Pulp Fiction Book Store The Werewolf Snarls and Other Stories by Manly Wade Wellman 1
Cover
WerewolfSnarls800 500x750 The Werewolf Snarls and Other Stories by Manly Wade Wellman
The Werewolf Snarls and Other Stories by Manley Wade Wellman

The Werewolf Snarls and Other Stories by Manly Wade Wellman

Nine early horror stories from Manly Wade Wellman including his first published story and his memoriam on the passing of H.P. Lovecraft.

Book Details

Book Details

The Werewolf Snarls – Nine early horror stories from Manly Wade Wellman including his first published story and his memoriam on the passing of H.P. Lovecraft.

Back To The Beast (1927)

At the Bend of the Trail (1934) – A brief story of Africa and a weird vegetable monstrosity that fought two white explorers in the jungle

The Horror Undying (1936) – A grim and gruesome tale of a strange appetite— the story of a grisly horror

The Kelpie (1936) – What was that Thing that rose up out of the little aquarium?— a brief tale of horror

The Theater Upstairs (1936) – A weird and uncanny story about a motion-picture show, in which dead actors, and actresses flickered across the silver screen

The Werewolf Snarls (1937) – A brief story, with a breath of icy horror in it

The Terrible Parchment (1937) – The author describes this as “a Necronomicon story to end all Necronomicon stories”

School for the Unspeakable (1937) – Into what frightful horror did young Setwick blunder that night?

The Golgotha Dancers (1937) – A curious and terrifying story about an artist who sold his soul that he might paint a living picture

Manly Wade Wellman (1903–1986) was born in the village of Kamundongo in Portuguese West Africa (now Angola), where his father was stationed as a medical officer. He spoke the native dialect before he learned English, and became an adopted son of a powerful chief whose vision Dr. Wellman restored.

The Werewolf Snarls and Other Stories  contains 6 illustrations.

Files:

  1. WerewolfSnarls.epub
Read Excerpt

Excerpt: The Werewolf Snarls

“I  WANT you to meet Mr. Craw,” prattled Lola Wurther to me. “He claims to be a werewolf.”

And she turned—fluttery hands, fluttery white shoulders, fluttery blond curls, fluttery skirts of green silk—to lose herself in the crowd of noisy guests at the bar. Mr. Craw and I took two or three steps together, as though we both sought quiet.

“Sit down,” I suggested, and we dropped upon a divan in the half-gloom behind Lola Wurther’s big grand piano. Then we looked at each other.

He was a huge, high-shouldered creature in rather seedy dress clothes, with coarse black hair grown low on his forehead and around his flat-lying, pointed ears. His long anvil of a chin lay snugly between the wings of his collar, his long poniard of a nose lay upon his chin, and his mouth caught between was as tight and lipless as a slit in leather. The pallor of his face accentuated the wet-licorice black of his eyes. He made me feel my own physical frailty as a little, rheumatic old man half his volume.

“Well,” he invited huskily, “do I look it?”

“You mean like a werewolf?” I suggested, and waited smiling for the witty retort. But he shook his head.

“It happens to be quite true,” he assured me with the absolute solemnity of the very drunken or the very insane.

I jumped at that, although I was used to meeting bizarre figures in the Wurther parlor. Not knowing what to say, I kept my own nervous mouth shut. After a musing moment, Craw went on.

“I came here tonight looking for help in my desperate problem. Wurther and his wife are supposed to be experts in occultism.”

“Mr. Craw,” I could not help saying, “the Wurthers are unmitigated fakes.”

“I was thinking that,” he nodded glumly. “Apparently their only reason for letting me come was to make sport for their friends.” A pause, awkward for me at least. “Well, then, shall I tell you?”

“Please do,” I urged, feeling strangely foolish.

Craw hunched his shoulders, sank his head, and let his clasped hands slide down, down between his knees until the thick knuckles almost rested on the floor. There was something animal-like in the attitude: his body and limbs seemed measured and joined according to an abnormal pattern. His licorice eyes sought mine, and at the moment they did not look exactly human, either. Too much gloomy iris for one thing, and too little rim of white for another. In their depths lurked a green light, feeble but hard.

“It began,” said Craw, “when I experimented with the witch-ointments.”

“Witch-ointments?”

“Yes. Supposed to be rubbed on for changes into animal forms—made and used by magicians according to Satanic formulas. They sound fantastic, I know, but I was a medical student, working on a paper about pre-Renaissance medicine. There were several recipes.”

“Recipes?” I repeated. “Not really?”

“Yes, a dozen at least. The 1896 bulletin of Johns Hopkins Hospital printed one, in an article by Doctor Robert Fletcher. Several other modern scientists have offered others, wholly or in part. And let me tell you that there’s more sound pharmacy in them than you’d think.”

I thought, indeed hoped, that he was merely spoofing. But there was no bantering smile upon his thin lips, and his eyes looked drawn and haggard about the corners.

“Belladonna, for instance,” he amplified. “It’s a common ingredient. Makes you see visions, as you probably know. And monkshood, full of deadly aconitine. Henbane, that Shakespeare called ‘the insane root’; and hemlock. These and other things, made into a salve with the fat of an unbaptized child—”

“I say,” I broke in again, not very politely, “you don’t ask me to believe that you—”

“But I did.” Again that melancholy nod of assurance. “There was a baby’s body fetched to the dissecting-room at school.” He paused and his eyes narrowed, as though to gaze down a fearsome groove into the past. “Well, I mixed the stuff up. For a lark.” His mouth slashed open in a rueful grin, revealing oversize, uneven teeth.

“You rubbed it on?” I prompted. Once more he nodded, and I pursued: “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Craw sat up straight again and spoke more clearly. “I don’t know what I expected to happen, or if in truth I expected anything. But I do remember feeling like a fool, and an unclean fool to boot. I started to clean the grease off, but it had absorbed into me somehow, like a vanishing cosmetic.”

He shuddered slightly, briefly.

“As I say, nothing happened all that day, or that night, or the next day. But the next night,” and his voice dropped suddenly to a breathy mutter, “was the night of the full moon.”

On the instant I remembered a host of stories with which my childhood nurse had regaled me, stories about the full moon and its effect on the human soul and fate. Few of them had been pleasant. Craw was plunging ahead:

“Moonlight meant romance to me then, and nothing more. Collegian-like, I went on a riverside walk with a girl— a Liberal Arts sophomore. There was a sort of sandy jut out into the water, and we loitered there. Something I said made her laugh, with her face turned up to me in the moonlight. Then she stopped laughing, and her mouth twisted like a snake when you step on it.”

“Whatever for?” I almost gasped.

“Her eyes—on my face—were frightened.”

Excerpt From: Manly Wade Wellman. “The Werewolf Snarls and Other Stories.”

More Fantasy and Horror

More by Manly Wade Wellman

Summary
WerewolfSnarlsThumb The Werewolf Snarls and Other Stories by Manly Wade Wellman
Our Rating
1star The Werewolf Snarls and Other Stories by Manly Wade Wellman1star The Werewolf Snarls and Other Stories by Manly Wade Wellman1star The Werewolf Snarls and Other Stories by Manly Wade Wellman1star The Werewolf Snarls and Other Stories by Manly Wade Wellman1star The Werewolf Snarls and Other Stories by Manly Wade Wellman
Aggregate Rating
5 based on 3 votes
Brand Name
Pulp Fiction Masters
Product Name
The Werewolf Snarls and Other Stories by Manly Wade Wellman
Price
USD 3.95
Product Availability
Available in Stock