The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
The Werewolf of London
by Naching T. Kassa
Night had fallen over London and with it, a pall of fear such as I have never known.
The morning newspapers had been full of the horror which had occurred in Queen Anne Street, the street where my practice now stood, but few know of the true particulars. The public may be aware that a man, a physician—like myself—had been murdered in an alley just up the street from my surgery. What the public did not know, was that Inspector Lestrade had asked me to aid in his investigation of the body. It seems the police surgeon had become ill and could not continue his task. I soon learned why.
The body had been torn to shreds. The face was a mass of tissue and bone—completely unrecognizable.
“We’ve identified him by the calling cards in his pocket. He is..was…Dr. Paul Ames,” Lestrade said.
“Dr. Ames? The renowned botanist?”
“The same.” He shook his head. “What could have done this, doctor?”
I stared at the man lying upon the cobbled stone of the alley. “It looks as though he’s been savaged by a dog or…” I trailed off, unwilling to voice my suspicions.
“Or what?”
“A wolf,” I replied.
“Impossible. There are no wolves in London.” He sighed. “This is the third murder in as many weeks, doctor, and I don’t mind telling you, I wish Mr. Holmes was here. Has his business in the Americas concluded?”
“It has. He should return within a fortnight.”
“If only it were sooner.”
***
Lestrade’s words haunted me later that evening, as I stepped out the doors of my practice and turned the key in the lock. I could not help but agree with his sentiment. I began my journey home, my footsteps echoing through the fog.
I had not gone far when an eerie sound filled the air. It was a howl, one not unlike that of the dreadful hound which had menaced the Baskervilles. It seemed to come from all about me, chilling my blood. I froze, listening.
Soft footsteps, like the padding of some great animal’s feet, drifted toward me from the surrounding fog. I pulled my revolver from my coat pocket. Something snarled to my left and I caught a glimpse of glowing, yellow eyes.
A beast crept out of the mist. It walked on two legs.
I stared in horror at the strange amalgam of man and wolf which stood before me. The beast was covered with fur, and possessed the muzzle of a wolf, yet its body still resembled that of a human being. It howled and rushed toward me. I fired my revolver.
To my horror, the bullets did not affect the beast. It charged me, ignoring the lead which struck home in several places. I emptied every chamber of the revolver into it, and would have used the weapon as a club, had not several shots rung out. None were my own.
The beast howled in pain and clutching its chest, fell. I turned to see two men emerge from the fog. Both held revolvers in their hands. One, was my friend, Sherlock Holmes. The other was a masked man clad in the style of an American.
“Are you quite alright, Watson?” Holmes asked, rushing to my side. I nodded, gripping his arm.
“Thank heaven you’ve come,” I replied. “Holmes, that beast, it was—”
“A werewolf, old fellow. One we’ve followed from the shores of America. He bears the doctors of London a grudge. None would treat his condition, and when he found the cure, it was too late.”
“Mr. Holmes,” the masked man called.
We joined him at the side of the beast, which had begun a strange and horrifying transformation. Hair receded into the thing’s body and the muzzle shrank and became more human. The creature opened its blue eyes and regarded us with something like contempt.
“You have bested me, Holmes,” he said.
“Where is the cure, Glendon?” Holmes replied. “We know you took it from Dr. Ames.”
“There is a man who may yet be saved,” the masked man added.
“You will never have it,” Glendon replied. These were the last words he would speak. He died, a smile frozen upon his lips.
“He’s dead. And he’s taken the secret with him,” the masked man cried.
“Do not despair, Reid,” Holmes said, kneeling beside Glendon’s body. He examined the hands of the corpse and the soles of his feet. “The soil beneath his nails can only come from a place north of London, a place known to house the finest greenhouse in all of England—Falden Abbey. It is there that we will find the Mariphassa blossom and the cure for your friend. If you will fetch the cab, Dr. Watson and I will take the body to his surgery. We can leave it there until the constabulary calls to collect it.”
Holmes and I returned to my surgery with Glendon’s corpse. When we had left it there, covered by a sheet, I turned to Holmes.
“How has this come to pass, Holmes? A man who can transform into a wolf?”
“It is a long tale, old fellow, one I shall divulge on our journey to Falden Abbey. You will come?”
“Of course. But will you satisfy one question before we go? How did you kill the werewolf? My bullets had no effect upon it.”
He pulled a bullet from the pocket of his coat and held it out to me. It glimmered in the gaslight.
“Silver? A silver bullet? Where did you procure such an item?”
“From our friend, the masked fellow. Though, I’ll wager you know him by another name.”
“What is that?”
“The Lone Ranger.”
.
Fiction © Copyright Naching T. Kassa
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
More from Naching T. Kassa:
Discover the untold mysteries of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson in Sherlock Holmes and the Arcana of Madness, a trilogy that unveils three captivating cases intertwined with the mystical allure of tarot cards, designed by the renowned, yet infamous artist, Richard Dadd.
A collection of manuscripts, meticulously penned by John H. Watson M.D., is unearthed in 2019 amidst the restoration of Broadmoor Hospital, found inexplicably in the grave of Richard Dadd. The manuscripts’ concealed journey and their remaining unpublished raise a myriad of questions, enveloping them in a veil of mystery.
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