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Larry Talbot Revisited

October 31, 2014


My name is Magenta Cheyenne. I’m a freelance journalist, and in 2003, I was granted a rare interview with the fabled recluse, Colonel Larry Talbot—the Wolf Man.

At odds with Hollywood for most of the later half of the twentieth century, he railed against the studio’s depiction of him, as well as the other so-called monsters that were the subject matter of what he calls exploitation films of that era.

I was shown into a large parlor filled with fine antiques and paintings. I sat in a large, comfortable chair and scanned his vast library of leather-bound books. His enormous picture window looked out onto a well-trimmed lawn. Beyond his yard were thick bushes and a grove of dark, twisting oaks. The air smelled of old leather, ancient parchment, and the faintest aroma of fine cigars.

The Colornel burst into the room, and I swore that I could hear a low growl waft through the air. I gasped, completely unprepared for the sight of him.

He stood well over six feet tall, and though he was immaculately dressed in slacks, smoking jacket, silk shirt and ascot, the form beneath was obviously trim and powerful. His face was a mass of black hair, through which piercing blue eyes absorbed me.

Yes. Absorbed. When the Colonel broke his gaze, I felt that he knew exactly what I looked like sans clothes, sans virtue, and sans an impending deadline. He poured himself a crystal goblet of wine. Or, at least, I think it was wine. It was red enough, but seemed more viscous.

He rumbled, “Ms. Cheyenne?” He spoke haltingly, as if his skeletal structure did not easily allow him the gift of speech.

“Y-yes, Colornel.”

His smile was a terrifying flash of white fangs. “Please. You must call me Larry. And would you care for a drink?”

His entry into the room seemed to cause movement outside. I glanced out the window, and thought I saw movement in the bushes and possibly the glint of sunlight upon yellow eyes. Surely it was my imagination.

“No thank you to the drink, Colonel,” I said. “And you earned your rank. Why, your war record alone…”

The Colonel waved his massive, hirsute hand. “Have you come to talk about my war record, Ms. Cheyenne?”

Colonel Lawrence Talbot led a unique fighting force in the European theater during World War II. He and his men literally terrorized the Nazis in skirmishes throughout France and Germany. When the war ended, most of Talbot’s men disbanded and disappeared into Romania, Transylvania, and even the Soviet Union.

Before that, he was the subject of many high profile, and sensational news stories during America’s depression era. Here it was, the dawn of a new century, and no one really knew for certain the age of this man-beast.

“I would love to ask you about the war, Colonel, but I’m here for other reasons.”

“I see,” he rumbled. “You want to talk about Dracula? Frankenstein’s monster? The pitiable Mummy? In my time, I’ve known all of them…and more.”

“Again, very tempting. Truly. But…”

Suddenly the goblet in his claw-hand trembled, and the wine threatened to escape its crystalline confines. He mumbled, and it was hard to understand, but I believe he said, “They are as nothing compared to the likes of Adolph Hitler, Joseph Stalin, Jeffery Daumer, or even Jack the Ripper. The monsters of old are laughable stacked up against such evil.”

I waited for the beast to compose himself. Then I asked, “There are stories about the screams of men that can be heard coming from this place every night that’s lit by a full moon. Villagers are convinced that you are killing people in here, but no one ever turns up missing…ever.”

“Of course.” He looked out at his yard through the magnificent picture window. “I have lived more than a hundred years sequestered in this body of fur and fangs, Ms. Cheyenne. And save for my curse, I am content.”

Suddenly, I saw upon the lawn, a great stag. I reached 12 points on his rack before i lost count. The massive deer sensed danger and he reared up to take flight.

Instantly, Colonel Lawrence Talbot gave chase. I was amazed to see him leap through the window and find there was no pane of glass there at all. I was wide open. How could I have been mistaken about that? The great, horned stag and Colonel Talbot disappeared out of my sight, but sounds of prey and predator stayed with me.

The Colonel’s feet pounded the ground and then the tackle, the sound of flesh and bone brought to ground. The growls were the worst. And the Colonel’s fierce howl was joined by the cry of other wolves. My blood ran cold, as I saw a sea of movement in the far thicket of brush.

When the Wolf-Man returned, his clothes were torn. His face and chest were splashed in blood. He held a hunk of raw and dripping meat in his hands, and I swear to you, it pulsed. It was a heart and it was still beating.

I screamed. I’m not afraid to tell you that. I involuntarily tried to shove my fist in my mouth, and I screamed.

“I repulse you?” He boomed. He threw back his head and gave a roaring mockery of a laugh. “I repulse you! How about that?” He thrust the bloody heat in my direction. Flecks of blood spattered my face. “My pack feasts this day, Ms. Cheyenne. Nothing shall go to waste. Today, none of mine go hungry.”

“My God,” I pointed at a freely bleeding wound in his right shoulder. “You’re injured. You’re bleeding.”

He utterlly ignored me. “You judge me! You? You can eat, with abandon, the carrion of this society—vegetables awash in pesticides. Meats and breads bristling with GMOs, and in all that cornucopia of grotesqueries, there are still children who go to bed hungry each and every day.”

He wiped his mouth on his torn and tattered sleeve. He grabbed his goblet and poured drink down his throat. He continued, ”You pump the oceans with poison, both chemical or radioactive. You have always waged war for profit, turning the spilled blood of young men and women into fodder for your insatiable machine.”

Once again, he began to mutter. His barely intelligibel words came to me.

“Whitechapel, Auschwitz, Buchenvald, Dachau, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Jones Town, Tiananmen Square, and the list goes on. And on. And on. And…I cannot imagine cruelty. I cannot fathom man’s inhumanity to man. I cannot, in my mind, descend into the darkness where man spends so much of his time. And I rejoice in that. My life is idealic. If it were not for my curse, I would…”

“I don’t understand.” I shouted. Completely confused and frightened. “You keep mentioning a curse?”

”the screams people hear, that are born of a full moon, do not belong to any hapless victims of mine, good lady.”

“They don’t?”

“No. The cries are mine. Just as the curse is mine.”

“I don’t understand,” I cried.

“You see, before the rise of every full moon, I chain myself to the concrete-encased walls below this mansion in preparation for the transformation.

“Transformation?” I asked, “what transformation? You turn into something worse than…this?“

“Oh, yes, my dear. I turn into something far, far worse.”

“What? What could possibly be worse?”

Talbot gave a horrific grimace. “I turn into a man!”

  1. Bloody Hell that was good! Loved the ending, truly terrifying.

  2. Thank you very much. It’s gratifying to know that!!!

  3. Bravo, couldn’t stop reading.

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