No.6: This Has Nothing To Do With Satan | Original Issuez Highlights

Source: WholesomeZine Issue Six 1986; Written by Herb

In the few years of his imprisonment, it had happened countless times. Now that it was happening again, he almost felt relieved. After all, he knew it was coming, and at very least, it made him forget the boredom of his cell.

He knew the first signals well. A horrible itching started on his arms, legs, and face. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead and spread with the itch to the rest of his body. Now, he began to scratch desperately even though he knew that it would do nothing. It wasn't really a matter of choice. He had to scratch. That's all there was to it. The itching worsened until he fell on the hard, stone floor, scratching at what felt like a thousand tiny fleas biting him intermittently. It was so bad, in fact, that he didn't even notice that a thick mat of hair had grown everywhere the itch had.

The pains inside started slowly. He felt his spine stiffen and the bones in his body seemed to

grow and change shape. He screamed again. It was a scream for help and a scream of anger, as well as a scream of pain. He felt his arm and leg bones melt and shift their form and he clenched his fists with the pain. "Why me, WHY ME?" He managed to whimper before the third and most intense scream cut off his words. It was now a scream of pain alone.

He felt his skull push out and his teeth elongate into points. Every bone in his body was now either growing or shrinking, The heat was unbearable. Sweat oozed from every pore of his now stretched and loosely fitting skin. It dripped and sprayed off the long doglike hair, that now indiscriminately covered his entire body. The heat and the pain were reaching a peak now. ''OH merciful god,'' he screamed. It would be the last human sound he would make for a long time. He screamed until the only noise that would come from his hoarse throat was a pitiful gargling noise.

Now, he looked down his elongated nose to see that his arms had fused back together. Only they weren't arms anymore. They more closely resembled the legs of a dog. He wasn't thinking about this, however. His mind was on the fact that his jaws were pushing out and his hips had taken on a narrower shape. Plus the heat, nothing could take his mind off the heat.

All his bones were fusing back now. The pain would soon reach its climax. He cried out and his gurgle sounded less pitiful this time and more guttural. It took on a lower, more animalistic quality. It was starting to sound like a growl.

Now, greenish, translucent fluids shot from his mouth and lungs. They dribbled down his muzzle, and onto the straw covered floor. His brain buckled with the full impact of the pain. His entire consciousness shifted and wavered as his bones fit into place. His skin tightened to fit his new body. He saw great spirals and dots swim before his new eyes. Somewhere deep inside, a part of him wondered what he had become. Then, his human brain ceased to function and thoughts of this kind became impossible to think at all.

The wolf could smell him behind the door. It hated him instantly. It wanted to rip his flesh apart and feel his bones grind in its jaws. It wanted his blood to stain its deep, black fur. It wanted to eat him twice and even that would not be enough. It wanted to kill him over and over and over and over.

The beast let out its first growl. It was a sound that rolled poetically from its throat. It knew the man heard the growl. It knew because it could smell his fear. And it hated him even more for that.

The wolf walked slowly around the cell, waiting for the right moment. When that moment came it would launch itself against the door that it hated almost as much as the man that cowered behind it. It would throw itself against the door again and again and again. It did not matter that it would become bloody and bruised with the effort because this time it would knock down the door of its hated cell. This time it would reach the man.

This time it would not stop until it was rolling in his entrails. This time it would not stop until its fur was stained bright red with his blood.

Father Stewart Dowley stood outside the door that he was told never to open. He had brought the daily plate of food to cell #26 as he had done so many dreaded times before. He stopped

transfixed with fear when he heard the screams, the screams that turned into growls. He had wondered if death would not be more merciful for this poor man. That was before the first night the howl came from cell #26. The howls came often now. On those nights, he would make himself get out of bed and grab his silver crucifix. He would lay in bed for the rest of the night and pray as he listened to the howls and stared at the full moon that hung mockingly outside his window.

Tonight, Father Stewart Dowley stood motionless in front of the door he must never open. He dropped the daily plate of food when he heard the sudden, heavy, crash against the door. He turned and ran when he heard the first howl of the night.