Chupacabra Magazine Original Issue 1

“The Magazine with Bite” Issue 1 FREE

Foreword H e l l o a n d w e l c o m e t o o u r f i r s t m o n t h l y e d i t i o n o f C h u p a c a b r a m a g a z i n e. T h i s h a s b e e n s e t u p t o s h o w c a s e n e w a n d e x c i t i n g d e v e l o p m e n t s in t h e h o r r o r in d u s t r y. O v e r t h e m o n t h s w e w ill b e s h o w c asing all o f t h e la t e s t w o r k f r o m a va r i e t y o f m e d ia in t h e i n d u s t r y . W e w i l l i n c o r p o r a t e a v a r i e t y o f s t o r i e s, a r t w o r k , a n d r e v i e w s. W e w i l l b r i n g y ou t h e la t e s t in dus t r y ev en t s t h r o u g h ou t t h e w o r l d an d will h o p e f ully sca r e you r s o c k s o f f!

W e d e ci de d t o d o t his pu blica tion as w e have a r eal passion f o r ho r r o r as d o m any o f y o u a r o u n d t h e w o r l d , s o u l t i m a t e l y w e w a n t t o s h a r e t h i s w i t h y o u.

W e w o r k w i t h all so r t s o f p e o ple a c r o ss t h e in d us t r y t o b r i n g y o u t h e la t e s t in h o r r o r an d w e h o p e t h a t y ou f i n d ou r pu blica t ion in t e r e s t i ng an d in f o r m a t iv e an d will b e c o m e a n a v i d r e a d e r o f C h u p a c a b r a m a g a z i n e.

W e w e r e f o u n d e d i n S e p t e m b e r 2 0 1 0 a n d a r e a s m a l l h o r r o r p u b l i c a t i o n.

W e t a k e ou r na me f r o m t h e m y t hical b eas t t h a t f o r y ea rs has sh r ou d e d m ys t e r y in S o u t h A m e r i c a a n d t h e U n i t e d S t a t e s o f A m e r i c a. C h u p a c a b r a i s a b e a s t t h a t c a n’ t b e c a t e g o r i s e d a n d i s c o m p l e t e l y u n k n o w n t o s c i e n c e, i t i s a p u r e k i l l i n g m a c h i n e a n d w a s f i r s t d i s c o v e r e d in Pue r t o Ri c o w h e n s o m e g oa t s w e r e d i s c o v e r e d w i t h p u n c t u r e w o u n d s i n t h e i r n e c k s, t h a t w e r e n o t t h a t d i f f e r e n t f r o m h o w y o u w o u l d i m a g i n e v a m p i r e b i t e s. C h u p a c a b r a h a s a l l e g e d l y b e e n s i g h t e d i n P u e r t o R i c o, M i a m i, N i c a r a u g a, T e x a s , C h i l e a n d M e x i c o.

T h e r e h a v e b e e n m a n y t h e o r i e s o n w h a t t h e C h u p a c a b r a a c t u a l l y i s; s o m e s a y i t i s a w i l d d o g t h a t h a s l o s t i t’ s h a i r d u e t o a g e n e t i c d e f e c t ; i t h a s b e e n m a r k e d a s p o s s i b l y alien in o r igin an d o t h e r s h ave d isag r e e d e n t i r el y an d si m pl y say i t is a h u m an t h a t is p a r t o f a r e l i gi o u s s e c t.

T h e in t e r n e t f o r y ea rs h ave b e en f l oo d e d wi t h images o f t h is c r ea t u r e o r w ha t people t h i n k is t h e C h u p a c a b r a an d h e r e a r e s o m e e x a m p l e s o f t h i s m y t h i c al b e a s t.

T h i s I g u e s s w o u l d b e y o u r m o r e t r a d i t i o n a l v a r i a t i o n o n t h e C h u p a c a b r a, a r e a l d e m o n o f t h e nig h t.

T h i s i s n o t y o u r t r a d i t i o n a l i m a g e o f t h e C h u p a c a b r a ; t h i s w a s d i s c o v e r e d i n T e x a s. A s y o u c a n s e e i t h a s t h e m a i n c h a r a c t e r i s t i c s o f a d o g b u t lo o k a t t h o s e u n n a t u r a l f a n g s; a r e a l t e r r o r.

F o r y e a r s p e o p l e h a v e p u z z l e d o v e r t h i s t r u l y a w e i n s p i r i n g c r e a t u r e ; m y s e l f i n c l u d e d.

D o e s i t e v e n e x is t? W e m a y n ev e r k n o w b u t as t h i s e z in e un f ol d s I t h i n k i t w ill b e a g r e a t t o p i c o f c o n v e r s a t i o n. W e w i l l a l s o b e e x p l o r i n g a m a n y g r e a t o t h e r h o r r o r s a n d b e d e lv in g in t o w h a t s c a r e s p e o pl e t h e m o s t. I h o p e y o u e n j o y w h a t w e h a v e t o o f f e r an d r e m e m b e r “S t a y in t h e lig h t�

T h o m a s “ S m o k e y� S m i t h

The Masterpiece of Gehenna

Zach Black So intent was Gordon Nephits upon studying the Micarre painting, that he didn’t catch the change in light in the old Nair museum and art gallery.

The painting was a masterpiece; the painter was considered to be ahead of his time by centuries.

The piece was named Gehenna, regarder dans la bouche du Leviathan, which began with the Hebrew word for the underworld and concluded with the French phrase ‘staring into the mouth of the Leviathan’. In Micarre’s day, which was fifteenth century France, Roman Catholicism was predominantly considered the only true religion, so Micarre would certainly have been executed for heresy had he been caught. Had he been found.

