The Wolves Of Roussillon

The journey across the Pyrenees Mountains was picturesque. I had travelled by train from Barcelona to the town of Perpignan on the 18th of October, 1898. From there, I reached the province by way of the nearby village of Roussillon, situated in the northern part of the Luberon, nestled between steep mountains and the plateau.

I was then conveyed by carriage to the residence of Dr René Dubois, a colleague of mine who had been expecting me. He had summoned me to assist in a series of strange cases, linked to a peculiar and undefined affliction that had taken hold of certain inhabitants in the village—an affliction that bore an unsettling resemblance to a transparent form of lycanthropy.

Unnerving rumours abounded that the cause of the illness lay with a pack of wolves—or worse, werewolves. Such a suggestion, however outlandish, would trouble me from the moment I arrived in Roussillon. My name is Philip Watford, an English physician.

Dr Dubois received me warmly in his study, 'I trust the journey wasn’t too taxing, Dr Watford. I understand you English are not as used to travel as we French', he said.

'Indeed, I am a touch weary, but nothing I shall not recover from. I must admit, the landscape on the way to Roussillon was remarkably fair'.

'Let us hope you feel the same when the rains arrive. We are in the rainy season here in southern France'.

'You forget I’m English—a man well acquainted with uninvited showers'.

'Ah, but here they are midday showers that dampen the spirit'.

'The very sort I enjoy most. My dear wife Emma always remarks upon it'.

'And how is your beautiful wife?' Enquired Dr Dubois.

'She is radiant. She claims to love me still, though I’ve often wondered how a man might deserve such devotion'.

'You are a fortunate fellow, doctor'.

'Enough of my domestic affairs. Now, tell me—what is this illness you described in your correspondence? The one you say resembles lycanthropy?'

His face darkened with concern as he began to disclose the nature of the cases.
'It began with the first incident—an elderly gentleman named Jean-Paul Deschamps'.

Dr Dubois was meticulous in his account. When I pressed him on the cause of the affliction, he offered only uncertainty. All of the patients he had examined exhibited the same distinctive marks and symptoms.

He showed me a number of photographs he had taken of the afflicted. I found them troubling, yet it was still too early to conclude anything definitive. The worst, I suspected, was yet to come.

He then showed me photographs of patients behaving as though they were wild wolves. At first, he had not dared utter the word that haunted the region—le loup-garou. Eventually, with visible reluctance, he spoke it aloud.

Though he seemed convinced, I was not. As a man of science, I could not accept the notion of supernatural werewolves. The 20th century was fast approaching, and the advances of medicine and psychology had begun to explain conditions once thought incurable or unfathomable.

A revolutionary new discipline—psychology—was emerging, dedicated to both experimental and introspective study of human behaviour. I was a strong proponent of it, and this was the primary reason why Dr Dubois had requested my assistance.

Whilst I had yet to observe patients with physical traits of lupine transformation, I had seen individuals suffering from acute delusions and a form of hypochondria.

He took me to visit one such patient—a middle-aged man of average build—who was kept in a straitjacket due to his erratic behaviour. Dr Dubois explained that the patient remained calm during the day but transformed at night, particularly under a full moon.

First he would howl, then tear at the hairs on his chest like a beast. When I saw the man in daylight, he appeared perfectly lucid. But as evening descended and the full moon emerged through the mist outside his room, his demeanour changed alarmingly. Without provocation, he began howling in a wild frenzy. His delusion of being part-wolf—therianthropic, as some termed it—was evident.

His behaviour became so uncontrollable that we were forced to sedate him. His eyes bulged with madness, sweat ran in rivulets down his face, and he snarled like a feral animal. From this episode, I was able to make an initial diagnosis: he was suffering from a delusional disorder, in which he truly believed himself to be a wolf or wolf-man.

The notion of clinical lycanthropy could indeed be applied here, for it was a psychological affliction—an illusion of transformation rather than a literal one. What disturbed me was how thoroughly the villagers believed in the physical reality of the transformation. That belief, it seemed, shaped the very symptoms of their malady.

I had barely arrived in Roussillon and was already enmeshed in this unsettling mystery. Dr Dubois had kindly prepared a guest room for me in his home.

