Update: 5/7/21

The werewolf has had many different forms throughout history. This semester I watched: The wolf of Snow Hollow, Red riding hood, Ginger Snaps, and Werewolf: The Beast Among Us. There are so many werewolf films in today’s cinematic world. The werewolf is usually either a lower class citizen or a female. The werewolf was created during the middle ages. Werewolves can be killed by a silver bullet. The silver bullet is significant because it is how you can stop the werewolf.


Werewolves take the form of the beast during the full moon. They are driven by an insatiable thirst for blood. They are similar to zombies in this way: they can also transform non werewolves into beasts through a bite. The wolf is a symbol that stands for repression. The change from man to beast signifies a denigration into a more animalistic phase of evolution.


Wolves were seen as threats to the natural order. Like witchcraft, werewolf accusations were levied against the lowest members of society: the poor, the homeless, the drunkards, the prostitutes. These negative stains on society were seen as preventable through the eyes of the wealthy elite through hunts. Everything is tied to ritual and tradition. The full moon is significant to werewolf culture because it was when the hunt could be properly carried out under favorable light conditions. Where the secret business of the night was concealed beneath a sinister layer of mythical and ritualistic significance.


Hybrid species developed out of a fear for transformation. The progression of society was a threat to tradition. The feeble effort of the werewolf was exhausted, not likely to outlast this sustained and targeted oppression. This would not stop the werewolf from attempting to preserve its authenticity in the eyes of society.


Status, the bearing marker of lifestyle. Penetrates its roots into embedded and established preconceptions. The propulsion into territory unchecked by aggression. The status quo hangs in the balance. A reminder of the past rising to rear its ugly head from the darkness. The dark ages birthed this beast: giving validation to its malevolent purposes. Pure, unadulterated, violence against the dregs of society.


The werewolf is not always a monster. The werewolf is elegant and sophisticated. It assumes a daunting presence which can be felt during the approaching phases of the waxing moon. The dimly lit cottages warmed by only a humble hearth radiate enough heat to keep the bitter ice winds at bay. The long night fast approaches. Ghost stories are told to keep kids up at night. Little sounds that go bump in the night frighten and intensify these heightened sensations. A lone wolf’s howl reverberates through the small village; rousing caution and instilling fear into the populace. A great uproar is stirring as villagers rush to assemble pitchforks and torches. A gathering forms in the town’s center. Everyone of all ages has come to observe the commotion. The men have decided to send out a hunting party to finally bring the beast under control. Friends turn against friends and family. Neighborliness is thrown out the wayside to make room for hostile confrontation and altercations. Possessions are strewn about as chaos ensues amidst the frenzy. Under the full moon the howl pierces through sound waves at an interminably low range. The rumble of the vibrations are felt along with a faint high pitched timbre which is altogether incomprehensible to human vocal range.


The wolf is a top predator. The prey is within the werewolf’s sight. The stalking proceeds at a laborious pace. With rising tension, the wolf pads along the treacherous mountain pass. Claws scratch through loose sediment overturning burrowing worms and creepy crawlers of the earth. The ground is barely frozen over so that each step creates a rift sending spikes of crackles through the air. A rift breaks the seam, causing a line to formulate in a haphazard diagonal meandering of inconceivable prediction. The future is on this line. The prey, the hunt, the transformation. The night will tell when all is said and done. Can the werewolf outlast the fatal pursuit? Or will it succumb to the mob mentality of its fearful enemies?


The hunt ends. The wolf escapes once again. Only to relive through these painful memories as the next full moon makes its pass. The long night never escapes. A wolf baying under the moon sends shock through a nearby cottage in the middle of the woods. The home of a lone witch where cauldrons bubble and dreams dance in merry minds. A banquet of delicious extravagances entices the lowly traveller to the arousing aromas.


Turn now to the dark. Follow the call. The moon beckons from a distance. The turning is past the point of no return. Fall into the eternal slumber. The cemetery is just beyond the horizon. The wolf awakens the soul. The feeding grows within. Now stronger, these sensations begin to take a firmer hold of the psyche.