Gordon still could not believe he had located the painting and managed to purchase it. It was said that Micarre mixed his oils with the blood of innocents, whom he had slaughtered in violent, esoteric practices. Rumour had it that a small forensic sample taken from the piece attested to the horrifying claims. After the exhibition at the museum was ended, Gordon figured he would place the piece in his much coveted private collection amongst some original lithographs from a first edition of Dante’s La Divina Commedia, and other great hellish creations.

He stared at the painting, into the painting, trying desperately to capture the mind of the artist, the heretic, the murderer. He was fascinated by the contours, the textures, the hues, the monochromatic tints, all red and brown, black and grey. Gordon wasn’t deterred one bit by the macabre media used; in fact, it compelled him to study the great master’s work further, beginning with Gehenna.

Seven by four feet, it hung on the contrasting plain, white wall, cordoned off by rope, and watched over by two monitored CCTV cameras; a measure which had to be taken after a religious fanatic had attempted to slash the canvas with a knife. The security guard who had wrestled the vandal to the ground later publically claimed he had been an instant too late, and the vandal had reached the painting, almost splitting the canvas in two. However, when Gordon arrived, infuriated by the vile act of

vandalism, he had found nothing more than a tiny scratch upon the paintwork. The knife had not, as he had been led to believe, so much as punctured the canvas, so he had fired that guard for lying.

“We’re locking up now Mr Nephits,” the security guard announced, standing by Gordon’s left shoulder. “Tom, the new night guard, is running a little late, but he’ll be here soon. I’ll be in the breakout area downstairs should you need me for anything. I’ll wait there until Tom arrives.”

Gordon didn’t turn, but spoke absently, “That’s fine Simon, you go ahead, I’ll stay here; I still have a little more work to do.” Gordon removed a compact notebook from his satchel and pretended to read. He waited until the guard’s footsteps had faded and then he replaced the iPAD, and stepped over the cordoning rope.

He knew they would catch his actions on the security tapes, but he didn’t care. After all, the piece was his, and he could do whatever he damn well pleased with it. The painting depicted a tunnel of sorts, red, curved like the throat of a large animal. In the centre, there appeared to be a depiction of Hell. A tangle of writhing bodies draped over each other, some dismembered, most with mouths open in silent screams of pain, fear and some of ecstasy. Some were performing lewd acts, others, murderous acts. Every time Gordon studied the piece, he saw something he had not noticed before; it was almost as though the painting were alive, a window into the very pits of Hell itself.

Breaking his gaze momentarily, he became aware of a curious shuffling sound. He supposed it was coming from one of the interconnecting rooms of the gallery. Maybe Simon had come back to retrieve something, but he would be leaving once more. He tried to ignore the sound, returning his attentions to the piece. He would be alone in the gallery for now; there was no one else, and he relished having the painting all to himself.

Gordon returned his attention to the painting once more, but again was interrupted by the sound, louder this time, and nearer. It was the sound of a brush being used on a rough surface, or grains of rice being scattered across a worktop: sssshhhhh-sssshhhhh.

His head snapped around to look behind him, and when he turned back to face the canvas, for a fleeting, heart-rending second, he thought he saw the painting move. Not the painting itself, but beyond the piece, in the centre, where the artist had created his vision of the infernal pit.

Gordon blinked rapidly, as though shaking off the notion. But it was

enough to convince him that he had spent enough time with his prized possession for one night. If his sleep-deprived mind was playing tricks on his eyes, it was time to call it quits and head for home.

He exited the closed off area and bent over to pick up his satchel.

Sssshhhhh-sssshhhhh Gordon straightened up instantly, and felt bewildered. Where had that sound come from?

Sssshhhhh-sssshhhhh It was coming from right next to him.

He spun, facing the painting, and almost fell over when he caught sight of something in the painting. From the pits of Hell, in the centre of the piece, a face stared out at him. It was a protrusion from the canvas; as though something was trying to push its face through rubber, revealing the contours of its features as though stretched and distorted by the pressure of the material.

Gordon felt his chest freeze but he couldn't make himself turn away, so he stared with dumbfound intensity.

Sssshhhhh-sssshhhhh Its lips moved, as though trying to say something, and the painting rippled. Fascinated, Gordon’s fear turned to excitement, and he moved closer, straining to hear the soft hushing words of the face in the painting.

Sssshhhhh-sssshhhhh “I can’t hear you....”Gordon encouraged, moving closer still, until he could

hear the faint words being whispered in a languid monotone.

“Help....me.....”

“Who are you?” Gordon whispered back to the face.

“I...am the creator....” The face contorted, the mouth opening wide in an agonised mask.

Gordon flinched and stumbled backward, startled, and then cursing himself for his lack of composure, he closed the gap again. “Are you saying that you are Pierre Micarre?”

“I am Micarre.....please help.”

“How can I help?” The growing excitement that Gordon felt was increasing. Could it be true? In the painting, if this truly was the master himself, Pierre Micarre reaching out to him. It was the greatest moment of his life.

“Micarre.........” Gordon sobbed, overwhelmed by a deep sense of earnestness and longing. “Command me, for I am your servant.”

“Come closer.” The creator commanded.

Gordon obeyed instantly, still not entirely believing his good fortune. His breathing was fitful and there were full moments where he held his breath, as though a mere gasp could shatter the divine phenomenon. And meanwhile, Micarre’s marbled face was tilted down towards the collector, his unseeing, obsidian eyes regarding Gordon neutrally.

Gordon realized that his initial feeling of awe was tainted by a rising fist of revulsion deep within the pit of his stomach. The painting no longer appeared to be mere oil on canvas; it rippled, bulged and moved as a slick, membranous mass. The canvas was attempting to release a living, organic creature who was forcing its way into a world that had left it behind many centuries ago. Wet paint and blood streaked the painting’s surface, dripping continuously and pooling upon the floor beneath, which added to the horror of the scene in the gallery, empty of everyone except for Gordon, and this thing.