That night, I wrote a letter to my beloved Emma in England. I chose not to speak in detail about the strange afflictions I had witnessed. It seemed wise to withhold judgement until I had gathered sufficient evidence.

Sleep eluded me. I spent the night pondering the nature of the disorder afflicting these villagers. There was something in the air—something unusual. Perhaps it was the distant howling of wolves that unsettled me. London held no such nocturnal music. This was to be the first of many restless nights.

The following morning, over breakfast and tea, Dr Dubois and I discussed the problem of lycanthropy in earnest. We agreed that any diagnosis would require a clear and disciplined approach. The methodology we employed had to be effective and collaborative.

We were limited in our resources, and it was clear the villagers were wary of outsiders. That mistrust had been apparent since my arrival. There was a peculiar atmosphere amongst the townsfolk—secretive, and faintly hostile.

The village itself was sparse: a church with a bell tower, an old abbey, a lonely cemetery, houses with ageing façades, and narrow winding streets typical of the region. We made our way through these streets to the home of the latest afflicted individual.

We were greeted by the master of the house, a weary man who confessed he feared his own son. When we entered, we saw the boy—a young Gypsy named Gilbert—chained like a feral dog.

The sight was jarring. It was difficult to reconcile the madness before us with the idea that this boy had once been innocent. His eyes held a wildness, a primal fear or rage.

Was it psychological in origin? Or perhaps physiological—rabies, perhaps? I could not rule it out. The disease could easily explain such behaviour, but it would require further observation. We decided to transport the boy to a facility outside the village—something akin to an asylum—where Dr Dubois conducted his studies in a more controlled environment.

Before we departed, the doctor informed me of another recent incident—this one at the local cemetery. A villager had reported seeing a naked man acting strangely among the gravestones. We found the man still there upon arrival.

His appearance was unkempt and wild. Saliva dripped from his mouth, and his pupils were grotesquely dilated. When he caught sight of us, he growled like a beast.

It took Dr Dubois and two gravediggers to restrain and sedate him. His behaviour was monstrous, like something from a nightmare.

It was staggering to see such a concentration of cases in one small, remote village. The severity of the symptoms, the shared delusions, and the unnerving atmosphere all pointed to a mystery more profound than mere madness.

And yet, I was not ready to give in to superstition. Not yet.

I thought to myself, how were we to dissuade these patients from acting out this unnatural comportment that was visibly consequential? There was an ulterior motive that had to be involved in this situation to make the people of the village believe in the concept of lycanthropy. The circumstances were too coincidental for these cases to be simply assumed as conducive to the sudden realisation that they were caused by werewolves.

As a man of science, I could not accept that this affliction was reducible to the superstition of ancient lore. I was not a man to be easily persuaded by such foolish hearsay. I had shared my opinions with Dr Dubois, and we had both agreed that we would attempt to use different types of drugs to control the hysteria manifested by the patients.

Whilst I was outside the asylum, I noticed in the vicinity a lone chateau that stood next to a lush verdure of pine trees, surrounding the ancient structure near the presence of the lofty mountains. There was a medieval bridge, where a river flowed into the village. For some curious reason unbeknownst to me at the time, I was drawn to the unique establishment of the chateau.

There was something about it that had arrested my immediate attention. I asked myself, who was living there? A mass of clouds hovered above its daunting domain. It was the first time I had actually seen this chateau, but it would not be the last. Dr Dubois saw me standing and looking directly at the mysterious chateau. He saw a baffled look in my eyes.

‘You look profoundly pensive, Dr Watford. What has caught your eye?’

‘There in the propinquity, that chateau standing. Whose chateau does it belong to, if I may enquire?’

‘It belongs to a nobleman, who is the Marquis of Roussillon’.

‘Interesting. And his name?’

‘Hugo Burgot’.

‘Burgot...where have I heard that surname before?’

‘Legend says that centuries ago, a man by that surname was reported to be a loup garou’.

‘You mean a lycanthrope?’

‘I mean a werewolf, doctor, not a man assuming to be a werewolf’.

‘Surely a man of your regard for science would not make that assumption or conclusion’.

‘I make no assumption, doctor. I merely give you the facts’.

