The Werewolf of Ponkert by H. Warner Munn

Book Details

Sometime around 1500, in Hungary, a merchant traveling home one night is attacked by werewolves and transformed into one. Generations of his family are cursed by this one act.

This classic story of a werewolf and his descendants was inspired by a comment by H.P. Lovecraft suggesting a story written from the werewolf’s point of view. The Werewolf of Ponkert was expanded with two more stories and the trio became the series, “The Tales of the Master.” Later, three more stories were added that became the second series, “Tales of the Werewolf Clan.” The complete set of both series is included in this book.

The Werewolf of Ponkert (1925) – They Flayed Him Alive and Wrote His Story on His Tanned Skin. –A five chapter novelette including Prologue.

The Return of the Master (1927) – The Werewolf of Ponkert returns from the pit of Hell to thwart the sinister Master who has wrought his downfall.

1. A Voice from the Dead
2. The Man on the Train
3. Pursuit
4. Regina’s Story
5. Surprizes
6. A Night at an Inn
7. Shadows All!
8. Vengeance at Last

The Werewolf’s Daughter (1928) – A romantic story of the weird adventures that befell the daughter of the Werewolf of Ponkert

1. Child of Wo
2. Dmitri Tells the Truth
3. The Singer and the Song
4. Lovers—and a Lunatic
5. The Gathering Storm
6. While the Master Watched
   Part 2
7. The Coming of the Curse
8. How Two Men Came to Ponkert
9. Rapier Versus Saber
   Part 3
10. Dmitri Holds the Narrow Way
11. Blois at Last
    Epilogue

Tales of the Werewolf Clan 1. The Master Strikes (1930) – The first of a series of stories narrating the adventures of the progeny of the Werewolf of Ponkert

1. The Cat Organ
2. Hau! Hau! Huguenots!

Tales of the Werewolf Clan 2. The Master Fights (1930) – Occult forces were behind the disaster that over took the Invincible Armada sent by the Spanish king against the power of England

1. The Wreck of the Santa Ysabel
2. The Bug-Wolves of Castle Manglana
3. In the Tomb of the Bishop

Tales of the Werewolf Clan 3. The Master Has a Narrow Escape (1931) – A tale of the Thirty Years War and the first case of witchcraft in New England

1. The Leather Cannon
2. Achsah Young—of Windsor

Harold Warner Munn (1903–1981) was an American writer of fantasy and horror, best remembered for his early stories in Weird Tales. He was an early friend and associate of authors H.P. Lovecraft and Seabury Quinn. Lovecraft inspired the Ponkert stories by suggesting a werewolf story told from the point of view of the werewolf!

The Werewolf of Ponkert contains 10 illustrations.

Files:

1. Munn-WerewolfOfPonkert.epub

Excerpt: The Werewolf of Ponkert

They are neither brute nor human—
They are neither man nor woman—
They are Ghouls.
—Poe: The Bells.

Prologue

IN THE past, when I toured in France, invariably I made a point of never failing to stop at a certain tavern, about thirty miles from Paris. I will not give you more definite directions for reaching it, for it was a discovery of my own and as such I would share it with no one. The fact that the inn has very pretty serving maids is but incidental, the real reason of my visits being the superlative excellence of the wine.

Many a night have I and the old Pierre sat, smoked and drunk till the wee hours of the morning, and many have been the experiences we have exchanged of wild, eery adventure in various parts of the globe. Pierre also was a great traveler and seeker after adventure before he drifted into the backwater of this placid village, to finish there the remainder of his days.

One night (or morning, I should say), Pierre grew indiscreet under the influence of his nectar, and let fall a few words so pregnant of possibilities that I scented a mystery at once; and when he was sober I demanded an explanation. And, having said so much, seeing that he could not dissuade me, he brought forth proof of his dark hints in regard to a horrible occurrence in the annals of his family.

The proof was a book, bound in hand-tooled leather and locked by a silver clasp. When open it proved to be written in a crabbed hand in old Latin on what was apparently parchment, which was now yellow with age, but must when new have been remarkably white.

It comprized only four leaves, each a foot square and glued or cemented to a thin wooden backing. They were written on only one side and completely covered with this close, crabbed Latin.

On the back of the book were two iron staples, and hanging from each, several links of heavy rusted chain. Evidently, like most valuable books which were available to the public in the past, it had been chained fast to something immovable to prevent theft.

Unfortunately, I cannot read Latin, or in fact any languages but French and English, although I speak several. So it was necessary for my friend to read it to me, which he did.

After I had recovered from the numbness which the curious narrative had thrown over me, I begged him to read it again—slowly. As he read, I copied; and here is the tale for you to judge and believe as you see fit. Told in Hungarian, transcribed in Latin, translated into modern French and from that into English, it is probably both garbled and improved. No doubt anachronisms abound, but be that as it may, it remains without dispute the only authentic document known of a werewolf’s experiences, dictated by himself.

1

HAVING but a few hours in which to live, I dictate that which follows, hoping that someone thereby may be warned by my example and profit by it. The priest has told me to tell my story to him and he will write it down. Later it will be written down again, but I do not care to think of that now.

My name is Wladislaw Brenryk. For twenty years I lived in the village where I was born, a small place in the northeastern part of Hungary. My parents were poor and I had to work hard—harder, in fact, than I liked, for I was born of a languid disposition. So I used my wits to save my hands, and I was clever, if I do say it myself. I was born for trading and bargaining, and none of the boys I grew to manhood with could beat me in a trade.

Time went on, and before I had reached manhood my father died in a pestilence. Although my mother was pestilence-salted (for she had the plague when she was a girl and recovered), she soon gave up, grew weaker and weaker, finally joining my father in the skies. The priest of our village said that it was the trouble in her lungs that killed her, but I know better, for they had loved each other much.

Alone and lorn for the first time in my life, I could not bear to remain longer amongst the scenes of my happy boyhood. So on a fine spring morning I set forth carrying on my back those possessions which I could not bring myself to part with, and around my waist a well-stuffed money belt, filled with the results of my trading and the sale of our cottage.

For several years I wandered here and there, horse-trading for a time, then again a peddler of jewelry and small articles. Finally I came to Ponkert, and started a small shop in which I sold beautiful silks, jewels and sword hilts. It was the sword hilts that sold the best. They were highly decorated with golden filligree and encrusted with precious stones. Chiefs and moneyed nobles would come or send messengers for many miles to obtain them. I gained a reputation for honesty and fair dealing, likewise a less enviable notoriety for being a miser. It is true that I was careful and cautious, but I defy anyone to prove that I was parsimonious.

I  HAD closed up the shop for the night and harnessed the horses for the long drive home, when for the first time I wished that I lived in the village instead of being so far away. I had always enjoyed the ride before; a man can think much in a ten mile ride and it gave an opportunity to clean my mind of the day’s worries and bickering, so as to come to my dear wife and little daughter with thoughts of only them.

What made me look forward with anxiety to the long ride home was the many broad gold pieces secreted in my wallet. I had never been molested on that road, but others had been found robbed and partly devoured, with tracks of both man and beast, about them in the snow. Obviously, thought I at the time, thieves had beaten them down, leaving them for the wolves.

But there was a disturbing factor in the problem: not only were the bodies horribly mutilated and the beast tracks about them extraordinarily large for wolf tracks, but the feet of the men were unprotected by any covering whatever! Barefooted men roaming through the forests, in the snow, on the dim likelihood of discovering prey which could be forced to yield wealth! The very idea was improbable. If I had only known then what I know now, my entire life might have been changed, but it was not so to be.

Excerpt From: H. Warner Munn. “The Werewolf of Ponkert.”