The coppery scent of warm blood from the slashed throats of Micarre’s victims stung Gordon’s nostrils and he forced himself not to gag. “You fear me!” Micarre said.

The outline of his mouth curled up in an expression of distaste.

“No! Please, I am just overwhelmed,” Gordon said, but his eyes were wide and his lips trembled, contradicting his words. “In truth, this is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.”

Gordon edged closer, gazing past the protrusion which was the creator, staring past the painting’s glistening sheen and into the scene beyond. For a short moment, there appeared to be movement, not of the tiny, crosshatched membrane itself, but of the damned recipients of torture in the background. They writhed and scrabbled over each other, their skin

blistering and tearing. Gordon fancied he could hear the distant cries of pain and pitiful wails of misery. He flinched away from the canvas with an involuntary moan.

“You see a Hell with no deity upon high who presides over the damned.

Only chaos itself reigns here. Tell me servant, what do you fear more; the existence of such a place, or Gehenna itself?”

“You have a fantastic and unique mind, master. To inspire fear and wonderment in the hearts of those who gaze upon your magnificent creation surpasses the label of mere art.” Gordon bowed his head to the master, choosing to ignore the rhetorical question.

“Then you must help me. Help me back into the world.”

“Tell me what I must do. How can I free you?” Gordon raised a hand, placing it on the surface of the canvas before he could stop himself.

The warm, soft canvas gave, pulling his hand into its depths. Gordon shouted in alarm and yanked his hand back forcefully, falling back onto the museum floor and landing in a heap upon the bloody floor.

And as Gordon picked himself up off the floor, he realized that Micarre had managed to push himself further from the painting. Now, his head was almost fully emerged, and two rippling convexities at the foot of the painting resembled fists. A thousand questions backed up in Gordon’s mind, at the forefront, how on earth Micarre ended up inside his creation, and how was it possible he could still be alive after centuries.

All of his queries would wait until the great master was free.

Gordon heard a voice from behind him. “Holy shit! What the hell is going on here?”

It was the museum guard! Gordon had been so mesmerized by the scene unfolding before him that he hadn’t noticed Simon ascend the marble staircase to the first floor gallery. Gordon jerked around in surprise. His mouth began to open and his mind reeled as he struggled to utter an explanation with little success.

Gordon froze and his jumbled thoughts tumbled on for a few beats. Then, his eyes flicked from vacant, to engaged as his mind slotted into gear.

He grabbed the guard and spun him with all his might towards the painting. Simon grunted, reeling backwards on an impending collision course towards Micarre’s outstretched, grasping hands. He fell heavily against the painting, wailing in fright and astonishment but his cries were cut short as Micarre wrapped his elastic hands around the guard’s throat,

squeezing tight with surprising strength.

Simon’s arms flailed helplessly and his cheeks bulged as he gasped for air.

In moments, his face had turned purple and bloated. Micarre dug his fingers into the guard’s neck, pulling sharply until the skin stretched and ruptured with a sickening, audible pop. Blood gushed from the widening wound and Simon’s arms jerked spasmodically, flopping uselessly to his sides as the master’s fingers sunk deeper into the gash.

Micarre spun the jittering body of the guard around, tilting his head back and pulling his neck flush with the canvas, his face contorting into a cathartic mask of pleasure as he drained Simon’s lifeblood. The painting began to darken, the colors becoming richer and the tiny cracks on the outer edges began to seal.

Gordon looked on with amazement. What would it be like, to have such power? What would such power grant him, if Gordon could find a way to harness it? If he could help Micarre get free of the painting, would he be able to use Micarre against his enemies?

Gordon watched the events as they unfurled and made no effort to come to the aid of the museum guard. Gordon watched as Micarre finished feeding, dropping Simon’s lifeless corpse and then uttering a series of words in a language Gordon did not recognise. He was sure the master did not speak in his native tongue; it sounded more like a dead language of sorts, course, and guttural. As he spoke, the surface of the canvas shifted slightly, and began to undulate, as though the throat of the great beast, Leviathan convulsed. Crimson fluid coursed a thin line of descent down the once-immaculate wall; which appeared to be from a source hidden behind the work.

The animated canvas split, revealing streaks of dark blood on the bonewhite wall behind and then suddenly the form of Micarre fully emerged, flopping onto the floor, landing heavily on top of Simon’s corpse.

Gordon cried aloud in surprise, and stumbled forward in order to help the great painter. Pierre Micarre rose before the painting and stumbled forward, into Gordon’s extended arms. Gordon fought the urge to recoil.

Micarre was doused in a thick film of slippery mucus which stank of death and brimstone. But Gordon did not flinch from this fantastic opportunity and so he helped Micarre to stand.

The form that came out of the painting was clad in a garb that was reminiscent of the century from whence he came. His one white shirt had

yellowed with sweat and age, and was liberally smeared with blood across the mid-section. His hair was black, oily and long, tied back with a scrap of cloth.

Immediately Gordon tried to take control, to establish his value in this modern world that would be unfamiliar to the painter. He told Micarre, “I have freed you, so now you are in my debt.”

But instead of acknowledging the hierarchy, Micarre gestured at his work. Gordon allowed himself to be led to the canvas, where he stood in awe, gazing into the madness.

“When your world ends, all this will still be here. It is eternal, as are those who enter Gehenna,” Micarre said. “Those who suffer, do so wilfully….it is through choice, not punishment.”

Gordon caught the inflection in Micarre’s words too late, he attempted to flee, but Micarre had him by the throat, squeezing. Gordon spun in an attempt to knock the painter off his feet, but failed. The artist threw him against the wall, and he rebounded, dazed. Micarre acted swiftly, pulling back and delivering a blinding uppercut to Gordon’s jaw, and then pushed him with all his might, towards the canvas.