When I think of werewolves, my mind wanders to fairy tales. It conjures up songs such as “Freezing Moon” by Mayhem, “Werewolves of London” by Warren Zevon, or “Bark at the Moon” by Ozzy Osbourne and Randy Rhoades. The metal community has a fascination with werewolves. It is no wonder why the werewolf has become such an icon in the dark underground of the metal world. Movies likewise have capitalized off the werewolf craze. Popular series like “Twilight” have shown the beautiful side of werewolves, in the same vein you have movies like “The Howling” which portray these creatures in a more evil light. Overall, I have enjoyed learning more about the history of werewolves and their origins. All stemming from the first known mention of their existence in literature from the Epic of Gilgamesh.


The lone wolf walks their own path. There is no interference in this lifestyle. The wolf is persecuted, cut down, cast aside, undermined. The head must stay up, to stay the course. No feelings of hurt exist outside, they are kept within. The simple piece of mind to be one with oneself. To keep a purpose of glory, There is always the chance for greatness. The lone wolf looks in on themself. Thinking of a better tomorrow but living in the present moment.


Drifting in the sea of isolation. A peak crests it’s snow tipped ridges over the barren tundra. The desolate resting place makes a home for the travelling wolf. Scattered bones, pelts, gold, and silver coins littered about the small cave dwelling. Stalactites jut out from the exposed cliff rock. A lone campfire flickers on the last ember, barely hanging on to the flame of life. The logs rest at a great distance. At least a day’s travel of treacherous slopes. The full moon acts as the only reprieve. The hunger grows stronger as the earth makes its journey through the galaxy. To set out on the journey means to leave the warmth. To follow the call. Now the moon can be seen over the horizon. Rising steadily. The force is stronger than gravity. The feeling begins in your chest rising up the back of your spine. A stabbing pain erupts every nerve ending in your body. The transformation has begun. You raise your hands and see your fingers start to contort and sprout wired stubble. The nails on your fingertips begin to writhe and curl, extending from the bony sockets. An arch forcefully contorts your spine into a posterior formation. The shirt you are wearing starts to tear at the seams as the muscles expand and grow outward. Hair appears more rapidly all over, as your teeth begin to sharpen and your eyes bulge. The yellow appearance casts an ominous reflection against the moonlit waters of the icy lake below. You increase the pace in rushed breaths, leaping effortlessly now travelling as a fully capable quadruped. The human inside you is lost, almost full wolf by this point. You let out a low grumble that crescendos into a piercing howl. It echoes and reverberates across the land, sending shockwaves of fear into the surrounding villages.


Are werewolves linked to mental illness? What if werewolves are intrinsically tied with post traumatic stress disorder? Is it possible that werewolves are a manifestation of bi polar disorder? First, the ties with PTSD can be witnessed by the extreme trauma of what happens to werewolves when they transform. This experience is a catalyst that can have lingering effects on the werewolf. The thought that they will once again transform never disappears fully. This anxiety ridden state can have a serious mental toll on a werewolf. Next, bi polar disorder can be manifested by looking at the extreme mood swings of the werewolf in the two unique states of mind. The werewolf is prone to serious bouts of anger and aggression, while the human is more reserved and fearful of this alter ego. Disclaimer: I’m not a medical expert, and if you believe yourself to be experiencing symptoms of werewolf syndrome you should consult your physician. With that out of the way we can continue.


