The eye of the hurricane, that hush valley surrounded by mountains of fury wickedness, a moment frozen in time said to resemble a calm peacefulness. A statement true in theory but false in reality given the path of destruction and the unstoppable coming second wave of annihilation.

     This was the setting throughout much of continental Europe at this moment in history, then again the same could be said for most any setting throughout European history. The late 1920s were undoubtedly a time of strife and uncertainty in their own right, nestled between a rock and a hard place in the form of the two World Wars, those twin conflicts of the twentieth century that had dwarfed the tales of chivalrous bravery passed down through the ages of proud battles gone by. For those serving on the front lines during the Great War, adjectives glorifying the beauty of battle were no longer en vogue as such former tall tales of gallantry and gentlemanly conduct were all but forgotten in the wake and reality of modern warfare.

     There were some places though where more had been befallen on the shoulders of the populace in addition to the wreckage of unprecedented carnage and the fleeting memory of the dying. Places where the legends, folklore and fairy tales of the rich and lush forests continued to be passed down from the forefathers to the various age based classes among the living, although it was not always a wise old man spinning tales of firsthand encounters, as the youthful and intrepid gathered audiences or listeners to share their stories and experiences to as well.

     The sleepy town of Ibersheim, located in the forests of the Rhineland-Palatinate, a region of Southwest Germany historically in union with Bavaria, was just such a setting. The most popular subject matter for such stories here centered on sightings and incidents involving werewolves, the cursed legendary lycanthropes believed by some to roam the forests of central Europe and prey on individuals, of both the suspecting and unsuspecting variety.

Tales of the shape shifting creatures transforming from man to beast and rising during the full moon to seek out their victims have persisted for centuries. The most likely origin of this snippet of folklore could be an early misunderstanding of human development regarding psychological disorders, diseases, or simply the need for a shepherd to find a scapegoat when his herd had been mauled to death by wild animals. Whatever the source, these rumors have persisted into the twenty-first century, that tiny portion of the spectrum of time that we call home. They have persisted with stories of barbaric curses, ghastly transformations, and silver bullets as told from the noblest of authors to the cheesiest of quarter priced matinee films.

Now, these mythical human-animal hybrids cannot possibly exist now, can they? There is no documentation beyond the questionable domain of hearsay, hoax, fabrication and ulterior motive to suggest evidence to the contrary. However, just as the legends themselves could hardly pass for an authenticity rating of one hundred percent, most every legend does bring forth with it a ring of truth, and even if that does eliminate ninety nine percent from achieving satisfaction, there is always that sliver of a statistic that is the stuff that nightmares are bred from. Please open your eyes, your mind, and most importantly your ears, in case a howling you hear in the distance does not happen to be located a safe distance away. Adorn yourself with your silver, and keep tight if the moon is full, and above all, enjoy your trip through the beautiful German cities, forests and castles, a setting that looks as though it is right out of a fairy tale. Be warned however, that based upon your grounding in reality, it just may be...

2: Chapter 1

Palms and fingers draped across his slumping face, thoughts of his impending homecoming grip his mind as he glances out the small window of the locomotive to take in the sights of the thick forests coating the German countryside. Magical, enchanted, haunted, whatever the case may be, they were simply a dark outline in the late night sky as he rests his head against the thick comforting caress of the cloth encapsulating the coach seat of the train.

The small town of Ibersheim used to be a sight to behold, a garden of the Earth green and vigorous and full of life and spirit. The Great War and the coming years of reconstruction had altered the landscape dramatically and permanently, and there was hardly a nook or cranny in all of the Weimar Republic that was free of the aftershocks of its icy cold grasp. Neither the color of this saintly garden nor its architecture had changed very much in the meantime, as the Palatinate was spared of the worst, but the innocence had long been stripped and its spirit had been extinguished. Its glorious vision rooted and heavily steeped in the past, question marks ran rampant here and elsewhere throughout the continent, as an uncertain future lay ahead.