Gordon teetered backwards, reeling from the punch, and desperately attempting to pull himself from the semi-conscious state, which the blow had inflicted. He halted, and fought to keep his balance, but failed, leaning back. The painting pulled him in before he realised what was happening. He screamed, flailing, and grasped on to the frame for dear life, but he was stuck fast and sinking quickly into the canvas.

Micarre turned away from the painting and sucked air deep into his lungs, tasting life once more. His wandering eyes traced the contours and layout of the old building slowly. Soaking in his surroundings, he began ambling at a steady pace around the first floor admiring the works of great masters who had honed their talents of the craft many years before Micarre and some many years after. He had succeeded them all and would live for many years more to create the greatest works the world would ever know.

In the centre of the wide hallway, several glass cases stood containing a myriad of metallic objects; trinkets, belt buckles, daggers of various shapes and lengths. A small dagger sat propped in the centre, its hilt encrusted with varied jewels. The card underneath the weapon read ‘Sgian Dhubh’. Micarre yanked the glass door open with little effort and

breaking the rubber seal easily. He picked up the dagger and unsheathed it, marvelling at the blade’s narrow point and razor sharp edges. The dagger could easily be concealed and with its ephemeral hilt, sold for a small fortune. He tucked it furtively into the waistband of his trousers.

The warm flush of blood in his veins, pumping throughout his vessel, the breath in his chest and even the solid ground beneath his feet gave rise to the most profound feeling of euphoria. He wallowed in the new living energy, riding transient waves of elation. The only thing that could hinder Micarre’s progress in the continuity of life was the ineffability of death.

He had died once before and it was not an experience he was eager to repeat. He would not return to Gehenna, not for anything.

A shallow moan emanated from whence he had travelled, breaking the spell. Micarre instantly turned on his heel and retraced his bloody footsteps back to the scene of the carnage. As he rounded the corner he caught sight of another guard, garbed in a similar uniform to the man he had drained.

Tom didn’t notice Micarre’s presence. He was fixed on his colleague’s torn corpse heaped before the morbid, crimson shrine. For a time he was stuck to the spot, frozen with fear and revulsion. He felt the acrid tang of bile trace a course path up his throat and clamped a hand tight over his mouth to quell the rising vomit.

Simon lay on his side, his head resting on the tiles at an impossible angle, a large rend on his neck almost severing his head completely. Tom stepped on to the level ground of the first floor, almost skidding on the blood, which lay in a thin film over the floor. There was no doubt that the guard was dead.

The first thing which coursed through his mind, was that Nephits had killed this man, a quick scan of the scattered sundry surrounding the corpse only elevated his suspicions as he recognized Gordon’s satchel immediately. Tom cursed himself silently. Maybe if the damn car had started with the first turn of the key, maybe if he had gotten up off his arse an hour earlier he might have been able to prevent that psychopath from killing Simon.

He placed his hands on his head, clutching his thinning hair in grief.

“Christ-oh Christ!” He reiterated over and over in a fearful mantra while creeping carefully towards the horrifying depiction of Hell.

“Do you like what you see? Wonderful, isn’t it? ”

Tom flinched, almost crying out and removed the compact canister of mace from his utility belt in one lightning-fast fluid movement.

“I swear to god, if you move I’ll fill you with pepper and smash your damn head in.” He spat, brandishing the small aerosol before him.

Micarre had little idea what he was being threatened with, or who he was being threatened by. All that mattered was that the man who stood before him posed a problem. Maybe he would alert the authorities and Micarre would be locked away from the sensory indulgences of the world he had missed so much. He would not allow that to happen.

“I mean you no harm.” Micarre raised both hands submissively. “It was the collector, the thin man...........” He blurted pointing to the lifeless body of Simon.

“Nephits?” Tom said, eyeing Micarre suspiciously. “Nephits killed Simon?

That bastard!” Tom slumped, relaxing slightly he lowered the injurious spray.

Tom shivered, Nephits gave him the creeps. The way he spoke about some of the pieces in the gallery. He had a penchant for the grim, the esoteric, and the bizarre; depictions of torture, disease and misery; images of the old, pagan gods performing ritual sacrifice. He was obsessed with the occult, the devil, and hell. It came as little surprise that the collector had committed murder; his head was full of dark thoughts.

“Where is he, Nephits, where did he go?” Tom asked, retrieving his erratic thoughts from the brink of shock.

“He’s

gone.” Micarre said simply. “He attempted to destroy some of the exhibits and when, um, Simon here tried to stop him, he became enraged.

He stabbed him in the neck and fled. I tried to stop him, but he had a look of madness in his eyes. I was terrified.”

With each word, Micarre drew nearer Tom, plotting his next move carefully. Tom eyes were on the floor and he slowly shook his head continuously, as though trying to exorcise the image from his mind.

“Who are you anyway? What are you doing here? The gallery closed hours ago.”

“Ah, I am- was a friend of Nephits, um, a colleague. I’m here to study the infernal masterpiece, ‘Gehenna’.” Micarre motioned to the seemingly unscathed painting on the wall before them.

Tom followed his gaze. There was something strange about the man; there was something weird about the whole thing. The way the stranger dressed, the way he spoke; he was hiding something. A fleeting shift in the bizarre piece commanded Tom’s attention. He was sure he had seen movement there. As though in confirmation, the background of the picture began to move. The pits of Hell were alive with flickering yellow flames consuming the mutilated bodies of the damned inhabitants. The surface rippled and bulged. A convexity around the size of a human head pushed forth and Tom gasped when the recognizable form of Gordon Nephits seemed to stretch out from the centre of the canvas, his hands reaching out.

