all, though. I mean, dogs are just dumb animals. If they’re mean, it’s because they’re wired that way or somebody made them mean, they can’t help it. They can’t just decide to be nice, like a person can. And plus, they don’t taste so great, I think because they put so much junk in commercial dog-foods-anti-worm medicine and ashes and ground-up fish, stuff like that. Ick.

  In fact after the second Schnauzer I had felt sort of sick and I didn’t sleep real well that night. So I was not in a great mood to start with; and that was the day that my new brassiere disappeared while I was in gym. Later on I got passed a note telling me where to find it: stapled to the bulletin board outside the Principal’s office, where everybody could see that I was trying a bra with an underwire.

  Naturally, it had to be Stacey Buhl that grabbed my bra while I was changing for gym and my back was turned, since she was now hanging out with Billy and his friends.

  Billy went around all day making bets at the top of his lungs on how soon I would be wearing a D-cup.

  Stacey didn’t matter, she was just a jerk. Billy mattered. He had wrecked me in that school forever, with his nasty mind and his big, fat mouth. I was past crying or fighting and getting punched out. I was boiling, I had had enough crap from him, and I had an idea.

  I followed Billy home and waited on his porch until his mom came home and she made him come down and talk to me. He stood in the doorway and talked through the screen door, eating a banana and lounging around like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  So he goes, “Whatcha want, Boobs?”

  I stammered a lot, being I was so nervous about telling such big lies, but that probably made me sound more believable.

  I told him that I would make a deal with him: I would meet him that night in Baker’s Park, late, and take off my shirt and bra and let him do whatever he wanted with my boobs if that would satisfy his curiosity and he would find somebody else to pick on and leave me alone.

  “What?” he said, staring at my chest with his mouth open. His voice squeaked and he was practically drooling on the floor. He couldn’t believe his good luck.

  I said the same thing over again.

  He almost came out onto the porch to try it right then and there. “Well, shit,” he goes, lowering his voice a lot, “why didn’t you say something before? You really mean it?”

  I go, “Sure,” though I couldn’t look at him.

  After a minute he goes, “Okay, it’s a deal. Listen, Kelsey, if you like it, can we, uh, do it again, you know?”

  I go, “Sure. But Billy, one thing: this is a secret, between just you and me. If you tell anybody, if there’s one other person hanging around out there tonight—”

  “Oh no,” he goes, real fast, “I won’t say a thing to anybody, honest. Not a word, I promise!”

  Not until afterward, of course, was what he meant, which if there was one thing Billy Linden couldn’t do, it was keep quiet if he knew something bad about another person.

  “You’re gonna like it, I know you are,” he goes, speaking strictly for himself as usual. “Jeez. I can’t believe this!”

  But he did, the dork.

  I couldn’t eat much for dinner that night, I was too excited, and I went upstairs early to do homework, I told Dad and Hilda.

  Then I waited for the moon, and when it came, I changed.

  Billy was in the park. I caught a whiff of him, very sweaty and excited, but I stayed cool. I snuck around for a while, as quiet as I could – which was real quiet – making sure none of his stupid friends were lurking around. I mean, I wouldn’t have trusted just his promise for a million dollars.

  I passed up half a hamburger lying in the gutter where somebody had parked for lunch next to Baker’s Park. My mouth watered, but I didn’t want to spoil my appetite. I was hungry and happy, sort of singing inside my own head, “Shoo, fly, pie, and an apple-pan-dowdie . . .”

  Without any sound, of course.

  Billy had been sitting on a bench, his hands in his pockets, twisting around to look this way and that way, watching for me – for my human self – to come join him. He had a jacket on, being it was very chilly out.

  He didn’t stop to think that maybe a sane person wouldn’t be crazy enough to sit out there and take off her top leaving her naked skin bare to the breeze. But that was Billy all right, totally fixed on his own greedy self and without a single thought for anybody else. I bet all he could think about was what a great scam this was, to feel up old Boobs in the park and then crow about it all over school.

  Now he was walking around the park, kicking at the sprinkler-heads and glancing up every once in a while, frowning and looking sulky.

  I could see he was starting to think that I might have stood him up. Maybe he even suspected that old Boobs was lurking around watching him and laughing to herself because he had fallen for a trick. Maybe old Boobs had even brought some kids from school with her to see what a jerk he was.

  Actually that would have been pretty good, except Billy probably would have broken my nose for me again, or worse, i
f I’d tried it.

  “Kelsey?” he goes, sounding mad.

  I didn’t want him stomping off home in a huff. I moved up closer, and I let the bushes swish a little around my shoulders.

  He goes, “Hey, Kelse, it’s late, where’ve you been?”