‘But how can you assume that this Burgot fellow was indeed a werewolf?’

‘Because there is proof’, Dr Dubois insisted.

‘What do you mean, proof? What proof? A man went insane. You call that evidence?’ I responded.

‘I know what I am going to tell you will seem unhinged, but I tell you that the Marquis of Roussillon is a loup garou’.

‘Nonsense! Just because he shares the surname Burgot or is somehow related to this other Burgot from the past, does not convince me that he is a bloody werewolf’.

‘There is the story of the Beast of Gévaudan’.

‘I have heard about that tale’.

‘Remember my words, doctor, for I hope you do not regret your disbelief in my admission of the truth’.

‘Admission of the truth? What truth?’

‘It is better that you know less than more’.

‘If what you say is true, then you will have no objection in taking me to his chateau to meet him’.

‘If it was not because I am the one to have brought you here in the first place, I would not take you. However, you are here as my guest and assistant. I shall take you, but it must be during the daylight. I never pass that area of the chateau of the marquis at night. I dread the echoes of the howling that resound so devilishly in that dark forest’.

It made me think about the howling I had heard previously. ‘It seems that wolves or dogs were on the prowl until late at night, doctor’.

‘Dr Watford, those are not the howls of a dog. They are the howls of wolves’.

Dr Dubois would kindly escort me with his carriage to the chateau, whereupon our arrival, we could hear the eerie sounds of wolves howling from close by. That would send chills down my spine.

Upon our arrival, we saw an old gateway to the chateau. We entered its grounds and were met by a servant who opened the front gate to allow us in. When he asked us about our visit, Dr Dubois told him that we had come to speak to the marquis. The servant led us past the courtyard that had a fountain of a wolf’s head and bushes with prickly thorns of black dahlias that were abundant.

It was creepy, to say the least. The sensation that I had in being outside the chateau was of slight intimidation, but it was its Gothic appeal that mostly fascinated me. The chateau was surrounded by iron gates with pointed jags atop. I was uncertain if it was to keep away intruders, or merely the whims of an architectural design.

At the front door, we were personally greeted by the Marquis of Roussillon. He was a man over six feet tall, and his constitution matched his height. His raven hair was long and flowing, but it was his mocha eyes that were penetrating in their stare and expression.

Above all, he was a refined man, his elegance displayed in his clothing. He was wearing a brown suit with matching trousers. His black shoes reflected a bright lustre of luculence. He seemed to be in his mid-thirties, judging from his outward appearance.

There was one distinguishable feature about him—his fingernails were painted black. They were excessively sharp and long. The chateau had a grand great hall and dining hall. The furniture inside was exquisite, as were the spacious rooms that were embellished. It was a two-storey building with a spiralling stairway and a gallery that demonstrated a refined taste and predilection for art. Dr Dubois proceeded to introduce me to the marquis, who was eager to make my formal acquaintance.

‘Allow me to present to you, monsieur, my good colleague and friend, Dr Watford’.

We shook hands. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, marquis’, I said.

He looked into my eyes and smiled. ‘You are an Englishman. It has been a while since I have heard the familiar speech of a gentleman of your country’.

‘I shall take that as a compliment, marquis’.

‘Please, do not address me as the marquis. You can call me Hugo’.

‘Hugo it shall be then!’ I replied.

‘We shall not be taking any more of your time, monsieur’, said Dr Dubois. ‘Dr Watford merely wanted to meet you in person’.

‘No need to go so quickly. I have not had many visitors lately, and I would be delighted if you gentlemen joined me for dinner’.

‘We would love to, marquis, but regrettably, we must tend to our duties’, Dr Dubois confessed.

I interjected, ‘I am certain that we could accommodate the marquis on this one occasion. It would be our pleasure. If you have no objection, doctor’.

Dr Dubois was not that receptive to the idea, but he acquiesced. ‘To dine with the Marquis of Roussillon is always an honour, doctor’.

We sat down at the table in the dining hall and began to converse about the topic of science and werewolves. The chandeliers above were illuminated with candles. The furniture was priceless and the food delicious. We were served pork as the main dish. Our host, the marquis, knew how to regale our taste buds. We were given fine wine to drink, from the exquisite vineyards in the adjacent village.

