Chapter II

Gray dawn broke over Barrowham. The alleyway near O'Leary's reeked of blood. A knot of townsfolk pressed against a sagging police line, faces pale, eyes wide with terror. "So much blood…" a woman choked out, tears streaking her eye shadow-streaked cheeks, clutching her shawl tight. A man's voice cracked like a bull whip, "Gordon, what happened?" 

"Move aside!" Daniels yelled, pushing through the crowd. 

The alley opened up, Mayor Mikkelson stepped forward, his three-week tenure hanging on him like an ill-fit coat, spectacles glinting as he rubbed a hand over his balding scalp. "Doctor, thanks for coming." 

"What happened?" Watters voice faltered as his gaze snagged on blood-slicked stones and jagged flesh, "Daniels...Daniels said it was a child?" 

Blood stained the cobblestones crimson, mixed with bits of flesh. A child's broken and scattered limbs lay amidst the gore. 

"Hilda Jaspert," Gordon, broad and bearded, pressed a trembling hand to his mouth, his face pale under the morning sun. "She was out for a midnight stroll…" He trailed off, unable to finish the thought. 

"Hilda?" Watters whispered, his face paling. 

Gordon, a large, bearded veteran, looked sick. "I've seen combat, Doc, but this…" 

"How…?" Watters muttered, turning away. 

"Two boys found her," Mikkelson said. "They were out fishing. Heard something… instead of some drunk, they found this." 

"Thee boys couldn't stop repeating —werewolf, over and over" Gordon said mimicking their small jittery hands clawing at the air. 

"Poor kids," Watters murmured, frowning. "Her parents…George and Clara? Do they know?" 

"Yes," Gordon's voice scraped out, taught as a pulled rope. 

Watters's gaze darted about the carnage, his bearded jaw tightening until a muscle twitched. "A werewolf…those monsters the Order buried in blood centuries ago?" 

"Yes," Mikkelson scoffed. "Some silly story about werewolves and bad children." 

"I've heard whispers of it," Gordon said. "Given the brutality and all...and there's been some strange disappearances--" 

"Nonsense," Watters snapped, a hint of anger in his voice. "A wild dog, hell, maybe a stray wolf. But 'Werewolves'. Come now, Gordon. The Lycans were vanquished ages ago. You and I were in that very war against the cryptids! Gordon, we fought cryptids before—don't dredge up fairy tales now. This 'werewolf' talk…it's disrespectful. You can't be serious?" 

"Look, I'm not saying I believed it, I just—" Gordon started, but Mikkelson cut him off. "Enough, Gordon. This town has enough tall tales floating around, we don't need one more about a werewolf. Doctor, what do you need?" 

Watters's gaze swept over the carnage. The acrid smoke pulled him back—flames licking a pyre of clawed corpses, the Order's victory chant ringing hollow. He squeezed his eyes shut, breath hitching as he clawed the trench from his mind. 

"Doctor? Are you alright?" Mikkelson asked, touching his arm. 

"Yes," Watters' words emerged clipped, each syllable chewed off. "Just… bag the remains when you're finished here." 

"Right," Gordon said, turning to the crowd. "Back! Get back! Let the officers through!" 

Mikkelson hand rested firm on Watters' shoulder, his voice softening, "Watters, I'll inform The Order. I know about your past. Let them handle this." 

"It's…it's Order protocol for me to perform the autopsy within twenty-four hours, Mayor. I…" Watters began, but Mikkelson interrupted. "I know, but this is just too…too awful." 

"Sir, I have to," Watters insisted. "If The Order finds out…" 

"I understand," Mikkelson said, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'll handle the Order. If you need anything, just call." 

Watters dipped his chin, eyes drifting past Mikkelson and the bloodied stones. What happened to you, Hilda? he thought, watching the investigators move in, snapping pictures of the scene. "Werewolves," he muttered under his breath, a dismissive scoff escaping him. "Poppycock." 

Stars pierced the Barrowham sky, sharp pinpricks glinting over the silence. Snow whispered from the pines, a deceptive peace settling over the town. Watters's grip tightened on his bourbon glass, the condensation a cold echo of the sweat beading on his brow. He drank, the bourbon a momentary flicker of warmth against the cold chill that sank into his chest, coiling tight around his ribs. His eyes, however, wouldn't leave Hilda Jaspert's remains: the severed foot, the gnawed arm, the ear, the blood-matted hair—a brutal testament to savagery. The arm still bled, the crimson stain spreading across the table. A bucket stood ready to receive the gruesome offering. 

"Hilda Jaspert. Age nine. Blood type O-positive." His voice droned — The hollow words devoid of meaning. He looked at the folder. A sob caught in his throat. "Congenital acromicria…" The diagnosis felt like a cruel joke. His vision blurred, a sting prickling at the corners of his eyes. "Poor, poor girl…" he choked out. 

