Werewolves of London

On this night, while mist prowled through the village, and rain beat down on the roof of the police station, thirteen men stood in a circle about the altar, their hands raised above their heads, their heads flung back in supplication. For these were the chosen ones. They had worked towards this night, preparing themselves physically and spiritually, cleansing their bodies as they fortified their souls. Now they were ready to begin the rites, to initiate the ancient ritual which would awaken the dark one from his ages-long slumber, and set him loose once more upon the earth.

All preparations had been completed: their clothing had been cast aside, and their bodies smeared with animal blood. The sacrifice had been made ready on the altar – Steve Denny lay there, unconscious, his naked body daubed with arcane symbols, his mind no longer present. Steve Denny was, in fact, no more. What lay on the altar was a living, breathing corpse. A receptacle awaiting its new master.

Outside, the mist seemed to gather momentum, roiling and crawling more furiously than before. The rain beat down with renewed force, as if trying to match the mist in its anger. Thunder roared across the sky. Lightning flashed.

In the basement, seven candles, the only illumination, flickered as one. The movement broke the trance-like state into which the thirteen had drifted. Their eyes snapped open, but glowed dull, lifeless. Their arms descended till they could grasp hands, forming a ring around the altar. One of their number detached himself from the others, moved towards the lifeless body lying on the slab. This one stood at the foot of the altar, his arms raised, looking down on the body formerly inhabited by the farmer’s son.

“Let us begin.”

The twelve dropped to their knees. Their leader began a low, whispered chant, which was picked up by the others, building in volume as it progressed. The chant was in an ancient, half-forgotten tongue, only hinted at in dark legends and in a few rare manuscripts.

The candles flickered again. The moment was nigh.

“Oh Nameless One,” called the thirteenth man, “hear us, Your servants! From Your ancient slumber we call upon You to awaken and come forth once more to walk among us! Hear our call, oh Mighty One, as we recite the words set down by Your most faithful devotees, in days long past, when last You ruled over men!”

“Hear us, Ravager of Life, as we speak the words to break Your imprisonment, to end Your banishment, and to restore You to Your rightful place among, and yet above, mortal men! Hear us, Scourge of the Light, as we bid You… awake!”

The candles leapt into agitated life, flickering to twice, three times their former height. Outside, the rain redoubled its efforts, hammering at every surface in sight. Thunder cracked and lightning whipped the storm, while down below the mist seemed to pour from the very air. Dense banks of vapour invaded the town, obscuring gardens and buildings as once it had obscured wet patches on the road.

On the altar, the body of Steve Denny began to stir. His breathing became deeper and more rapid, and his veins began to pulse again with life.

The chanters reached a climax, the alien language echoing around the chamber. Their leader threw back his head.

“Hear us, Nameless One! Come to us!”

The body before him jerked spasmodically. The hands stiffened into talons, then, as the nails grew long and pointed, and strong fingers grew even stronger, they became claws. Similar changes were taking place at the feet. The whole body seemed to be swelling, growing, hardening, feeding on the darkness and becoming something that was more than human. Or something that was not human at all.

Steve Denny’s face was changing, too. His mouth was widening, the teeth inside becoming longer, sharper. His ears were growing, becoming pointed at the top as the lobes vanished.

The chant went on. The candles danced ever higher, casting strange shadows on the walls. Twisted creatures seemed to move in those shadows, slinking or capering as the whim took them. They seemed to add their voices to the chant, as it grew ever more frenzied and commanding. Outside, the storm had reached its peak. The night was ablaze as mist embraced the lightning which filled the sky, and the thunder formed a constant backdrop of crackling, booming sound. The time was ripe. Something had to give.

In a basement below the police station in the main street of Wilton, something opened its eyes. Yellow slits gleamed in the semi-darkness. Yellow slits with vertical, black slashes for pupils.

The chanting stopped.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available from www.amazon.com/author/burning

Till next time. Cheers.