Tom’s head snapped round towards the stranger it time to catch a glimpse of a flash of silver ascending in a wide arc. He raised his arm instinctively and the blade of the dagger bit deep into his arm. Tom grunted in pain and raised the mace canister, depressing the nozzle, aiming for Micarre’s face.

The creator let out a wail as the burning fluid entered his eyes, gluing his eyelids together and filling his nostrils with the numbing, gaseous tonic.

He pin-wheeled backwards slashing the air in wide sweeping motions with the dagger in a frantic attempt to keep his balance. Tom held his ground pumping every last drop of the spray into Micarre’s face relentlessly.

Tom watched Micarre scream in rage as he collided with the wall, dropping the dagger and rubbing his eyes wildly. Nephits had receded back into the painting; only his arms protruded now, still grasping, searching for the creator. The murmur of distant voices filled the gallery, rising in volume and moments later, Nephits’ arms were not the only limbs pushing out of the canvas.

The damned pushed forward as one, a mass of jostling hands, all desperately attempting to gain purchase on the world they had left long ago, hungry to live the lives that had been taken from them so suddenly, so unfairly by the monster, Micarre.

The creator forced his eyes open with effort, whimpering as another wave of pain hit. In the moments he was able to see, Micarre wished he had kept his eyes shut. Those people, those sheep he had sacrificed for a higher purpose were reaching for him. They wanted justice……….revenge……. to bring the murderer back to Gehenna, where he would be punished for his crimes.

He swatted the grasping hands away blindly, but it was too late, they had him. He fought, struggled and pulled with all his might to no avail. He had to pay for the evil he had brought into the world. He had to pay for the lives he had ended for the sake of art.

Thick arms encircled Micarre’s throat and rough hands groped him, tearing his clothing, his hair and his flesh. He writhed in pain, fighting the whole time. Fingers gouged his eyes and tore strips of flesh from bone. Still, he struggled and fought against his bonds. This could not be the end; he was Pierre Micarre, great painter and all powerful master of the black arts.

“Help me. For god’s sake help me!” He screamed, reaching towards Tom. But Tom had slid down the adjacent wall, covering his ears, blocking out the wails of pain from the creator. He watched in horror as viscous hands tore Micarre to shreds, pulling his mutilated carcass into the painting.

With one final plight for freedom, Micarre thrust a mangled hand, worn to the bone from the painting, clamping on to the picture’s frame. There was a resounding crack as the entire painting snapped in half, falling from the wall onto the floor with an almighty clatter, collapsing in on itself.

A deafening silence replaced the cacophony in the old gallery. After a while, Tom rose from the crouched position he occupied against the far wall by the balustrade of the gallery’s great, winding staircase, looking around him, dazed and wide eyed. At last, the madness seemed to have come to an end.

The painting lay, torn, crumpled and still, upon the floor. Tom was almost compelled to nudge it with the toe of his boot, just to be sure, but in the next moment, convinced himself, that this course of action was not such a great idea. He sincerely hoped the CCTV cameras in the building had been recording during the entire incident, or he would have trouble explaining the carnage.

As Tom prepared to descend the staircase, he thought he heard the sound of a hushed whisper.

Sssshhhhh-sssshhhhh For once, he didn’t care what the sound was or where it came from. He quickened his pace, almost tripping at the foot of the steps on his way out of the building. The last place he wanted to be was the Nair Gallery the following week, when the Pierre Micarre exhibition would open.

Something to howl about…The Werewolf!!!

BY AMANDA SAVIERI Your body starts to tremble… You feel your eyesight grow sharper and your nose begins to pick up smells it never could before. As you look up at the full moon, you feel hair start to sprout from every inch of your body. Your muscles stretch and you’re forced to the ground. Your toes tear through your shoes and your neck hurts like hell as it doubles, triples in size. Saliva falls to the ground in big thick, frothy drops as your nose is suddenly in your eye’s sight. You see it twist and grow, and finally stop a few inches from your face where it turns black at the end, covers itself with hair and whiskers sprout out from both sides. Your teeth feel heavy… your hunger grows like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Your hands are now paws. Your fingers have disappeared to become little padded balls of fur with huge claws sticking out of each one. Your breath is sour, your muscles fully developed and 100 times what they were. You’ve lost all your sense of self as you twitch your ears, then raise your huge head, and howl at the moon.

So we all know what a werewolf is, I mean, who hasn’t seen the movies? But do you know the real facts? Are there any facts? Where they originated? How long has the idea been around for? The traditions compared to the imagination of Hollywood? And do they really exist? Have people really walked away after sighting a werewolf? Well, I’m about to answer all of these for you, as well as include a few of my favourite werewolf movies that you just need to check out for yourself…if you haven’t already!

Werewolf V’s Lycanthropy I thought I’d clear up this commonly made mistake first. There is actually a difference between a Lycanthrope and a werewolf. A werewolf is a human, that voluntarily or involuntarily changes or shape shifts into a wolf or wolf like creature during certain lunar cycles (normally that of a full moon). A lycanthrope however, is considered as a person that doesn’t change physically, but mentally. It is a human that thinks he/she is a wolf or any other animal for that matter. (The word lycanthrope was born in the early days and has since been changed to fit a more scientific term. It’s considered as an old fashioned to use this word to mean a werewolf, due to this new use.) It’s a documented psychiatric state and the patients can become very dangerous. The patient will normally chose a particular animal in power, a tiger if they live in Asia for instance or a bear if in certain parts of America. They will hallucinate, honestly believing that they are whatever animal they chose. Most patients have been brought up on spiritual stories of shape shifting and fairytales about the strong spirits that animals carry within them. Much more needs to be learnt about the disorder. It is very rare and is hard to study closely. All scientists do know is that it is linked with certain types of schizophrenia.