‘Hugo, are you acquainted with the established definition of lycanthropy? I am eager to know your opinion’.

‘If you mean a man believing that he is a wolf’.

‘Yes, that is what I am referring to’.

‘I think that any man who is a slave to his desire is doomed, but a man who is imbued by the moonlight is the master of the night’.

‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked.

He looked into my eyes with a serious stare. I could see the sheen reflect from his eyes. ‘A werewolf is just a myth created by man, but a wolf is the most revered beast of all the beasts. For he roams the nights with the freedom of the guiding wind and the imbuement of the sacred moon’.

‘Are you a loup garou, marquis?’

‘I am of an ancient breed of race that existed in this land long before the Greeks, Romans, Arabs and French ruled Roussillon’.

He paused before he continued, 'Tell me Dr Watford, do you believe in the loup garou?'

Before I could answer, Dr Dubois then interrupted, ‘If you will excuse us, marquis, we must be on our way now. Thank you for the sumptuous dinner’.

‘It was my pleasure to be your host’.

‘Before we go, if I may ask you, Hugo, what can you tell me about the history of this chateau?’

He paused before answering. ‘That is an excellent question. This chateau was once an ancient fortification built by the descendants of Charlemagne the Great. This area of Roussillon was conquered by the Greeks, Romans, the Saracens, then by the French, the Aragonese, Catalans, and finally by the noblemen of Roussillon. There is a cavern nearby that was once the refuge for the Cathars. My proud ancestors were made the guardians of this area, including the chateau, messieurs, but sadly, they were burnt at the stake by the inquisitors.’

‘Fascinating!’

‘Perhaps on another occasion, we can continue the discourse at the chateau’.

‘Of course, marquis’, Dr Dubois replied.

As we were leaving the chateau, I enquired about the howls of the wolves, and he said to me in a manner that was subtle but portentous, ‘Do not fret, doctor, for they are the wondrous howls of the creatures of the night. The wolves who sing so beautifully are the kindred of mine that return on every full moon to serenade me.’

His words, which were concealed in irony, left the impression that there was something about the marquis that was not only secretive but, as well, confounding. When I asked Dr Dubois about the Cathars, he told me that they were a sect that had rebelled against the Pope, in the name of purity and tolerance. They fought against the atrocities of the armies of Louis XIV. Their creed made them believe that the world was corrupted and evil, including the Catholic Church.

The Cathars believed in atonement for their sins. The last Cathar to be burnt at the stake was a man named Guilhem Bélibaste, in the year 1321.
During the seventeenth century, the Cathars' descendants, who had survived the horrors of persecution by the Inquisition, became Huguenots or Protestants.

Along the dirt road back to the village, the howls began to increase, and we could sense the ominous presence of wolves close to our carriage. The forest was dark and gloomy, and twilight had faded into the glare of moonlight. Dr Dubois was visibly nervous as we passed through the sylvan woodland.

It was just as we were nearing the edge of those tall, fearsome trees that we were halted by a ferocious pack of wolves on the prowl. The driver cracked his whip and urged the horses forward, pulling tautly on the harness. A sinister wind blew with sheer might.

At last, we departed the terrifying forest and made it across the medieval bridge that led to the village. Dr Dubois's heart was pounding, and he was clearly overwhelmed with consternation. I understood then why the locals dreaded the forest at night. No tale conjured by superstition could rival the sheer horror we had felt from the wolves that lurked in that cursed woodland.

That night, I could not sleep. The image of the forest and the wolves haunted me until the early hours, when I awoke in a sweat, disturbed by the disquiet of a nightmare. It took me at least half an hour to regain my composure.

That same day, I received a letter from my beloved Emma. She was the calming presence that kept me sane. I wanted to tell her about the previous night's horrendous ordeal, but I was reluctant to frighten her with ghastly details. Instead, I chose to dwell on fond memories of our time together.

My moment of peace was interrupted by Dr Dubois, who knocked on my door to inform me that Gilbert—the Gypsy boy who had been committed to the asylum and chained by his father—had escaped. This revelation stirred my curiosity. Where could the boy have gone? It was not unreasonable to imagine he was still in the vicinity, perhaps hiding in the village.

