I like Bournemouth, the people there were old when I was young. Got a decent beach too, I got sunburned there once. I think if I was giving a false address I would give Sandbanks, unless of course you actually live there, but even then. Oh well perhaps its sheer coincidence. Again. Bournemouth, its not a bad place to live, better to be on the edge of the town rather than stuck in the middle of it.
High on the cliffs there's an old house with a big garden. Its a relic of other times. If you look up you can see, under the eaves, tiny, airless windows where the servants used to sleep. If you go down the stairs you will see the old kitchens where the staff worked from dawn until the master said it was bedtime.
The house has other windows long, gracious, staring sightless into forever. The master bedroom, a huge room seeming to spread from one side of the house to the other has a built in closet. Sometimes if you listen carefully, you can hear the sound of rustling, clothes? At other times you could swear you hear the sounds of a stifled giggle or smothered snarl...
Its midnight, a full moon rides the world and the old house appears to sway in the summer breeze. A shutter is hanging open and the sound of wood hitting stone echoes through the garden and off the cliff. The trees, a welcome shade during the day, at night become gaunt twisted arms reaching for the unknown. In the distance you hear the cry. Instinctively you turn, no, it can't be, not a banshee, not in Bournemouth...
The sound changes becomes a mournful howl in the night. Is it a dog no, surely its more like a wolf? The impossible thought is too close to the lost, sorry sound to be easily dismissed. How likely is it that one of the oldest, most feared creatures may be out in the big old garden on this clearest of moonlit nights?
The history of the werewolf is interesting, for three weeks out of four your average werewolf is the most peaceful, apologetic of creatures: urbane, sophisticated he wouldn't dream of cocking his leg on someone else's lamp post, but come the fourth week the moon rises and the howl spreads across the wolfs territory. You try to comfort yourself with the thought that when howling the werewolf is not actually killing. Unsurprisingly it doesn't help much.
The unaccustomed noise has sent icicles of apprehension dripping down your spine, and now with heightened senses, you notice there are other worrying sounds. The almost but not quite footsteps, the scraping, clawing at the door. Is it possible someone knows what a handle is but not how to turn it? You rush to close the shutter and can't fail to notice the silhouette flooding across what had once been a lawn, surely its very large for a dog? and are dogs claws so long and crooked? And, surely as hunched as it is, its standing on its hind legs? How many dogs walk upright?
You make sure all the doors are locked and barred, sure nothing's getting in here tonight. In the closet the noises are different, a shift change? Little things shiver across your mind: Can the closet be opened from the inside? Is it possible there's a passage from the closet to the garden? Or are you mistaken, did the sound change to a pathetic Baa? Perhaps its not real people, could it be an entire flock of sheep are in there? How cosy...(Werewolves are shape shifters. They can do sheep)
In the garden a black cat stares at the moon, ears twitching and tail swishing at the sounds from the house. Unperturbed by the wolf it settles under a tree to watch the deliberate approach and the unprovoked attack. If you look closely you can see a tiny mouse trapped and wriggling in the cats paws.
A werewolf, in Bournemouth? How too, too Gothic. And, WHAT?
First Posted:- 19/11/2012 Thought I'd give it a little dusting and airing today
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