Andrew Prinfold of Eccleshall, Staffordshire killed himself in the 1990’s after believing he was turning into a werewolf. He killed himself after confiding to a friend that he had been doing séances to speak to a dead relative. He claimed to have instead spoken to the devil that turned him into a cat.

He killed himself by stabbing himself with a silver knife. This is one of many recorded cases of lycanthropy.

The Werewolf Origins/The Transformation Process Werewolf is made from the Saxon word wer, meaning man and wolf, meaning exactly that. Manwolf in other words. The science of a werewolf, like vampires and even Frankenstein, is very vague.

No one knows exactly what a werewolf is, only that it’s bloody thirsty! This alone, might be why the werewolf is so scary. It’s the mystery of the creature that’s so menacing. Some say it’s a demon, others say it’s a vampire that’s had its own blood sucked one too many times. Some go as far as to say it’s a possession of some sort while Hollywood tends to stick with the notion of a disease. This disease is very vague also, and can be passed on by a werewolf biting you or scratching you.

(Thanks to: http://www.wsu.edu/~delahoyd/wolf.comment.html) It can be seen as a curse to some, and in many cultures it is. It’s a life of damnation. Starving for blood and driven by ones own hunger. Some say it’s an ointment and some sort of communication with the devil himself brings on the change while others like to think it’s a chemical imbalance in the brain, which causes changes at certain times of the year.

“Hail, hail, hail, great Wolf Spirit, hail A boon I ask thee, mighty shade, Within this circle I have made.

Make me a werewolf strong and bold, The terror alike of young and old.”

(A ritual said to be used at covens, in which members transform themselves at night) Witchcraft was the main scapegoat in the early explanation of werewolves. Shape shifting was a common occurrence for witches according to medieval testimonies. Witches were said to take the form of hare’s and steal the milk from cows. You could only kill these hares with a silver bullet and when you shot them, a wounded old lady would appear instead of a wounded animal. Owls were also blamed to be that of a witch. Something as tiny as an owl hooting outside a young woman’s window was apparently a sign that she had lost her virginity. Who knows how many women were punished for such ludicrous allegations. Superstitions have brought upon an abundance of death omens involving animals. Such as a bat flying around a house three times, a cow breaking into a yard, a butterfly sighted at night or even a sudden plague of mice in the house or a toad hopping over one’s foot. Wolves were no different in these ghastly superstitions. They were one of the most hated, as marauders and symbols of witchcraft. They were killed in tremendous numbers and hanged beside criminals. It is no wonder the witch and the werewolf were linked in times of such sacrilege. Where other cultures worshipped the wolf, medieval Europe was helping them become extinct.

One thing remains the same and that is the werewolf’s lack of conscience. They will do as they please, where they please, and not feel an ounce of guilt for their actions. Some say it’s a human by day that turns into a wolf at the first sign of a full moon while others like to think that it’s still human somehow. In these cases, its bigger, it can walk on two legs as it still has basic human features despite the hair, teeth, ears, claws and snout. This idea makes the werewolf more menacing, being taller, sometimes seen as being 7 or 8 feet tall and strong. Still being half human but having

the hunting capabilities of your average mountain wolf and really quite a frightening thought.

Characteristics As you well know, a lot of movies have brought out a lot of changes in the werewolf in modern years. Some of the more traditional beliefs were that you could tell a werewolf that was in human form due to their sunken eyes and their eyebrows that met in the middle. Other characteristics were hair on their palms or if they had a long third finger. Long ears or oval shaped fingernails were other tell tale signs. Psychological characteristic’s was their enjoyment for isolation, their preference to night rather than day. Also their lonely strolls through cemeteries or digging habits. The change is said to take place with a ritual and/or a full moon. This change brings upon the growth of hair all over the body, the claws, the teeth, and ears. It also brings about the keen sense of smell and sharp eyesight. Some say the wolves’ stand, while others say they run on four legs. Some say they have big yellow eyes while others like to believe the eyes are still human. Most of these beliefs are universal. An African werewolf won’t look much different to an American one.

Cures?

Werewolves are said to be immune to anything like diseases or standard bullets because their physical tissue is constantly regenerating. Silver is the only thing that can penetrate this tissue enough to cause any major damage. The brain and the heart are the only two organs that cannot regenerate.

“Ginger Snaps” touched on an antioxidant called Monkshood. “In ancient Greece, legend had it that the plant originated from slobber, dripping from the fangs of Cerberus, the three-headed dog Hercules was supposed to have brought back to earth with him from the underworld.” It’s also been used to poison enemy water supplies during times of war and has long been associated with witchcraft, used as a painkiller mostly. It was also used in the Middle Ages to poison meat that would be left out to kill wolves. This might be where the association with the werewolf came into it.

Sadly, I can’t find much saying it is an antioxidant as such, but its use to kill the wolf is defiantly intriguing.

(Thanks to: http://www.angelfire.com/ny/brandybean/index3.html and http://museum.gov.ns.ca/poison/monksh.htm)

Early Werewolf’s There are many tales of early werewolf sightings but the most fascinating is that the werewolf goes as far back as the Greek Dark Ages. This was the period of Zeus beginning roughly at 1100 BC and ending at around 700BC. During this time, Zeus fought King Lycaon and the battle ended with Zeus turning the king into a half-man/half-wolf beast. The word lycanthrope was then born. lykos meaning wolf, and anthropos meaning man. Zeus didn’t create the werewolf as we know it today but he started the idea, and the notion of the man-wolf.

