Whilst many barred their doors and windows during the time of the full moon, there were others who sought to destroy the creatures which spread terror and destruction. The most common method of all was to shoot the accursed with a silver bullet. Silver is greatly feared by vampires, and many people wore silver crosses to keep them safe from the undead.
It is also a well known belief that a werewolf cannot cross running water. Again this is something which applies to a vampire, and should either of these mythical creatures chance to fall into a stream or river then their end is assured. A person known to be a werewolf, who dies from natural causes whilst in human form must have a wooden stake driven through his heart to prevent him from becoming a vampire after death.
Let us now look in closer detail at the man who is under the curse of the werewolf. This follows a pattern throughout history, and although situations change, the basic principles still apply.
The farmworker has been bitten by his sheepdog. Little does he realise that this dog has in turn been bitten by a werewolf which has been savaging the sheep in the surrounding area for the past few months. The disease is carried in the saliva, and when the next full moon rises, the man undergoes a terrible experience. He is awakened in his bed by a burning sensation throughout his body, yet it is not unpleasant. It is as though power is being pumped into him, evaporating his human frailty. He rises from his bed, irresistibly drawn towards the window where he stares up at the silver orb in the night sky. It has a kind of hypnotic effect on him, but even this cannot nullify the shock which is his when he notices the state of his body. His arms are longer, falling below his knees, and his instinct is to walk on all fours. But this is not all. His skin is covered with coarse, matted hair and his calloused fingers have turned into claws with sharp ragged nails. His night attire falls from him in shreds, the seams bursting under the strain of an enlarged torso. He recoils in horror as he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror. His head is that of a wolf, huge yellowed fangs, wide nostrils, small eyes that glow redly.
But his terror is only short-lived. It is replaced by a sense of elation. He is the supreme being, stronger and faster than any living creature and far more cunning. He glances at his wife sleeping in the bed which he has just vacated, yet he does not feel any bestial urge towards her, and dropping on to all fours he pads softly from the room without waking her.
It is amazing how, throughout hundreds of werewolf stories spanning four or five centuries, a wife is seldom woken by her husband's 'change' and neither does she have any suspicions concerning his curse.
Once outside he pauses to bay the moon, a fearful howl which chills the blood of the villagers cowering in their beds. They have heard werewolves before, or else the stories told to them by their forefathers are so vivid that they have no trouble in recognising the killing cry. Force of habit has ensured that their doors are barred when the moon is full, and now they will pass a sleepless night until daybreak.
The werewolf, meanwhile, is crazed by the thought of fresh blood and raw meat. He must savage and eat at the earliest opportunity. In the distance he hears the bleating of sheep, and breaks into a fast lope. Even on this first occasion he shows remarkable cunning, using the wind to his advantage and keeping to the shadows so that he surprises an unwary flock of sheep, and as they break into a panic-stricken run he overhauls them with unbelievable speed and fells one with a blow from a mighty paw.
The feeding habits of the werewolf are the most disgusting of all legendary creatures. The vampire is delicate and seductive, leaving only a small mark where he pierces the jugular vein and drinks the blood of his victim, the 'kiss' with which we are all familiar in stereotyped films of this kind. However, the man-wolf knows no such niceties. His sharp claws rip his prey to shreds in a matter of seconds and greedily he begins to cram the bloody flesh into his cavernous jaws, munching and slurping his delight. But the worst is yet to come, as he disembowels the unfortunate sheep, its intestines a delicacy which he savours once his initial appetite has been appeased. Only the fur is left as evidence for the terrified shepherd to find after daylight. He howls his thanksgiving to the moon again, a long drawn out cry which those cringing in their beds in the village below recognise as the 'killing cry'.
The werewolf moves on. Not until the sky begins to lighten in the east will he return to his bed. Now he will kill for the sake of killing, possibly drinking more blood but leaving the flesh. He may pursue the rest of the frightened flock of sheep, dropping them one by one until the field is strewn with his carnage, or he may travel further afield hoping to surprise an unwary shepherd who has stopped out with his flock.
The moon is waning fast as the werewolf, his fur matted with the congealed blood of his victims, returns to his home. His wife still sleeps soundly; she is the only villager who has not heard the howls of the killer! The change back to human form is rapid, the deformations reverting to normal within a few minutes. Now his terror begins as he remembers his atrocities, but he crawls back into bed and hopes