The werewolf case

Alexander Cromwell started his day like any other. He awoke in his small loft on the second story of the Lycaon Inn, located in the oldest district in Cambridge Massachusetts. The lone window above his bedside overlooked rows of gabled roofs and narrow cobbled corridors. The early morning sun had barely touched its golden glow in the cool shade of these protected roads. Winding through the village they twisted and climbed to the nearby silver forest hills. Lush green pines could be picked out from this distance and a tiny stream ran it’s rippled current through the town’s square. Reaching out to his nightstand, the lanky Cromwell fished around for his spectacles still groggy from a restless evening. The constant howling of wolves had caused quite the disturbance for the tenants at the corner of 12th street and Lincoln. The old building was constructed in 1875, and the rickety floorboards were covered with a tattered Victorian rug which Cromwell had picked up in his travels abroad. Cromwell followed a regular schedule and worked feverishly in the mid morning. This was his most productive hour, as a terrible bout of insomnia had caused irreversible damage to his sleep schedule. Cromwell regularly lied awake most nights, dreaming of his past and what series of events got him into this detestable state of grogginess. Cromwell had spent his collegiate years at the University of Amherst: where he developed a peculiar fascination with Greek mythology. He was always daydreaming of the forest and the Pagan deities of the Hellenistic Pantheon. Cromwell was known to shut himself in under lock and key for unhealthily long periods of time. The neighbors complained of odd sounds in the night and could see a faint luminescence protruding into the hall from underneath his red door. Things had grown increasingly strange over the past month as Cromwell had taken to an increased seclusion which inhibited face to face interactions all but entirely. There was one farm boy from the Wilson family who attended to Cromwell’s needs, and would stop by every couple of days to drop off portions of salted beef and crackers. Cromwell came from a well off household and so was able to continue his studies whilst not having to hold a steady job for financial support. Cromwell was known in the underground literary circles as a genius story teller. The volumes he prepared on the topic of Lycanthropy were complete with vivid illustrations of fantastical and anatomically sound proficiency. There was one novel which had been in production ever since Cromwell returned from the United Kingdom. The work was entitled The Silver Corridor. Little was known about the book, except for the fact that it kept Cromwell from maintaining a pleasurable character. Outsiders refrained from getting involved with the poor fellow Cromwell, and he had never known the loving embrace of a woman. All during his youth, at the turn of the 20th century, he had been picked on. There was something not quite right about Cromwell, whether it was his indescribable scent, which was not necessarily appalling, or the antisocial characteristics of his demeanor, none could be sure. What is true is that Cromwell had few companions to call upon when his seasonal blues became more blatantly pronounced. There was a history of mental illness in the Cromwell line, as the late Arnold Cromwell had spent the final years of his life at the insane asylum in Warring Park, just a twelve mile drive from where Alexander now called his home.


A letter to Pulmion:

Where the back stair provided its humble advantage. The vision quivers under the fully silver ripple. Its aqua fluttering breathlessly in the hollow whisper, the wizard in the darkness. The forested grove rolls humbly in the exterior just beyond the human plane of comprehension. The vision now exploding in wavering decimals of primal orientations. Expand the ever twilight of the mystic hour, drifting weightless in the balance of heavenly powdered fountains of ember glory, now forever into the fluorescent bulbs of pollen fury. Rise the external vision, portraying wonder into flowered frenzy, seeding truth from eternal folly. Praise the golden worship members of the elder groves holy establishment. The fienders tremble feebly in thoughtless friendships. Extending outward to forested memberships.

Graze the forest land, mill through seedless pollen. Fly past golden hills of endless funerals and the fountain. Ride the wave, the sea of fear, in frightening fruitless fashion. The taste of oil plates on several flakes of formless passions. Along the way, the sand of flame peaks formly at the heavens. The wolf now howls in four repetitions of forceful favored fashions. End the wave. Look upon the forgery, read the deceptive frame, see through visions and peer astray, the olden one has seen the way. Down here all is grey. The fearless and the fray. Treachery and steadily, the lepers peak at destiny. Picking post, the lonely toast that village boasts in moonless hills. Wheat fields loom in bales of gloom, and harvest somber fruit of wisdom tooth. Dawn approaches clear and true, the future holds the seer firmly. The wolf controls, the spirit released, pauses the fury of slumber reprieves. The motion evoked in spiritual vote, awakes the inner belief. Sing now for slender adjectives, and limber vocative repriefs. The fatal hour lasts for naught, extend the promising faith.