Her mangled arm flickered in his sight—then mud, the soldier's guts spilling, screams weaving through the bourbon's haze. He emptied his glass, seeking solace in the amber liquid. 

He wiped his eyes, the gesture mechanical. He clenched his jaw, fingers steadying as he reached for his kit, I have a job to do, he reminded himself, pushing the grief aside. He opened a drawer, retrieving his surgeon's kit, the brown leather worn smooth with use. 

He laid the kit on the table and lifted the arm. Bite marks, upper bicep. Consistent with a large animal. Dog? Wolf? He tilted the arm, noting the waxen sheen —too pale, drained dry. No other obvious injuries. 

He carefully lowered the arm and picked up the severed foot. All toes intact. Skin pale. His internal examination continued: Severed at the ankle. Wounds consistent with large animal bites. Wound channel… He paused, leaning closer. "Wait a second," he murmured. A small, gray tuft of hair protruded from a crease in the muscle. 

He used the tweezers to gently tease the hair free. Holding it close to the candle, he squinted at the follicles. "Odd," he murmured. "Too thick, too coarse… not like any wolf or dog." The room swayed, his grip faltering as the tweezers slipped. The tweezers fell, the hair scattering. "Damn," he grunted, his fingers digging into his wrist. The bourbon's heat faded, his edges softening as the desk blurred. 

The smell of burning filled his nostrils. The hair! He frantically gathered the scattered strands, now mingled with dust. But there was no fire. He scanned the desk. Only his papers and a few silver coins lay there. A sudden thought struck him. He picked up a single hair and held it to the candle flame. Nothing. "Curious..." he murmured, intrigued. He repeated the test, holding the hair in the flame several times. Still no reaction. 

What could have caused the burning smell? His gaze drifted to the desk. The scattered report, his bourbon glass, the silver coins… His gaze snagged on the coins, a flicker of curiosity tightening his brow. He placed the hair on one of the coins. It erupted in flames. Watters recoiled, knocking over his papers, which instantly caught fire. "What in God's name—?" he exclaimed, stepping back from the blaze. 

"An exothermic reaction…with silver? That's not consistent with any natural substance." he murmured, the flame flickering in his eyes. His breath caught, noting in decades of cuts and corpses matched the reaction. He doused the burning papers with a nearby jug of water, the sudden smoke a stark reminder of the strangeness of the night. The air, moments before thick with the scent of burning paper, now carried a new, terrifying undercurrent – the raw, animal reek of fear. He stared at the smoldering hair, the acrid scent dragging him back to a muddy trench, a comrade's scream cut short by claws he'd sworn were gone forever. 

"Could it...really be —?" 

"No, no, that's simply not possible." The Order had been adamant; Lycans were extinct, hunted to oblivion generations ago. His mind spun, logic colliding with the impossible evidence before him. "But silver… the lore spoke of wolfsbane, a flower, not… but how could silver work?" Watters held the coins aloft, scrutinizing them. Just silver, cold and unremarkable. A sudden impulse drove him to the bookshelf, his fingers tracing the worn leather and paper spines. "Anatomy… Neuroscience… Chemical Bonds…" He murmured the titles, a low, inquisitive hum in the quiet room. "Aha!" His fingers halted on a familiar red binding. Metals. He hooked a finger around the top of the spine and pulled the heavy tome free, turning back to his desk and dropping it onto the chaotic surface with a resounding thud. 

Watters opened the book with a snap, releasing a puff of aged dust. "Hah-CH," he wheezed, waving away the particles, evidence of the volume's long dormancy. He carefully turned the pages, his academic curiosity overriding his discomfort. "Zirconium, no… Rhodium, no…" His glasses slid further down his nose as he leaned in, his focus intense. Silver. He began to read, his eyes methodically scanning the scientific description. "Atomic weight… electron shells…" His finger followed the lines of text, dissecting the information. "Reactive properties!" His eyes jumped across the paragraphs, seeking the relevant data. Silence. A long, deflated sigh escaped him. "Remarkably unreactive," he murmured, His voice sagged, 'Remarkably Unreactive'. He closed the book gently, a gesture of resignation. The answers remained elusive, the mystery only deepening with each dead end. 

Watters slumped into his armchair, pinching the bridge of his nose. He pressed his hand to his temple, the room tilting as bourbon fog swirled his thoughts. This can't be real. Werewolves? Lycans? No. He shook his head minutely. Hilda was killed by an animal. A wild animal. Nothing more. He drew a slow, steadying breath, willing his racing thoughts to still. "Okay," he murmured, pushing himself back to his feet and returning to his desk. He gathered the scattered papers, aligning them into a neat stack, a small act of control in a world suddenly gone mad. 

