A short story
Sit down. Snow storm may be not over until morning.
Wolves? They come with the snow.
No, I don´t fear them.
My mother is sleeping in the next room. She never married. She was - is - a writer; creator of stories about sumptuous castles and graveyards, florid ball-gowns and red roses, and heroines with names like Rosalba and Angelika and Katinka. Their beauty and purity was envied by depraved young girls and lusted by evil men; the villains were humiliated and destroyed during the plot. Local people were angry to my mother; did this spinster think that she was too good to their men? They wanted to punish her, and because she liked to walk in the forest by night, she...
Well, I was born nine months later.
You know what folklore says about the children born from rape.
We will become werewolves.