We departed Dr Dubois’s house at once and began searching for the missing boy. We looked everywhere, but to no avail. Upon returning to the residence, we discovered the father’s lifeless body, butchered and lying in a thick pool of crimson blood. His throat had been slashed, and his chest was covered in deep scratches that had punctured his heart.

The question that plagued us was: who had killed the man? The thought of Gilbert, his son, entered our minds. Could his madness have driven him to commit patricide? I was sceptical. It was difficult to believe the boy could carry out such a heinous act with such strength. Nevertheless, we could not rule him out as a suspect.

The police from Perpignan were informed, but they too failed to locate the boy. No one knew where he could be hiding. The forest seemed the most logical place, and it was the first area the police searched. The local villagers feared the forest at night, especially under a full moon. They were also afraid of encountering the boy in his supposed form—as a loup-garou. Word of the father's horrific death spread quickly, and to the villagers, the murderer could only be a werewolf.

One night, under a full moon, I was visited by an anonymous woman. She appeared entirely naked. Her hair was long and silky, her skin pale, and her brown eyes glowed with the shimmer of moonlight. She attempted to seduce me with her feminine sensuality.

I heard her whisper my name with passion. At first, I was hesitant. What was she doing outside my window? I knew I could not succumb to the temptation of her enticing form. Her parched lips yearned to taste mine—and for a moment, I yearned to taste hers. Her spell was mesmerising, but I resisted just enough to break it.

Immediately, I shut the window, and when I reopened it, she was gone. I was left to wonder about her mystifying presence. This episode became common among the villagers, many of whom recounted similar experiences. As the days passed, more alleged cases of lycanthropy emerged, but still, the boy had not been found—until one horrifying night.

The moon was full. The howling of wolves reached the asylum, where Dr Dubois and I were tending to patients.

I had stepped outside for a breath of fresh air and a cigarette. The tension surrounding the boy’s disappearance had begun to unsettle me. Out of nowhere, Gilbert appeared at the edge of the pine forest.

His eyes were bulging and sweat poured down his face. He opened his mouth to reveal pointed, razor-sharp teeth. The Gypsy boy began to transform into an abominable beast—the loup-garou. I stood in disbelief, motionless, as the transformation completed before my eyes.

Then I heard Dr Dubois call my name, which startled the creature and caused it to flee. When the doctor reached me, he glimpsed the beast as it vanished. In that moment, I realised Dr Dubois had not been lying when he told me of the loup-garou. Whatever I had seen was hideous and unnatural. I was still in shock, and the doctor sensed my distress.

When I told him I had seen the boy, he asked where he had gone. I wasn’t certain. My only guess was the forest. I had no other way of explaining what I’d witnessed. I told him the thing I had seen was no longer human. Though he had only barely seen it himself, he knew what it was.

His exact words were, ‘The loup-garou!’

‘If this creature you call the loup-garou exists, then what of the others?’

‘You still doubt their existence, Dr Watford?’

‘Not after tonight! Tell me, when did you first see one?’

‘There is something I haven’t told you. The week before you arrived, I saw a loup-garou for the first time. It was trying to enter my house. I don’t know how it knew I was there, but it did. I frightened it away with a rifle shot’.

‘Was it a former patient of yours, do you think?’

‘Yes—I thought so, but I could not confirm it until I learned he’d been found dead, shot by a local villager’.

‘But where could Gilbert have gone?’

‘There’s only one place of refuge for these poor souls—the château of the Marquis of Roussillon’.

‘Why there?’ I asked.

‘Why? Because the marquis is himself a loup-garou'.

‘Good God—if that’s true, then why hasn’t anyone arrested or killed him, if he is the wretched beast you claim him to be?’

‘Fear, doctor. Everyone in the village fears him. So they appease his whims by offering flesh’.

‘Flesh? What do you mean by that?’

‘I mean we give him our cattle—and the occasional stranger foolish enough to enter his domain at night’.

‘That would make you all accomplices to his devious acts’.

‘I prefer to call it an agreement, doctor’.

‘That is madness!’ I exclaimed.

‘What would you have us do? Tell the outside world we’re harbouring loup-garous? Do you think anyone would believe me if I said the Marquis of Roussillon was a werewolf?’