Crisp air filled his lungs as he inhaled deeply, his eyes squeezed shut against the lingering disorientation. He held the breath, then released it in a sharp exhale. "Okay," he began again, his voice firmer, "Facts. Just follow the facts." His shoulders squared, breath steadying as he gripped the tweezers like a lifeline. "The hair's reaction to silver is… anomalous, but what can the hair itself reveal?" He reached across the desk, picking up a pair of tweezers. Beneath the table, untouched by the silver, lay discarded hair samples. He bent, carefully selecting a small tuft for closer inspection. Raising the tweezers to his eyes, he adjusted his glasses, peering intently at the specimen. Nothing immediately obvious. But then, his gaze shifted to the counter beyond the examination table. A microscope. He straightened abruptly, tuft still clutched in the tweezers, and moved purposefully towards the instrument. 

The microscope gleamed, its brass casing polished to a high shine, various lenses arrayed on a silver platform. Ornate carvings adorned its small, round knobs. On the silver tray, specimen clips stood ready. Beside it, a small brass container held a stack of glass slides and a slender water pipette filled with saline. Watters selected a slide, its cool glass smooth beneath his fingers, and placed it on the counter. Carefully, he positioned the fur sample on its surface. Setting down the tweezers, he picked up the pipette and gently squeezed a droplet of saline onto the specimen. He then took another slide, placing it precisely over the fur. With delicate movements, he grasped the edges of the slide sandwich and slid it into the microscope stage. 

Watters leaned closer, his eye pressed to the microscope lens, and began to refine the focus. At first glance, the hair seemed ordinary, he observed, but as he zoomed deeper, his fingers minutely adjusting the focus, a subtle anomaly emerged. Interesting. A faint undulation rippled near the hair's base. His fingers delicately manipulated the focus, his other hand adjusting the condenser for optimal illumination. There. He narrowed his eyes, a shiver traced his spine, cold and sharp as a needle Clustered around the follicles… some form of… parasitic worms. His hand instinctively jerked back from the microscope controls, his pulse quickened, hands fumbling for a pen as the worms burned into his sight, sending small beakers skittering across the counter before his fingers closed around a notepad. 

He drew the notepad closer, pen poised to record his findings. "Microscopic anomalies observed on hair follicle; morphology suggests...worms?" His brow furrowed further, his gaze intensifying as he meticulously noted every detail. "Worm coloration… atypical. Anomaly exhibits black pigmentation. Black?" The doctor's pen scratched across the paper, capturing his observations with clinical precision. "Higher magnification required," he murmured, pausing his writing to adjust the microscope. The image sharpened, his focus now fixed on the worm's anterior end. "Anomaly appears to possess…" he hesitated, a tremor of unease entering his voice, "…Anomaly appears to possess dentition, actively boring into the hair follicle." He shifted the slide, examining the hair's base. "At the root," he noted, his voice now barely a whisper, "evidence of a dense, melanic substance coating the follicle." He straightened from the microscope, his fingers now thoughtfully stroking his chin. 

"It's… it's like a…" his mind raced, the image of the follicle-clinging creatures burning into his consciousness. It must be a parasite! His breath froze, eyes widening as the girl's torn flesh flashed before his eyes —infested. By God… that poor girl wasn't just attacked. She was ravaged by a beast riddled with parasites! But what beast? And, more urgently, what kind of parasite? The questions swirled in Watters' mind, a vortex of dread and morbid fascination. He was a physician, trained in healing, not an expert in the unseen horrors of infectious disease. 

Watters stood, absorbing the implications of his microscopic findings. A faint sound, barely perceptible, pricked his ears. His gaze lifted, drawn to the ceiling above. Screaming. Distant, muffled, but undeniably screaming. "What in God's name…?" he whispered, his unease solidifying as he ascended the stairs from his lab. His frail hand closed around the doorknob at the top of the stairs, easing the door open. A cacophony of screams, sharp and agonizing, shattered the fragile stillness of the night. Ice pooled in his chest, ribs tightening as screams pierced the dark. He edged towards the front door, the screams intensifying, multiplying. Moonlight filtered through the windows flanking his door, but its hue was wrong. A sickly orange, as if… firelight. Instinct propelled Watters to action. He snatched his coat and bolted for the door, wrenching it open. The screams were a terrifying chorus of agony. And then, cutting through the human cries, the chilling howls began. Wolves. Their voices, rising from the darkness, encircled him. A wave of icy terror washed over him, paralyzing him for a heartbeat. Then, a deafening explosion ripped through the night, punctuating the unfolding nightmare. He spun around, breath seizing in his lungs, and sprinted towards a nearby alleyway, a vantage point to the town beyond. Barrowham was no more; in its place, a swirling inferno consumed the horizon.