The old gypsy woman lied. There is no cure, unless one counts death as a cure. The full, autumn moon will soon rise in the sky. I wait and watch in horror. Soon the hunger will overwhelm me, then I’ll lose consciousness. Only flashes of memory will remain—running wildly as bare branches tear at me, cold ground
fog, smelling the scent, hunting intently, and hearing distant dogs and men in grim pursuit. Tomorrow I will awake, lost, sore, half-naked and covered with someone’s still warm blood. And know that I face two more full moon nights.
fog, smelling the scent, hunting intently, and hearing distant dogs and men in grim pursuit. Tomorrow I will awake, lost, sore, half-naked and covered with someone’s still warm blood. And know that I face two more full moon nights.
Readers might need to look up Larry Talbot...