Twenty-six year old Heinrich Geisler had been one of the fortunate ones considering that he was not a man of the fighting variety. His significantly impaired vision which had been a detrimental liability of indebtedness throughout much of his life had turned into an asset overnight, having restricted him from the German army and allowing him to leave his hometown and take his studies to Munich. Graduating with high marks and honorary distinction from the Ludwig Maximilians University, the young Heinrich Geisler was a scholar, avid researcher and expert in folklore. The Great War may have ended however the battle continued raging on in his hometown and throughout the country in 1924, where hyperinflation of a failed economic state symbolized in the form of overflowing Deutschemarks cluttered the streets like a landfill exploding with garbage.

Summoned to return to his hometown in order to investigate a sharp increase of alleged werewolf sightings, Heinrich was eager for a reunion in the Rhineland-Palatinate and an opportunity to leave behind for a brief period the pandemonium bordering on anarchy that was sweeping through the streets of Munich, leading to him quickly acquiescing in the request set forth.

Legends of werewolves, were-foxes and other shape shifting commodities were quite rife, stories being told and bandied about in a manner so serious as to warrant them coming of age rights of passage. They dated back centuries throughout the fragmented history of the German nation, from the Middle Ages to the Holy Roman Empire to long before either had arisen, and to the present day Weimar Republic. They may have also played a hand in steering the course of study for Heinrich, a formerly adventurous young tyke that grew into quite the inquisitive adolescent and studious adult.

As the train chugs and choo-choo’s, emitting clouds of hot steam before coming to a rest, Heinrich glances out the window one last time, focusing on the small wooden hometown station, friendly yet foreign looking, as it had been quite sometime since he last set foot here, and now he had arrived.

Ever the inquisitive mind, his thoughts begin to theorize that although alleged sightings had recently begun increasing dramatically in frequency, no matter what the culture or time period, economic troughs and downturn cycles have a way of leading to increased levels of stress, panic, excuses and pointing of fingers as explanations become more difficult to rationalize—-or worse, they become more painful to do so.

Getting to work immediately, Heinrich wastes little time as he meets with the blue ribbon panel—-or a motley crew, depending upon your point of view, that is assigned to get to the bottom of this investigation. Included among the panel are Mayor Wilhelm Dietrich, Chief of Police Albert Gunther, and local sharpshooting war hero Karl-Heinz Bachmeier, a man serving as the lead hunter.  

“Herr Geisler, we appreciate your return. We refused to have any outsider from Munich or elsewhere inform us how to conduct our affairs,” explains the town Mayor Dietrich.

“Why thank you gentlemen, it is always nice to return to my hometown whenever I can. Just what precisely are we looking at here, what do we have on our hands?” asks Heinrich.

“What we have here, Herr Geisler, is a problem as severe as anything from Munich to Berlin, and I am not talking about financial or economic matters of Marks and coinage, I can assure you of that!” barks Chief Gunther.

“Apologies in advance for my impending tone of sarcasm, but you have not been at the forefront of where the action is,” explains Heinrich. “These are trying times everywhere throughout the land, many people are in peril. Those faraway big cities you speak of, Munich and Berlin, are drowning in desolation and calamity. I understand I would not have been beckoned to return for merely a shredded sheep or a rash of mutilated cattle. I suspect that you have a quantifiable monster on your hands that is terrorizing civilians left and right, otherwise you have wasted the request of my appearance and I am to be severely disappointed.”

“Nine murders. This is not a case of some insignificant fatality involving an animal grazing in the grass and turning into a plate of steak served rare before his acquaintance with the slaughterhouse. Nine of the most vicious, heinous, murders I have seen in my career, so repugnant as to make Satan himself shield his eyes with his trident and wince and squirm in horror and roll his tail into a curve,” explains Chief Gunther.

“Apologies once more for not appreciating the magnitude of the situation bordering and frankly trespassing into the realm of the obscene and disturbing. Little late to mitigate my loss of dignity, but most stops along my tale of the supernatural involve merely baseless conjecture devoid of any tangible evidence. Do you have any leads?” asks Heinrich.

