A psycho thriller dealing with the inner workings of a madman's mind, his thinking patterns, love of God and his murderous rampage to set the record straight. James Dennett is a struggling photographer. He has a half brother he doesn't know about, Allen Sheriff. James doesn't remember is real father, but Allen sure as hell does. Allen remembers dad as an abusive son of a bitch who praised everything James did. Allen suffered because of his half brother, and it was time to bring some pain to the great half brother he could never measure up to. Unknown to both brothers is their lineage; they are both descendant's of the McDennett, lycanthrope line.

read the Prologue below

Prologue

New Zealand. 1980

The ‘Hammer Horror’ movie played on the old black and white television, which sat on top of a scarred dresser. Nine-year-old James Dennett watched the movie lying in bed under a thick, heavy quilt. The cold winter air in his small room threatened to break though the comfort of the quilt as his sleepy eyes stared at the TV.

The movie was yet another portrayal of the werewolf story, one of the many versions he had seen. James was hooked on the Lycanthrope myth, and this one, like the others, had him hook, line, and sinker. As the story progressed, the small boy found himself clenching the blankets tighter and tighter and drawing them until they finally covered his eyes.

Even though the night air inside his room was cold, he felt sweat breaking skin, as each scene of the movie shifted closer to the end.

A noise from outside caught his attention.

At first, he thought it was his father returning home late from work, but that couldn’t be.  It would never be. Suddenly he felt the usual heart sinking emptiness at the memory of his father, who had died violently at the jaws of a rabid dog and was never coming home again. Died saving his life. The only thing he had of his father was a handmade wooden chest, half filled with toys - all of which he’d given up playing with. They remained there as a memory only.

Outside, the same sound repeated, again his attention was drawn to it. It sounded very close. James threw the covers off and knelt on the bed, facing the green and white pin-striped curtains.

The old house creaked, a sound that made the boy’s heart skip a beat.

Again that sound - closer now.

It sounded like someone slowly rubbing two pieces of sandpaper together, but it was most likely someone walking on the loose gravel of their driveway. The soft click of the gate lock was thunder in his ears. It was past midnight, who’d be visiting at this hour? He carefully pulled the curtain open.

A harvest moon hung high in the night sky. Looking over the wooden banister of the balcony, he noticed the lawn needed mowing, and he hoped mum would not notice. It was his least favorite chore. On the left-hand side, halfway down the driveway, was a block of brick and tile apartments. Trees ran down the right-hand side. The moon threw eerie shadows across the driveway and against the side of the apartments three-story wall. For a brief second, he thought he was in one of the Hammer Horror movies. To his right was his mum’s garden. Behind the garden was a hedge that grew around three-quarters of the back of the house, and behind that was Saint Mary’s Primary School and tennis courts.

James couldn’t find a trace of anyone out there, although he was sure he’d heard the gate close. The brightness of the light from the television set flashed against the left side of his face. He could see the television’s image reflected against the window. Then the scurrying of rats in the roof caused him to look up. Thus distracted, he released the curtain and decided to continue watching the horror movie. On the television, four, pretty girls walked along a dirt road huddled together as they crossed the Moors. They looked scared, tired, and cold.

Something hit the side of the house and landed with a wet thump on the balcony.  The blood in his veins froze, the air in James’ lungs became ice. He shakily opened the curtain and peered out.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. His sight dropped down to the balcony, and his stomach tightened in a vice of terror.

A beheaded cat was spread out before him. One leg was missing and its intestines were wrapped around its limp body. James did his best to hold down the vomit  rushing up his throat. He could taste the bile in his mouth thundering along the back of his tongue. The taste was sour and he grimaced as he swallowed the mouthful he was unable to keep down.

Something else caught the corner of his eye. He turned to face the brick and tile apartments. A dark shadow grew tall against the bricks, towering over the shadow of the trees. James swallowed hard when he saw what was making the shadow.

It stood tall as a bear and just as hairy. Its mouth was open, and from a jaw longer than his hand,  long, sharp teeth glistened against the moonlight. It threw its head back and howled at the fat, yellow orb of night.

Petrified by the sight, James watched. It reminded him of the attack on his father; the big animal that tore his father’s throat apart. Energy left his body and he fell to the bed, his breath was fast and heavy. He told himself there was nothing out there, he only saw things because of the horror movie. Slowly, he calmed down and his breathing returned to nearly normal.