The werewolves we know today seem to have different starting dates everywhere I look. Every site and every book has a new ‘in the beginning’ yarn. I can tell you that the notion began before the 1500’s because it’s recorded that over 30,000 unfortunate victims were trialled between 1520 and 1630 in France alone for being werewolves. Some were tortured into confession and too many of them were killed. I do have some ‘so called’ originating stories for you though…

The Case of Peter Stubbe Germany in 1591 was full of superstition and folklore. Towns like Colongne and Bedburg were small and scattered, situated very close to the dense forests. Wolves were in abundance and not hunted then like they would be in the not so distant future. They came right into these towns, stealing babies, women and sometimes men. The town would awaken to find another village member mauled and half eaten, if not, almost completely devoured. One day the village grew fed up and sent out a pack of hounds to find wolves, hoping they would find ‘the wolf’. The hounds actually led them to a house in the village, owned by Peter Stubbe. When the villagers came barging in, Stubbe was in the form of the wolf and changed to his human form in front of their eyes. He was immediately put to trial and racked up on a torture wheel where he confessed to the slaughtering of 16 village occupants. He also admitted to sorcery in which he made a pact with the Devil. His evil eventually drove him mad and he took the form of a wolf to satisfy his lust for blood and human flesh. A lot of his victims where children, it was said he cracked their skulls open and ate their brains. Outraged the village felt no punishment was strong enough for Stubbe and his crimes. So they settled for tearing his flesh off with a red-hot pincer, arms and legs broken and finally he was decapitated. After this point the villagers believed in such man-wolf creatures, and gave them a name… werewolves. (Thanks to: http://www.members.tripod.com/alam25/)

The Case of Jene Grenier Gascony in 1603, which is of the far west-east end of France suffered from attacks also. Suddenly children went missing off roads and fields, babies stolen from cribs and never to return. Soon the town grew scared and worried about more than just animals, but something more menacing.

Witnesses started to develop as the wolf grew sloppy. A few escapees told the judge just as he, Gene Grenier, started to brag about attacking people in wolf like form and even killing some children.

Witnesses described the large dog that he claimed to be. In 1503 the young teenager was trialled and sentenced to a ward for strict observation. He was visited in 1510 in which observations were made.

Apparently the boy’s teeth had grown, his eyes dark, his claws long and he responded to the wolves outside as if he understood them. What happened to him after that is not known. Black magic was suspected to have been involved. Thanks to (http://www.werewolfpage.com)

The Tailor Apparently this werewolf used to hide in the bushes just outside of town. He also, by day, used to lure children into his shop and kill them in the cellar. Buckets of children’s body parts were found when he was caught but all was destroyed due to the nature of the evidence. The Tailor was a wolf when by the road and a serial killer in his shop. Other resources say he was arrested in 1598 after he was found to be eating some of these corpses. This resource also says that he was burned alive and his identity burned with him due to the severity of the case.

The Black Dog This belief popped up at around 1926. With witches being said to ride huge black dogs to their covens and celebration grounds. Sightings continued into the late 1940’s with people swearing that they saw a dog as big as 5 foot 10, with huge yellow eyes. Other witnesses say it’s about the size of

a calf. It is said that huge black dogs hover the areas in which their witch masters were hanged.

Ploughmen have been said to decapitate huge threatening beasts that have turned into that of headless women, fully clothed and all.

Scientific Explanations Naturally, science has an answer for everything. In this case it’s…hallucination. Scientists have explanations such as poor diet, particular hallucinative plants that surrounded areas with many sightings, drugs, and of course, mental illness such as schizophrenia and even depression. Another explanation is rabies. It is common knowledge that people didn’t know anything about infections, drugs or mental illness in the 1500’s, so diseases like these were often believed to be something mythical such as werewolves. There is also diseases’ such as porphyria that causes the sufferer to be extremely sensitive to daylight. It’s actually painful for them to be in well-lit areas. As the condition worsens, they grow hair on parts of the skin that wouldn’t normally have hair like the palms of their hands or their faces. Their skin also becomes discoloured and their personality becomes morbid due to the mental disturbance that accompanies the condition. The disease can go as far as to cover the skin in sores and will eventually attack cartilage causing the nose, ears, eye lids and fingers to soften and deteriorate. It can also make the fingernails and teeth appear a reddish-brown until they eventually rot away completely.

It’s interesting to know that there was an ergot outbreak in the early to mid 1500’s. Ergot is a fungus that grows on wheat and can often go undetected and placed in cooking. It can cause many health problems, hallucinations being one of them. So being chased and attacked by horrible beasts is actually quite common for those suffering ergot poisoning.

So does science believe in the werewolf? …. Hell no!

More recent fingers have been pointed at hallucinative substances such as LSD.

Today’s Cases The last twenty odd years has provided professors in this subject very little to work on. There are a few cases of lycanthropy, such as drug addicts being locked up after claiming to be seeing satanic visions, growing hair and even chasing rabbits in their spare time.

Other cases don’t involve drug addicts, but sober people that are pulled into psychiatric wards for laying down on busy highways, letting their beard and hair grow long, sleeping in cemeteries and even howling at the full moon. This particular case was that of a farmer that was a relatively intelligent man. When brought in for testing, his IQ had dropped to that of an 8-year-old boy. Brain scans showed deterioration to the cerebrum. He was eventually diagnosed with something that psychiatrists’ had never seen before. It was similar to that of lycanthropy.

In 1977 a 49-year-old American woman decided to communicate her hidden desires she had kept from her husband for 20 years. Those desires were to practice that of bestiality. Her erotic fantasies grew so much that she could feel the hot wolves’ breath on her at night and the fur all over her skin

by day. Eventually she claimed to feel like an animal with claws. During a family get together she stripped naked and got on all fours, offering herself to her own mother in a sexual manner, as a female wolf would to a male one. Another incident, she started snarling and gnawing on her husband one night during lovemaking. She was then put into psychotherapy and thrown on medication. Her case grew worse, being human by day and wolf at night. She shared that she wants to kill people in these sexual rages that overcome her. She got as bad as seeing a wolf head whenever looking into a mirror, instead of her own. Confessing she lacked something in life that a wolf could fulfil. After 9 months of therapy, and still on medication, she was released, and free of all her compulsions. This is, once again, another form of lycanthropy.