“Yes we do, although our lead hunter here, Karl-Heinz is skeptical of the evidence gathered up to this point,” replies Dietrich.

“The return of the schoolboy. Good morning Sir, nice to meet you Herr Geisler, I have heard a great deal of your work, I must say that I am quite impressed and envious of your formal education,” declares Bachmeier.

“Professionally honored and personally delighted to be in the presence of a hero myself. Likewise, I have heard a great detail of you and your exploits in the trenches of the Ardennes, your heroism on the folktale pantheon would be enough to make the skin of a werewolf itch with jealousy,” jokes Heinrich.

“Very happy to hear you say such kind words, educated men of your ilk will be the future leaders of this nation, as bullet slinging military men such as myself are relegated to the endangered species list. Being the last of a dying breed with the trenches cleared, I find myself hunting this mythological creature,” replies Bachmeier.

“Take my unsolicited advice, I would not be so fast to commit myself to any long-term career plans with the world falling apart all around us. Never know if this ‘War to end all Wars’ will give birth to a sequel. I take it that you have seen this werewolf for yourself, with your own two eyes, free from the shine and influence of alcohol?” asks Heinrich.

“The downside to being a hunter of werewolves is that the taste of alcohol is hardly a match for the slothful way that it slogs the mind and the reflexes, which must be sharpened to the brink to stand a chance at success in this unforgiving arena. I have collected the hides of three large, grey wolves within the past five months, although the killings persist,” explains Bachmeier.

“I see. Fill me in then if you will on the division slicing through this room amidst and in spite of your alleged clues and evidence?” asks Geiser.

“All of the evidence points to one source, a Herr Abraham Eggers, a rather whimsical fellow, the man is a reclusive farmer in the countryside,” explains Chief Gunther.

“A growing number of townspeople are in an uproar over this suspect. Several witnesses have repeatedly reported seeing the werewolf in the vicinity of his property, including his house and barn. Yet the wolf has not killed any of his livestock. Footprints of a large wolf have been properly documented on and around this property as well. Karl-Heinz here has also spotted a wolf on the property. Most damning of all, four of the victims were in the nearby countryside at the time of their deaths. When we have informed Abraham of these facts and offered assistance and help, he has grown belligerent and refused, the only man we have come across to do so in light of what has transpired.”

“Herr Bachmeier, do you believe there is a correlation between these things and this Abraham Eggers fellow?” asks Heinrich.

“Quite possible. Very circumstantial though, wouldn’t you think? We cannot jump to conclusions and rush to judgment,” explains Bachmeier.

“My thoughts exactly,” answers Heinrich.

“While I do appreciate the sentiment of fair play, the two of you are consultants in this case. Mayor Dietrich, it is the two of us who happen to share jurisdiction over this matter. I wish to request that we detain Eggers on the night of the Full Moon, October 24th. If you would allow, we could detain him that morning, ask questions and quarantine him over the course of the full moon. Should nothing uneventful occur while he is in custody and we determine that he is not the werewolf, we could release him the next day,” offers Chief Gunther.

     “Go ahead, you two decide, I am just a sharpshooter,” says Bachmeier.

“And I am just an investigator,” replies Heinrich.

     “Nine dead already, all signs point to this farmer. If we can save a life or two and put an end to this madness, it will all be worthwhile. The Chief and myself will interrogate and hold Abraham Eggers for the day and night, while you two patrol the town for the wolf. God help me I cannot believe that said words were spoken from my mouth,” declares Mayor Dietrich.

3: Chapter 2

Feeling the flames of the growing burning desire to take the investigative process to the next level, Heinrich decides to inspect Abraham Eggers himself that evening. Arriving at his small farm nestled on the outskirts of the village and flirting with the countryside, all that can be heard are the crickets chirping about in the grass and the loud barrage of thuds as Heinrich knocks loudly, all for not as the knocking gives way to silence in the cool nighttime air as all is quiet. Suspiciously enough the lights inside of his home are on, although the man apparently has refused to answer...

     Days later on the morning of October the 24th, a mere matter of hours before the full moon blossoms and glistens the dark night sky in a pale light, the four men arrive and knock on the door of Abraham Eggers.