A slow creaking sound filled his ears. James knew that sound, had heard it millions of times. He slowly turned and looked at his toy chest. The lid slowly opened, rising inch by inch against its hinges.

How could this be happening?

Why me?

What have I done?

He asked himself these questions and more. 

A rag doll, dressed like a jester with bells on its hands and feet, jumped from the box, making tinkling sounds. Next a laughing box followed, its crackle maddening in the dark. Then plastic trucks and cars, Lego pieces, cards, a box of magic tricks for kids, and a dribble glass tagged after. Tennis balls bounced around the room, and a monkey with metal cones attached to its hands walked around clapping.

The noises of battery operated toys blended with the metal bells and clinking of cones to make an unharmonious sound that threw an eerie blanket of threat over the room. James pushed himself against the wall and held the blankets so tightly with both hands that his knuckles grew white. Fear drained all the color from his face.

The Grim Reaper was with him.

Suddenly, the television hit full volume and a male voice boomed, “He is the spawn of Satan!”

Licking his dry lips, he glanced at the television, then back at the toy chest. It wobbled side to side, as if trying to tip itself over. The toy chest erupted in flames; thick white and black smoke filled the room, billowed to the ceiling, slowly filling the room. Smoke engulfed the light from the television, leaving the room in black with white swirling wisps of smoke.

A blurry figure with deep yellow eyes, slowly took form.

The beast howled and leapt, front legs extended, and eyes swelled with hunger.

The nine-year-old boy screamed . . .

* * *

1573 Scotland

Through the dense bush on the outside border of a small Scottish village, it moved. Four heavy paws crushed frozen grass. Thick and heavy breath clouded white as it hit the freezing winter night air. It stopped, spying a hut.

     Cold, yellow eyes watched the shadowed movements inside the badly structured stick and straw shelter. It found an advantage spot and waited for someone to leave; waited and licked its lips.

Eventually the crooked wooden door jerked open. A large, stocky man in his late thirties limped to the door and thanked his hosts. He took hold of a long, thick branch axed from a willow to use as a walking stick for his injured leg, pushed the door closed, and headed down the overgrown path. Keeping the legend of the Moors and what lay in wait on that terrain,  he took the long way home in order to avoid them.

With the smell of Man in its nostrils, and the promised taste of his blood in its mouth, quickening its steps, it followed.

Sounds.

Pittapat… pittapat…

The sounds echoed through the still night. Phantom moon shadows, flashing, flying, through the darkness amid the surrounding trees and the shrubs. The man glanced nervously at the shadows around him, his heart pounding against his chest.  The sounds of snapping twigs and crushing frozen grass grew louder and closer, until he could no longer control the fear and slowly turned. His breath caught and his eyes widened. He prayed, knowing it would do no good, but prayed nonetheless.

Knowing it was spotted, it leapt.

The weight bowled the man to the ground as Man and beast tumbled head over shoulders. It was quick getting back to its feet. The man saw the fullness of it for the first time. It stood four, no, five, feet tall with shoulders hunched and head low. Yellow eyes leered through the blackness at him.

The man backed up, his legs rubbery with fear. He stared at the beast as it slowly advanced on him. His nerves twitching as horror ate its way through his system. He wanted to sit, close his eyes and just die. Get it over with quick and clean, but the wolf seemed to have other ideas. Its movements were slow and tentative.

It was taunting him. Feral lips curled back exposing long teeth. It had one purpose in mind. The beast needed to feed.

The man stumbled and fell. The beast leapt. Instinctively the man raised his arm defensively, bent at the elbow his forearm crossed his face. Long teeth slid through his flesh. The jaw clamped down, severing the forearm’s muscle.

His scream shook the grass.

Voices.

He heard voices. Large numbers of them growing closer, yelling unintelligible words and age-old chants.

The beast backed away, attention drawn to the adjoining field. It looked at the man’s blood seeping from ripped flesh. The voices grew louder. Something sparkled from the moonlight.

Weapons. The voices came with weapons.

It ran.

Seeming to take forever, the group finally reached and gathered around him in a tight circle; a few others chased after the wolf. The man saw faces he knew surrounding him. The kind, and friendly faces and nods of encouragement from  neighbors and shop owners  throughout his town.

“Help me,” he begged. “The pain. Me arm throbs with it.”

“Aye,” an elderly man said, “we’ll help ye.”