‘I see your point, doctor, but we must do something to prevent these poor souls from becoming werewolves’.

‘It’s too late for them’.

‘We have to do something! We must act!’

‘What do you propose, Dr Dubois?’

‘Find the boy!’

‘Where?’

‘At the marquis’s château!’

‘Are you suggesting we go alone—just the two of us?’

‘Perhaps we could reason with the marquis’.

‘Have you gone mad, Dr Watford?’

‘Perhaps! But if we do nothing, the problem will never go away’.

‘Your words ring true’.

‘We shall find Gilbert at the château’.

‘Then we shall need rifles, silver bullets, and men—if we are to destroy the loup-garous'.

‘Let us first try to reason with the marquis, Dr Dubois’.

‘That’s insane, doctor—but we have no other choice’.

Before we had headed towards the château, we went to the house of Dr Dubois to retrieve a rifle and a pistol, in case it was necessary. The menacing wolves had reached the village and were everywhere. Thereafter, blistering shots and piercing howls became audible to my ears. We were forced to flee from the house, as the wolves had broken through the windows in a rapid, violent burst.

Fortunately, we escaped to a nearby church. The suspense continued to mount. We were surrounded by the threatening wolves, who were determined to attack any human who resisted them. Then, something inexplicable occurred—the wolves dispersed and returned to the sanctuary of the dark forest. We gathered several bold men from the village who volunteered to accompany us to the château to confront the marquis.

Along the way, holding our torches, we heard the howling once more—the presence of the wolves was near. Yet, for some reason, they did not attack us. They allowed us free passage to the château. I was not seeking direct confrontation with the marquis.

I simply wanted the boy to return and be cured—if such a thing were even possible.

Once we arrived at the château, we were met by the convivial Marquis of Roussillon himself, who seemed to know precisely why we had come. It was for the boy, Gilbert. He called out, and the Gypsy boy appeared at once. He was not the hideous beast I had seen during his shocking transformation. He was human then.

‘Here is Gilbert. As you can see, he is calm now’, said the marquis.

‘Has he been with you all this time?’ I asked.

‘Yes. He came looking for shelter, and I gave him the shelter he needed’.

‘We know that he—and you, marquis—are loup-garous’.

The Marquis of Roussillon paused for a moment before replying, ‘That I shall not deny. But you must understand—we are not to be feared’.

‘But your kind has caused great harm to the villagers’.

‘And what about your kind that has inflicted wounds upon us?’

‘I understand, but it does not justify one's acctions', I answered.

‘And what do you hope to achieve by killing my kind, Dr Watford? Are we not deserving of the same thing you prize — life?’

‘But we cannot allow you to spread', said Dr Dubois.

‘If you let us go, we shall not return. But know this — the forest is our home. By destroying us, you destroy nature itself’.

‘And what of us humans? We are being converted each day by your kind. You ask for pity, but you show none’.

‘Pity?’ He echoed. ‘When your kind has slaughtered ours nearly into extinction? You do not understand. We have given the villagers immortality—something none of you mortals can bestow’.

‘Then what you’re saying, marquis, is that we are equals? If so, how are we to find a solution? What will become of Roussillon?’

‘It will remain the same—except the villagers will be werewolves’.

‘And what of those who do not wish to become werewolves?’

‘Then they are free to leave—or live amongst us, if they so choose’.

At that moment, the men who had accompanied us alerted us to the presence of wolves approaching. Perhaps by fear or mistake, they began shooting. This act stirred the wolves into a frenzy. They attacked. Despite the silver bullets, they were too many to be held back. Chaos reigned. The wolves killed most of the men; only a few survived.

Sensing we might be next, Dr Dubois drew a pistol from his waistcoat and aimed it directly at the Marquis of Roussillon. I quickly tried to stop him, but it was too late. The boy leapt in front of the marquis and was shot. He collapsed to the floor, though he was not dead.

He was spared death—the bullet had pierced only his shoulder. I snatched the pistol from Dr Dubois’s hand. The marquis picked up the wounded boy and urged us to follow him. Gilbert, unconscious from the shock, was carried with care. There was a secret passage that led out of the château—a way unknown even to the wolves. Once outside, we found ourselves surrounded by endless trees and soon reached a river.