     “This man never leaves, why would he not answer? He always has before, something is wrong,” explains Chief Gunther.

     “Look! Through the window!” shouts Bachmeier.

Forcing open the door by shouldering their weight, they find the old man lying in a pool of blood that continues to trickle down the hardwood floors, with the man dead of a gunshot wound from a nearby pistol now drenched in blood. On the table is a note, which reads the following: 

 

A great many years I have spent on this Earth, where I have raised children and animal alike. The spring of my life withered away in one cursed night as I brought arms against a predator seizing my best colt. Able to fend off the demon spawn, I was nevertheless severely wounded, and in the months that passed an infection developed far greater than Diphtheria or Typhoid, for a great plague descended upon me, transforming me into a wretched beast of terror and turmoil. I beg for you to brand me not as a coward on my gravestone, know that I had the interests of the town in mind, and I merely feared the consequences of seeking outside help, and grew weary of finding a cure, and seeking refuge from myself. –A. R. Eggers

 

     “It was him, by God my instincts were true!” boasts Chief Gunther.

“I find myself at a loss for words. Sure enough, you were correct Chief,” reveals Bachmeier.

“All that we can do is wait for the full moon to pass, see if there are any further homicides or accidents or sightings,” describes Heinrich.

“Agreed. We shall go about our normal business, and keep word of this death silent for the time being,” Mayor Dietrich explains. “You never know if there is still another nocturnal menace lurking about, after all something bit poor Abraham here.”

The next several nights pass by with hardly an incident creating havoc. In a town where wolf sightings were taken seriously and almost zero tolerance was afforded to purveyors of a hoax, not one report came in of any rogue wolf. More importantly, not one casualty is reported, as the four men drive around town patrolling the cobblestone streets and searching around the wooden triangle framed Bavarian style buildings out of caution.

After three long and arduous nights of waiting patiently, the moon slips below the horizon into morning and the case is declared closed. Abraham Eggers is revealed to the town as the werewolf, a proclamation that is firmly and nearly unanimously accepted as such from the town eager to brand the reclusive farmer as the problem. In the days to come the solitary farmer would be buried in a most unceremonious ritual as the flames of hatred burned blazingly amongst the townspeople, but both the farmer bitten with a touch of evil and the monster that had been birthed to terrorize the town were still buried nonetheless, deep in the ground, the problems and the horror dying with Abraham Eggers...

Two months later while back in town for the Christmas Holiday, Heinrich is spending a Friday night out and about on the town with his family, as the delinquent rays of the setting sun has produced a rhythmic tangoing of twilight cascading throughout the region. While enjoying a horse drawn carriage ride on a street gliding through the forest on the outskirts of town lit by the soft twinkle of street lamps, the festive delight is subdued and replaced with confusion as the horses come to an abrupt halt, refusing to tread any further. Down the walk Heinrich Geisler and his family can hear a creature stirring about in the woods, a creature that sounds ravenous and prowling, as if angered, hungry, and ready to strike at a moment’s notice.         

The confusion is replaced with horror as the creature steps from the brush, emerging from the darkness of the forest. An enormous, bulky black animal scampers onto the path before coming to a stop in the center of the street, standing before the frightened family, who watch on in astonishment and another emotion above any other, fear. Snarling his breath and gnashing his teeth in a ferocious manner in order to display his chalk white fangs, the beast unleashes a preemptive warning before the impending strike.

Gazing down from his perch atop the five-foot tall carriage is Heinrich, a carriage suddenly much smaller and inferior as to what it had been back up the path not long before. Locking eyes with the beast under the white of the moonlight, Heinrich cannot help but gasp as the emotions of shock, suspense, and doom make way for familiarity. Those eyes, that unforgiving, unambiguous, definite bright green iris and its adjacent twin that had looked at him with contempt and arrogance before. The thing was, the beast appeared to view Heinrich Geisler in much the same way, as if he was just as startled with him as Heinrich was startled seeing a huge wolf bearing its saliva drenched fangs before him. Difficult to imagine as it sounds.