Five people gently lifted him off the frozen grass. Three men carrying weapons returned. The man heard one of them say, “It’s done. We got lucky.”

“Who was it?” another asked.

“Lyle McLead. Who be this?”

“Don’t you recognize Duncan?” The voice spoke with authority, clearly the leader of the group. He thought he knew this voice but the pain squeezed his mouth shut and killed his concentration.

“We should cut off ‘is ‘ed,” an old voice growled.

“Nay. We wait, see if takes hold.”

“Wait, ye say!”

“Aye, if thou disagree, take it to the council in the morn. There’ll be no more death tonight.”

Those were the last words the man heard as darkness wrapped around him and stole his conscious thoughts.

* * *

He awoke in a barn stall. Thick iron bars surrounded it. His arm was itchy and as he absently scratched it, he suddenly remembered the attack and checked his arm.

His arm looked completely healed as if nothing had happened.

Through the barn windows, stars glittered in the night sky. The barn doors opened, drawing his attention.  A young lad entered carrying a sword that looked too large and heavy for him. He knew this boy but couldn’t place his name.

“Lad, let me out of ‘ere.”

“Nay, I canny do that.”

“Pray tell why this be so?”

“You be dangerous,” he replied. “I’ll fetch me father.”

“Do you know who I be?” The man wrapped his hands around the bars. The lad jumped back a few feet, his eyes grew wide. The man was surprised by the lad’s actions, “What’s goin’ on ‘ere?”

“I’ll fetch me father, tell him you be awake.” The boy ran from the barn, knocking over a pitchfork and scythe in his haste.

The man sat in the hay, legs drawn to his chest and waited. He didn’t sit for long. Hearing his name called, he jumped up and returned to grip the bars. The cold iron felt soothing against his suddenly hot palms.

“Ah, there ye be, McDennett. I been thinking ‘bout ye.”

The man recognized his friend, lean features, and long face to match long, hard hands.

“William,” he said quietly, his eyes boring into his friend.  “Why I be ‘ere? What have I done to deserve this?”

“You’ve done nothing too drastic yet, my friend.”

“Then let me out.”

William leaned against the far wall, sighed loudly, and said, “Do ye remember the attack…by the wolf?”

“Aye, I do.”

“It weren’t no wolf.” He took a deep breath. “It were a lycanthrope that got to ye.”

Duncan McDennett fell to the floor. Fear and the loss of hope, emotions he had never felt before, surged through his being, throbbing and knocking the reality home.

“No, ye be lying,” he whispered harshly. A million thoughts ran through his mind. Running his hands through his thick hair, he said, “I be married. What story did ye yarn?”

“Lassie thinks ye to be dead.”

Duncan hugged himself repeating the word “No” over and over like a mantra. The chant whispered in a rhythmic tone as his body swayed to and fro.

“Ye broke out three night ago,” William continued, unsure if his friend heard him or not. “Ye went home, half changed.”

The chanting stopped.

“Lassie?” Duncan enquired.

“Ye raped her but did no other serious ‘arm. Her memory be reserved of the attack, but she believes it to be ye, returned in animal form.” He took a deep breath and continued, “This is why there are now iron bars and you will be watched every night.”

“I will become a lycanthrope. How can I be stopped? No one can stop a lycanthrope when it is hungry.”

“Aye, that be fact. We will feed you with every cycle.”

Duncan’s voice grew cold, “Ye shall perish in time. I will not.”

“We’ll see what is what at that time. I will return shortly.” With that William turned and strode out.

Duncan paced the stall. His old life was gone. This he knew, he would eventually accept but he would not live like an animal caged behind bars. He felt a strange rage building inside him, a fire he had never felt before and he liked it. It felt like power and fear rolled into one.

He charged at the bars, slamming into them with his right shoulder. The bars rattled against the bolts. Duncan felt no pain. He backed up as far as he could and charged the bars a second time, jumping at the last moment.

His body connected with a thud and the bolts snapped. The bars flew to the opposite wall as he tumbled through. He picked himself up. Three men carrying swords hurried to block the only escape route.

“William, Angus, Michael. Move out of me way or I will destroy ye or worse...” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. They all knew what ‘worse’ meant.

Angus and Michael backed away and dropped their swords, but William stood firm.

“No,” William said, “Ye will have to go through me, first.”

Duncan nodded in understanding. He was a lycanthrope now and as such he had no friends.

He said, “Aye. I will.”

And charged.