Unfortunately, the wolves had begun to approach the river as well. The marquis urged us to take the boy and flee, while he confronted the vengeful pack. He told us of a singular path that would lead us away from the mountains to safety on the other side.

He was courageous—willing to sacrifice his life for ours. We bid him adieu, uncertain whether we would see him again. As we departed with the Gypsy boy, the marquis suddenly transformed into an intimidating loup-garou. The beast stood over seven feet tall and was covered in shaggy black hair, as dark as night itself. His teeth were sharp, as were his claw-like fingernails. But it was his beady red eyes—transparent and penetrating—that struck the deepest fear.

He returned to confront the approaching wolves. Gilbert, still unconscious, was cradled in my arms. Dr Dubois kept his pistol ready, should the need arise. We crossed to the other side of the mountains. In the distance, I could hear the growling of the wolves. Then—silence. It was broken only by the unmistakable sound of howling. But whose? The marquis—or the wolves?

The next morning, we learned that the marquis had vanished. He was no longer at the château, which had been burned to the ground by the frenzied populace who blamed him for the wolves’ attack. The villagers who had become werewolves fled with the marquis. No one knew his whereabouts.

Dr Dubois chose to remain in the village. The redoubtable wolves were either hunted down or left the area. The mystery would remain—an elusive secret.

After the Marquis had vanished and the château lay in cinders, a strange silence befell the region. The villagers spoke of the events in hushed tones, as if afraid to summon the remnants of that dreadful night. Dr Dubois, though still shaken, had taken up temporary residence in the rectory near the church. He was, despite his stoicism, a man haunted by guilt.

Several days after the attack, I visited him.

‘You did not intend to shoot the boy, did you?’ I asked gently, observing his wan features by the candlelight.

He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and weary. ‘No. I intended to put an end to the marquis. I thought him the root of the infection’.

‘And now?’ I pressed.

He hesitated. ‘Now, I am not certain whether we were meant to judge them at all. The boy...Gilbert...he shielded him without hesitation. What does that say of their nature?’

I poured him a glass of cognac from a bottle left untouched since the ordeal. ‘Perhaps’, I said, ‘it says more than our science can measure’.

Dr Dubois took the glass with a trembling hand. The fire crackled. Shadows danced along the wooden beams above us. ‘Do you think they will return?’

‘I do not know’, I replied. ‘But I have not forgotten the marquis’s words’.

We drank in silence, as though listening to the past whisper through the walls.

One week later, I received a letter, sealed with dark green wax and bearing the unmistakable crest of Roussillon. It had no address, no date—only the marquis’s elegant script, flowing like an echo of the past.

Dear Dr Watford,
You may never understand the full scope of what has transpired, nor the weight of what lies ahead. Yet I write to you not for absolution, but for remembrance. We are not demons born of hatred, but remnants of a world older—than yours a world where nature reigned supreme, and instinct was law.
I am safe—for now—though I do not expect peace. Gilbert is recovering well and has begun to accept what he is. I hope one day he may find a world less cruel to those like him.
You and I stand on opposite shores of understanding, yet I believe you looked into my eyes that night and saw more than a beast.
I shall not return to Roussillon. It no longer belongs to us. But should you ever seek answers beyond your science, find the Forest of Lament in the Cévennes. There, perhaps, you will see our truth.

Yours faithfully,
Marquis Étienne de Roussillon

The letter left me perturbed, not only for what it revealed but for what it concealed. I read it a dozen times before finally locking it away in my bureau.

The following month, my curiosity overcame my hesitation. I journeyed to the Cévennes, travelling by rail and carriage through the misty countryside of southern France. When I reached the outskirts of the forest, I left my coach and entered on foot, torch in hand.

The trees were dense and shrouded in a spectral fog. The birdsong was absent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The forest was ancient—a cathedral of tangled limbs and forgotten whispers. As I pressed deeper, I came upon strange signs: runes carved into bark, stones arranged in circles, and small talismans hanging from branches.

Then I heard it—a soft footfall behind me.

I turned sharply, raising the torch. But there was no one.