Briefly moving in for a closer look, after about five seconds (or forty for story-telling purposes) the wolf leaps off the trail and scampers fleetingly back into the woods, vanishing into the night in a heartbeat just as quickly as he had unexpectedly arrived.

“My God in Heaven,” utters Heinrich, dealing with the immediate aftermath of his first close encounter with a werewolf and the realization that another wolf is alive and well and on the prowl. Assuring his family that all was fine, pleading turns to ordering as the horses slowly gallop through the path and out of the forest, still spooked from the incident, just as were the family Geisler.

Ordering his family to remain locked inside for safety purposes out of the fear of violent death, Heinrich gathers his father’s shotgun and climbs into the family automobile, beginning to drive towards the police station. Thoughts darting across the landscape of his mind, at long last they focus in on one aspect in particular, settling on a meeting he had with a mayor, a sharpshooting hunter...and a police chief that was so desperate and persuasive in labeling Abraham as the werewolf.

“Where is Chief Gunther, this is highly urgent! You all are in danger!” demands Heinrich upon arriving at the police station.

“The Chief is out of town for Christmas, what is this all about?” asks an officer.

 “There may be a second...werewolf,” elicits Heinrich, as if lowering his foot onto the brakes of his emotional outburst, having second thoughts as to just how much information he will reveal. “Please have him telephone me at once upon his return.”

They simply would not believe me at this hour, my breath reeks of beer from dinner earlier. They will think that I have gone mad, accusing a man like him of such debauchery. They would scoff at my alcohol influenced observation and dismiss my credibility in an instant, and report me to Munich, and that is if I am lucky. If I am not, they will do the above and probably lock me up or worse. I need further evidence, need to sleep on this one, plan it out, he contemplated to himself as the parade of thoughts slowly came to an end as the spectators of the mind, the brain neurons dispersed for the evening allowing for sleep.

Taking the only course of action he deems proper the following day, opting to come face to face with the perpetrator, Heinrich’s heart skips a beat as he walks towards the door, as his entire career as a researcher and investigator of folklore has come down to this moment.

Responding to the knock and opening the door is the adversary, green eyes shining down upon Heinrich.

“Herr Geisler? Delightful to see you, whatever could be on your mind at this early hour?”

“Holiday season or not, I had a feeling you were still right here in town. Just had to say thank you,” explains Heinrich.

“Thank you?”

“Yes, thank you for not attacking me last night,” replies Heinrich.

“How’s that?”

“Let’s kill the charade, shall we? Last night on the forest trail. I happened to witness the largest wolf these eyes of mine have ever come across. Staunch, thick black fir, and the unrelenting green moonlight glow of a pair of eyes staring up at me that belonged to no wolf, and no being of mythology for that matter. Eyes that resemble very much the pair staring down at me right now, your eyes. Funny thing is that I came by here last night for a haphazard verification attempt. Surely enough no one was home,” declares Heinrich.

     “You must be mistaking me for Chief Gunther. My eyes really are more of a hazel.”

4: Chapter 3

“You are the one, Karl-Heinz!” shouts Heinrich.

“These words of which you speak leave me intrigued and thirsting for more. Come in,” replies Karl-Heinz Bachmeier.

     “Before you undertake any offensive or defensive tactic, I do wish to warn you that I have assembled onto myself all of the silver in my possession, and have splashed myself full of cloves, declares Heinrich, boasting about the measures of his anti-werewolf expertise.

“Fine, may I offer you a drink?” asks Bachmeier.

“It’s ten in the morning,” replies Heinrich.

“Be that as it may, us werewolves can go days without rest, and I have been out of the den for almost a week, the pack must be searching for me tooth and nail,” replies the adversary with a sarcastic howl, followed by a deep laugh forming and emerging from the belly of the man.

“Thank you, I needed a good laugh. Don’t we all? Even in dire situations such as the present thicket we find ourselves tied to, life is still too short not to have some fun, thus it always helps to make a game of it, that’s all that life is, a game,” replies Bachmeier. “By the way, for being an expert, you should be aware that silver does not work all of the time.”