  I listened to the words, but mostly I listened to the little thread of worry flickering in his voice, low and high, high and low, as he tried to figure out what was going on.

  I let out the whisper of a growl.

  He stood real still, staring at the bushes, and he goes, “That you, Kelse? Answer me.”

  I was wild inside, I couldn’t wait another second. I tore through the bushes and leaped for him, flying.

  He stumbled backward with a squawk – “What!” – jerking his hands up in front of his face, and he was just sucking in a big breath to yell with when I hit him like a demo-derby truck.

  I jammed my nose past his feeble claws and chomped down hard on his face.

  No sound came out of him except this wet, thick gurgle, which I could more taste than hear because the sound came right into my mouth with the gush of his blood and the hot mess of meat and skin that I tore away and swallowed.

  He thrashed around, hitting at me, but I hardly felt anything through my fur. I mean, he wasn’t so big and strong laying there on the ground with me straddling him all lean and wiry with wolf-muscle. And plus, he was in shock. I got a strong whiff from below as he let go of everything right into his pants.

  Dogs were barking, but so many people around Baker’s Park have dogs to keep out burglars, and the dogs make such a racket all the time, that nobody pays any attention. I wasn’t worried. Anyway, I was too busy to care.

  I nosed in under what was left of Billy’s jaw and I bit his throat out.

  Now let him go around telling lies about people.

  His clothes were a lot of trouble and I really missed having hands. I managed to drag his shirt out of his belt with my teeth, though, and it was easy to tear his belly open. Pretty messy, but once I got in there, it was better than Thanksgiving dinner. Who would think that somebody as horrible as Billy Linden could taste so good?

  He was barely moving by then, and I quit thinking about him as Billy Linden any more. I quit thinking at all, I just pushed my head in and pulled out delicious steaming chunks and ate until I was picking at tidbits, and everything was getting cold.

  On the way home I saw a police car cruising the neighborhood the way they do sometimes. I hid in the shadows and of course they never saw me.

  There was a lot of washing up to do in the morning, and when Hilda saw my sheets she shook her head and she goes, “You should be more careful about keeping track of your period so as not to get caught by surprise.”

  Everybody in school knew something had happened to Billy Linden, but it wasn’t until the day after that that they got the word. Kids stood around in little huddles trading rumors about how some wild animal had chewed Billy up. I would walk up and listen in and add a really gross remark or two, like part of the game of thrilling each other green and nauseous with made-up details to see who would upchuck first.

  Not me, that’s for sure. I mean, when somebody went on about how Billy’s whole head was gnawed down to the skull and they didn’t even know who he was except from the bus pass in his wallet, I got a little urpy. It’s amazing the things people will dream up. But when I thought about what I had actually done to Billy, I had to smile.

  It felt totally wonderful to walk through the halls without having anybody yelling, “Hey, Boobs!”

  There are people who just plain do not deserve to live. And the same goes for Fat Joey, if he doesn’t quit crowding me in science lab, trying to get a feel.

  One funny thing, though, I don’t get periods at all any more. I get a little crampy, and my breasts get sore, and I break out more than usual – and then instead of bleeding, I change.

  Which is fine with me, though I take a lot more care now about how I hunt on my wolf nights. I stay away from Baker’s Park. The suburbs go on for miles and miles, and there are lots of places I can hunt and still get home by morning. A running wolf can cover a lot of ground.

  And I make sure I make my kills where I can eat in private, so no cop car can catch me unawares, which could easily have happened that night when I killed Billy, I was so deep into the eating thing that first time. I look around a lot more now when I’m eating a kill, I keep watch.

  Good thing it’s only once a month that this happens, and only a couple of nights. “The Full Moon Killer” has the whole State up in arms and terrified as it is.

  Eventually I guess I’ll have to go somewhere else, which I’m not looking forward to at all. If I can just last until I can have a car of my own, life will get a lot easier.

  Meantime, some wolf nights I don’t even feel like hunting. Mostly I’m not as hungry as I was those first times. I think I must have been storing up my appetite for a long time. Sometimes I just prowl around and I run, boy do I run.

  If I am hungry, sometimes I eat from the garbage instead of killing somebody. It’s no fun, but you do get a taste for it. I don’t mind garbage as long as once in a while I can have the real thing fresh-killed, nice and wet. People can be awfully nasty, but they sure taste sweet.

  I do pick and choose, though. I look for people sneaking around in the middle of the night, like Billy, waiting in the park that time. I figure they’ve got to be out looking for trouble at that hour, so whose fault is it if they find it? I have done a lot more for the burglary problem around Baker’s Park than a hundred dumb “watchdogs”, believe me.