Or so I thought.

‘Dr Watford’, came a voice from the gloom.

He stepped out from behind a moss-covered oak, dressed not in aristocratic finery, but in a simple cloak of fur and wool. His hair was longer, wild, and his eyes— though still sharp—bore a strange calm.

‘You came’, he said.

‘I had to know if it was real...all of it’.

He gestured for me to follow. We walked for what felt like an hour until we reached a glade lit by moonlight. There were others there—figures cloaked and silent — watching us with wary eyes.

‘You are not welcome here, not entirely’, said the marquis, ‘but they will not harm you while I stand amongst them’.

‘And Gilbert?’

‘Alive. Changed. But his heart remains kind. He has chosen to remain with us — not out of fear, but acceptance’.

‘I cannot condone your actions, marquis...but I no longer wish to destroy you’.

He smiled faintly. ‘That is more mercy than most of your kind would offer. Perhaps, in time, you may understand that we are not the sickness—we are the symptom. The world has become hostile to that which it cannot tame’.

‘And what of the villagers who were unwilling?’

His face darkened slightly. ‘Some left. Some fought. A few, tragically, perished. But the forest does not lie. It offers sanctuary—or silence’.

We stood there beneath the stars, the air thick with meaning. I felt no threat, only sorrow—a vast, primal sorrow for a world broken in two.

Before I departed the forest, one last curiosity held me. As dawn broke over the edge of the Cévennes, I wandered alone near the river’s bend—the same river we had once fled across with Gilbert in my arms. The water was still, reflecting the muted rose of morning light. A stillness lay across the glade, as though the land itself were suspended in a breath.

It was there, amongst the roots of an ancient elm, that I found the amulet.

At first, it seemed but a discarded trinket—half-buried in moss and earth, its chain coiled like a serpent around a gnarled root. Yet something about it compelled me to stoop and lift it free. It was heavier than expected, carved of an unfamiliar metal, dulled by time but unbroken.

I brushed the soil away and opened the small oval locket.

Inside was a miniature portrait, hand-painted with extraordinary skill. The face of a woman gazed out—serene, youthful, and pale as a snowdrop. Her eyes were piercingly blue, with a melancholy that seemed eternal. What startled me most, however, was the unmistakable resemblance she bore to the Marquis of Roussillon.

Her features were not identical, but the shape of her eyes, the structure of her face, even the proud tilt of her head—they mirrored his so strikingly that I stood in a stunned silence.

I turned the amulet over and found a single word etched upon the back in faded letters: Celestine.

A sister, perhaps? The marquis had never spoken of kin, nor had the villagers ever whispered of another of his blood. But there was something spectral about the face in the locket—something that felt less like a memory and more like a lingering presence.

I slipped the amulet into my coat pocket, unsure why I did so, and walked back toward the edge of the forest. I did not show it to the marquis. Somehow, I felt it was not meant to be returned — not yet.

As I crossed the ridge where the path led back to civilisation, I glanced once more over my shoulder. The forest remained as it was: wild, vast, unknowable. The secrets it held were its own. The wolves had not followed, nor had the marquis emerged.

But in my pocket now was a relic—an artefact of a mystery deeper than any I had yet known. Celestine. Her name would remain with me, a silent question beneath every memory of that shadowed land.

And so, with the amulet close to my heart and the memory of those days etched indelibly into my thoughts, I departed the realm of the loup garou, not as a conqueror, nor as a saviour, but as one marked by what he had seen...and by what he could never fully understand.

When I returned to London, I did not speak of the marquis again—not publicly. To do so would have been to invite scorn and disbelief. But I kept his letter, and I remember that glade, and the boy who leapt into a bullet’s path to protect a creature the world called a monster.

Sometimes, on quiet nights, I hear the howling across the moors of my mind. And I wonder...

Was he still watching us from the edge of the world?

Was he still hoping we might one day listen?

One day, I was shockingly surprised to see a familiar guest seated at my dining table: the Marquis of Roussillon. He had come to visit me, and Emma had greeted him. She had allowed him entry, and he waited patiently for my arrival.

His exact words upon seeing me again were as he smiled were, ‘You have not forgotten to invite me, Dr Watford?’

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