Staring at the alleged werewolf with an expressionless tinge to his face, Heinrich uses silence to fish for explanation. Following a brief pause, the alleged wolf speaks up again: “All right. Yes, I knew that it was you last night on the trail. Could not fathom killing the hand helping spread news of my deeds near and far.”

“My regards for sparing my life,” replies Heinrich in a stark and sarcastic tone. “How Bachmeier, how did this begin?”

Pausing once more, Karl-Heinz Bachmeier takes in a generously sized sip of schnapps before clearing his throat. “Tasty and delicious, although you could say that those two characteristics are one and the same, much like man and animal. I would be a gracious host and pour you a glass but I would not want to interrupt my impending tale. You know, I have never told anyone else my story before, and it is aching upon my swollen conscience to set it free. Sit down, sit down,” request Bachmeier.

“During the war I was the best sharpshooter around, it came very naturally to me, and as a result I found that I developed quite a taste for blood. A thirst if you will that was most unquenchable off of the battlefield, but on it, I was most satisfied. In the process I began to love the hunt, loved to kill, and knew that I wouldn’t be able to stop, nor did I want to. Label it a psychological disorder if you must, some diffused form of shell shock, some things you just cannot sum up in a name,” details Bachmeier.

“Yes but as to this dreaded transformation? Were you attacked by a wolf in the trenches, in the Ardennes Forest?” asks Heinrich.

“Not a bad hypothesis you’ve cooked up there, but inaccurate nonetheless. In my travels towards the end of the conflict, with the war ending soon I knew that I had to do something to allow for the continuation of this hobby that had become habit, and by 1917 had blossomed into an addiction. Scouring for answers up and down each and every town that I journeyed through, from the largest cities to the smallest countryside villages, from royalty residing in medieval castles to two-bit practitioners living in huts in the forests, I searched onward, seeking answers that I began to doubt even existed. Then one day, in a place not too far away, right here in the Palatinate, I was referred to an elderly sorcerer. Almost instinctively I could tell that he had an eye for this sort of thing and could treat me for my affliction, curing me of my impulses by providing unto me something in exchange. He was a master of black magic, the type that could cast spells upon his enemies, and he spoke as though he could turn them into various things, this man yielded a powerful aura of confidence the likes of which I had never seen before, even among military men.

“After telling him about myself, and my exploits, and my problem, he espoused a rather unorthodox idea, one that he initially seemed opposed to in light of its random wickedness, but I had prospered from my distinguished military career and could make him wealthy. Funny and sad how the most devout and sacred among us will turn a blind eye to almighty God if the price is right...regardless of whether or not they are of the churchgoing type. Keep in mind that this was 1918, shortly after the Treaty of Versailles was signed; back when the mark still had some value to it.

“His petty reluctance tempered and suppressed in light of my monetary contributions, and in no time at all we struck a deal. Since I had wished to continue my career as a rogue marksman, or serial killer if you prefer, he had explained how he had turned some enemies of his into werewolves, and how such a transformation would theoretically allow for my work to remain unchecked. The more I thought about it the more I was able to lend credence to the idea, believing that it was the perfect shield for a rogue such as myself. Any autopsy from any kill would reveal an attack by a large animal, bites and scratch marks and the like. Combining this evidentiary sword and shield with my already swift nature and soul of a soldier was like fitting an eagle with brass talons to adorn his sharp claws. I would never be caught, and would be able to kill whomever I wished, as I pleased,” explains Bachmeier.

“To think, the entire German army and nation view you as a war hero, while underneath it all you are as sick as any man that died on those battlefields of gangrene or Typhoid, and twice as insane,” claims Heinrich. “Still, how on Earth did he transform you from a lunatic into a lycanthrope? Stealing livestock and unwary strangers as you please?”

Peering into the air above, the thoughts of Karl-Heinz Bachmeier drift back into time once more, to 1918...

5: Chapter 4

6: Chapter 5

7: Chapter 6