Wolf

Year: 1879

The old man woke up screaming again. He looked at the grandfather clock to see what time it was: 9:45 in the morning. He wiped his sweaty forehead, trying to remember the night’s events. He had dreamed, once again, of a blonde lady and a dark-haired, handsome man who could have been a Parisian. After saying his morning prayers, the old man got up and rang the bell. A young maid came within seconds.

“Marion,” he said, “go and get the telephone. I would like to call my grandson,”

He did. An hour later the young lad came. He was white, with brown eyes, and hair, and was richly dressed. He rang the doorbell, and after Marion answered it, sat down on the red couch.

“I will tell Master that you are here,” said Marion.

“Thank you,” said the young man politely.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Marion answered it and found the newspaper boy standing outside.

“Hello,” he said quietly. “Would you like a paper, miss?

“Yes, please,” Marion said, taking a paper from him. She reached into her pocket and gave him two shiny pennies. The boy looked inside the house. The Master’s grandson looked at him and smiled. The boy froze.

“What is it?” said Marion.

“It’s him,” whispered the boy. “That man’s got bad blood in him!”

At that, he walked down the street. Marion shut the door and turned toward her Master’s grandson.

“What was that about?” he asked.

“Nothing, Little Master,” she said.

“You haven’t called me by that name since I was a boy,”

“I know,” said Marion.

“I will ask you again,” said the man. “Why did that boy say I have ‘bad blood’?”

“I do not know, Little Master,” said the maid truthfully. “Only your grandfather can tell you that. He is a very wise man, you know,”

“Yes,” the man said. “He never told me about my parents, so I’m hoping that I might be able to get a little bit of information out of him,”

“Oh, you do?” said Marion.

“Yes,” the man replied. “I have always been curious, especially since now I’m engaged to Fanny Cook,”

“The mayor’s daughter?”

“She’s the one,”

She lead the young man up the rickety wooden stairs. The walls of the upstairs hallway were painted blue and decorated with thousands of portraits as well as a handful of black and white photographs. At the end of the hall was the old man’s bedroom. Marion knocked on the door.

“Come in,” came a raspy, smoke voice.

Turning to her companion, Marion said, “I’ll leave you two to it,” and walked back downstairs. The young man let himself in.

His grandfather’s room was quaint, with beige walls, and brown carpeting. To the right was a large bed with a figure in it. The young man walked closer. Growing up, most people mentioned how he had his grandfather’s nose. He could obviously see that it was true. The only differences were that his grandfather’s eyes were gray, and his hair, once black, had turned white just five years earlier.

“Oh, Andrew, my boy,” said the old man. “How lovely it is to see you again!”

The young man, Andrew, couldn’t look away. His grandfather resembled a skeleton with his sunken eyes. Andrew gingerly grabbed him by the hand, and wasn’t surprised to see that his skin felt like sandpaper. Tears ran down the old man’s face and onto his white nightshirt.

“How are you, grandfather?” Andrew asked, even though he thought he knew the answer.

“I called you here for a reason, child,” the old man said. “I fear I don’t have much time left,”

Andrew cocked his head to one side. His grandfather had never called him to his bedside before, nor had he looked close to death. Andrew was also fairly wealthy, thanks to years of hard work in the oil industry and his late soon-to-be father-in-law, who named him his heir. What could his grandfather have called him for?

“Don’t talk like that,” said Andrew. “The doctors can cure you, and-,”

“Not this time,” said the old man, shaking his head. “This is retribution for my sins,”

“It can’t be,” Andrew said. “Grandfather, you’ve always been a prayerful, Godly, hardworking man. This is not God inflicting His punishment onto you,”

“I’m almost a hundred years old, Andy,” the old man spoke. “Have you ever met another man who lived this long?”

“No,” said Andrew.

“No indeed,” the old man said. “I can’t go on like this. I will be with our deceased family members in Heaven soon,”

He coughed into his left arm.

“What is it?” Andrew said. “Tell me, old man!”

His grandfather reached into his pocket and pulled out a miniature portrait. He handed it to Andrew, who turned it over three times in his hands. The portrait was of a girl, roughly sixteen years old, wearing a green dress against a lush blue background. Her blonde hair was in ringlets and she had brown eyes. Andrew could not believe how much he looked like her. On the back was the phrase “AN UNKNOWN GIRL” in gold letters.

“Who is this?” asked Andrew.

“Why does her name matter?” the old man responded. “I cannot sleep, because I see her in my dreams and nightmares. I dream of seeing her rotting corpse, you know. Daniel’s, too. Then there’s Victoria, my parents, Samuel, Jackie, Orville, Penelope, everyone I love who has died. Only one other living person knows this story and that is your aunt, Anna. But why does this woman’s name matter? It only brings about bad memories for me,”

“Tell me one thing, grandfather,” said Andrew. “Why have you brought me here?”

“It does involve that girl,” said the old man. “But what would I say if I told you about her?”

“Give me her name,”

“Once again, I cannot,” the old man said. “But I can- and in fact, will- begin with him,”

“Him?” Andrew questioned. “You mean, there’s a man involved?”

“Is the sky blue?”

Andrew nodded.

“Then, yes,” said the old man.

He broke away from Andrew’s bold gaze and added, “I guess it will have to start with a werewolf,”

“A werewolf?”