The Werewolf

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic

A rural town is surely the worst place to get away with murder.

The Werewolf


Another was discovered that day. Terrible news for the family. Brilliant news for the culprit.


She whistled as she walked, an old lullaby her mother would sing. What a beautiful voice her mother had. Heavenly. She first came across the news when she was out for her morning walk. She’d never go far, just to the newsagents and back, with faithful Nox at her side.


The trees were bare and the ground dusted with snow. There were no flowers in this season. She liked to see the colours, and the way the flowers supported themselves. Independent.


It was in the aforementioned newsagents that she heard the news. Or rather, saw the news; she read it from the front page of the newspaper. It read:




Old Tommy! she thought. Old Tommy was perhaps an odd nickname for a thirty two year old vicar. She was a regular at Tommy’s Sunday mass, and knew him well. Suicide was the least likely thing to have happened to him. He was dead against it, if you’ll pardon the pun. Clear violation of ‘Thou shalt not kill’. Oh well, she decided, the police know what they’re doing.


The garden would need some serious work next spring. Snow kills the soil. Makes it hard. Difficult to dig. She would need a new flowerbed.


Nox was staring expectantly, eyes following her friend. She got like that, just before she was fed. Nox didn’t want much from life; a warm bed and a decent meal (and of course to be worshipped, as every cat does).


There was nothing good on the T.V that night. Never was on a Wednesday. She set aside the needles and drew the curtains, in an effort to stop the silvery moonlight seeping through. She hadn’t done much that day, not after the trip to the newsagents. Her head was full of questions, and incomprehensible emotion. Nox had retired to her bed, as was the way those days. She was old now. Easily tired out. She couldn’t help run errands anymore. They would have to be given up.


The body of Thomas Bridge was the fourth suspected suicide that month. Something didn’t add up.


A daily walk going to and fro. Her life was becoming predictable. She needed something to break the pattern. It would be spring soon, and the snowdrops would be flowering. They always look sad, their heads drooping, staring at the floor. Pretty though, she told herself silently. Once again, she reached the old red bricks of the newsagents. A new headline this morning:





She moved closer, and read some of the article.


“New evidence in the deaths of Thomas Bridge, Aled Parker, Ioan Alexander and Rhodri Evans has led to a police investigation being opened. It was reported earlier this morning that these deaths may not have been suicides, as first thought. Detective John Malone told the Chronicle that small quantities of Aconite, more commonly known as wolfsbane, were found in the four victims’ bloodstreams. Here at the Chronicle, we have nicknamed the murderer ‘The Werewolf’ as an ironic reference to the Aconite…”


This was exactly the thing to break the mundane sequence of her life. A murder investigation in South Wales was almost unheard of.


She hadn’t taken Nox with her that day. When she arrived home and Nox wasn’t waiting for her, she knew.


It’s not like she hadn’t seen it coming. Nox was old, she’d been a part of the family for almost fifteen years. She always said that when this happened she would stop. Give up. And it was just about to get interesting.


A grave needn't be too deep for a cat. Two or three feet at most. She may have been 86 years old, but she was healthy, and strong. She had ordered Nox a coffin with brass handles. Never silver. Lined with black silk. Nox deserved the best. She filled in the grave and marked it with a black stone.


The snow was starting to melt, it was nearing spring. She was sad to leave before the flowers were out. The colours always sparked her interest.


She whistled as she walked. The dull brown stone of the station loomed in front of her, the blue letters giving the brightness it needed. She paused, and looked around one last time. The moon was still visible in the sky. She went in, and walked up to the desk. The overweight, balding officer looked up at her, and slid the glass window open.


“Can I help you?” he asked her, in a condescending tone.

“Yes, I’d like to confess to a crime,” she replied, without a trace of emotion.

He looked at her, with a look of confusion. He proceeded.

“Name please then, cariad.”

She paused.

She smiled.

“The Werewolf.”


Submitted: May 01, 2015

© Copyright 2022 nat123. All rights reserved.

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