  Gerry-Anne is not only talking to me again, she has invited me to go on a double-date with her. Some guy she met at a party invited her, and he has a friend. They’re both from Fawcett Junior High across town, which will be a change. I was nervous, but finally I said yes. We’re going to the movies next weekend. My first real date! I am still pretty nervous, to tell the truth.

  For New Year’s, I have made two solemn vows.

  One is that on this date I will not worry about my chest, I will not be self-conscious, even if the guy stares.

  The other is, I’ll never eat another dog.

  Neil Gaiman

  ONLY THE END OF THE WORLD AGAIN

  Neil Gaiman is one of the most acclaimed comics writers of his generation, most notably for his epic World Fantasy Award-winning Sandman series (collected into various volumes) and his numerous graphic novel collaborations with artist Dave McKean (Violent Cases, Black Orchid, Signal to Noise, Mr. Punch, The Day I Swapped My Dad for Two Goldfish and The Wolves in the Walls).

  He is the author of such best-selling novels as Good Omens (with Terry Pratchett), Neverwhere, Stardust, American Gods, Coraline, Anansi Boys, Odd and the Frost Giants, Interworld (with Michael Reaves) and The Graveyard Book.

  Angels & Visitations: A Miscellany is a collection of his short fiction that won the International Horror Guild Award. It was followed by Smoke and Mirrors, Adventures in the Dream Trade, Fragile Things and M is for Magic.

  He created the BBC mini-series Neverwhere (with Lenny Henry) and scripted the English-language version of Princess Mononoke, an episode of Babylon 5 (“Day of the Dead”), Dave McKean’s MirrorMask and Robert Zemeckis’ 3-D epic Beowulf (with Roger Avary). Mathhew Vaughn’s movie Stardust and Henry Selick’s Coraline are adapted from the author’s work.

  The following is one of two stories that Gaiman has written about “Lawrence Talbot” – the name of the character originally played by Lon Chaney, Jr. in the 1941 Universal movie The Wolf Man – who is re-imagined as a lycanthropic “Adjustor” in this tale of Lovecraftian monsters. It is dedicated to the late Fritz Leiber.

  It was a bad day: I woke up naked in bed, with a cramp in my stomach, feeling more or less like hell. Something about the quality of the light, stretched and metallic, like the colour of a migraine, told me it was afternoon.

  The room was freezing – literally: there was a thin crust of ice on the inside
of the windows. The sheets on the bed around me were ripped and clawed, and there was animal hair in the bed. It itched.

  I was thinking about staying in bed for the next week – I’m always tired after a change – but a wave of nausea forced me to disentangle myself from the bedding, and to stumble, hurriedly, into the apartment’s tiny bathroom.

  The cramps hit me again as I got to the bathroom door. I held on to the door-frame and I started to sweat. Maybe it was a fever; I hoped I wasn’t coming down with something.

  The cramping was sharp in my guts. My head was swimming. I crumpled to the floor, and, before I could manage to raise my head enough to find the toilet bowl, I began to spew.

  I vomited a foul-smelling thin yellow liquid; in it was a dog’s paw – my guess was a Doberman’s, but I’m not really a dog person; a tomato peel; some diced carrots and sweet corn; some lumps of half-chewed meat, raw; and some fingers. They were fairly small, pale fingers, obviously a child’s.

  “Shit.”

  The cramps eased up, and the nausea subsided. I lay on the floor, with stinking drool coming out of my mouth and nose, with the tears you cry when you’re being sick drying on my cheeks.

  When I felt a little better I picked up the paw and the fingers from the pool of spew and threw them into the toilet bowl, flushed them away.

  I turned on the tap, rinsed out my mouth with the briny Innsmouth water, and spat it into the sink. I mopped up the rest of the sick as best I could with washcloth and toilet paper. Then I turned on the shower, and stood in the bathtub like a zombie as the hot water sluiced over me.

  I soaped myself down, body and hair. The meagre lather turned grey; I must have been filthy. My hair was matted with something that felt like dried blood, and I worked at it with the bar of soap until it was gone. Then I stood under the shower until the water turned icy.

  There was a note under the door from my landlady. It said that I owed her for two weeks’ rent. It said that all the answers were in the Book of Revelations. It said that I made a lot of noise coming home in the early hours of this morning, and she’d thank me to be quieter in future. It said that when the Elder Gods rose up from the ocean, all the scum of the Earth, all the non-believers, all the human garbage and the wastrels and deadbeats would be swept away, and the world would be cleansed by ice and deep water. It said that she felt she ought to remind me that she had assigned me a shelf in the refrigerator when I arrived and she’d thank me if in the future I’d keep to it.