Wolf Attacks Winter 2002, Carmen Creek, Salmon. Tim and Diana Sundles and their teenage son went vacationing to get away for the weekend. They woke one morning to wolves near their horses. The wolves were howling and the horses were most distressed. The vacationers ran at the wolves with guns and shot a few in the air. With that, the wolves ran off. They then had breakfast and decided on hiking. Later that afternoon, on the way back, they noticed a big grey wolf on their tail. Tim shot at the wolf to scare it off but instead it aggravated the wolf. It came charging at them and swung around Tim. While Tim was shooting, Diana ducked and the wolf saw her as an easier target. Tim then shot it before it got to his wife and at that point, found the radio tags on it. This alpha male was being watched by some wildlife foundation. The foundation looked into the case carefully, as wolves are endangered now. The case was put under self-defence.

Gevaudan, in France had a wolf that continued to attack in the 18th Century. Its total tally got to over 200 victims. Many wolves were killed in the area but the killings continued. Wounds appeared similar on all the victims so the numbers kept climbing and they knew the beast was still alive. No one knows to this day if the killings were actually done by a wolf or some other animal, or more than likely‌ a serial killer.

Many wolf attacks happen in Canada and America. Attacks are rarely deadly and are often put down to the person feeding the animal, the animal being startled or the animal protecting themselves or their young. Many attacks are just bites, the severity has been left in the dark ages, along with a lot of the old folklore about the wolf. Attacks in Asia are different. They seem to be more aggressive there. Studies are in progress as to find the difference between these wolves and American wolves.

The Movies!

Bad Moon (1996) - Director: Eric Red A man and his girlfriend are out on vacation when something tears into their tent, rips her to shreds and scratches him pretty badly, but he lives. He then moves to his sister’s house with her son, due to animal attacks in the area he is staying in. Soon the animal attacks appear in the new area he is in and you learn that he has a nasty habit when the moon comes out. The mother and son are then forced to face their loved one and accept what he is. They must decide if their lives are worth that of his.

The movie is far from the best you’ll see but it’s not exactly the worst either. The CGI is pretty average and the budget is not high at all. The transformation is more what I would call ‘cute’ rather than ‘scary’. The werewolf is more like a mountain bear scratching trees and marking territory rather than being an actual werewolf. The acting is pretty shabby and the script could use some work, but overall, it’s worth seeing at least once. By the way, the dog is definitely the coolest character!

Ginger Snaps (2000) – Director: John Fawcett Two sisters, teenage misfits, decide to play a little prank on the high school tart when something attacks them in the park. Ginger is the unlucky of the two, mauled by something that looks like a dog, but has humanistic features. Ginger then experiences a series of changes in front of her sister’s eyes. Is it puberty blues or something much much worse? Both of them unsure on what to do but are positive that they know what she’ll become. Ties are separated and truths are told as the two battle out Ginger’s metamorphosis and a final confrontation that changes their relationship forever.

Honestly, movies don’t get much better than this. The werewolf is original, it’s given such a modern feel and the transformation is slow, but not winded. It’s developed so well and you feel for the characters so much by the end, this movie is an experience, not just a film. The only downfall is that some guys find it a bit feminine, but I’d still recommend it to anyone, I think its one of the most entertaining werewolf films ever made. Ginger Snaps II: Unleashed, worth checking out but nothing compared to the original.

An American Werewolf In London (1981) – Director: John Landis

Two tourists go hiking through London and find themselves in a bar of not so welcoming locals.

After offering their miserable hospitality, the tourists set off to find somewhere a little more comfortable. On the way they meet up with a creature that kills one, and badly wounds the other.

The locals kill the beast and the officials cover it up, but the tourist knows what he saw. Soon enough, the changes appear and he is forced to come to terms with what bit him.

John Landis is a pretty big name. He did the classic Blues Brothers as well as doing a lot of work for Stephen King’s films and TV adaptations. It’s a delightful mix of comedy and horror and the transformation is CGI free, and easily, the best you’ll see on screen. The story line and character development is strong, the werewolf looks amazing, and it’s fairly modern, despite it being made over 20 years ago. It is my personal favourite and if you haven’t seen it already, I suggest you do, quickly!

An American Werewolf In Paris (1997) – Director: Anthony Waller A sequel to the An American Werewolf In London. A couple of American party goers are on vacation in Paris. They have this great idea to bungee jump off the Eiffel Tower at midnight. There they meet a girl that’s attempting to kill herself. They save her and learn later that maybe she was better off dead. They are woven into a world of werewolves, as they get closer to her and her friends. A small group of young men and women, luring people into night clubs, trapping them in and feasting on the victims. The Americans are trapped in an all our war, where they are very under advantaged.

Its modern, Ill give it that much. Maybe a bit too modern actually. The CGI is unbearable. The werewolves look almost cartoon like, it's that bad. The actors are irritating, the story line is rather drab and the ending is highly predictable. In short, this movie should have never been made. See it for “Oh my god, that was so bad” giggles, but don’t take this gem seriously, or you’ll hate every

single second of it.

The Howling (1981) – Director: Joe Dante

A well known news reporter experiencing a shakey ordeal with a stalker decides to take a break from it all and overcome her experience by taking a holiday to a resort designed for people with issues. She is soon waken at night by the howling of animals in the distance and soon some of the guests start disappearing. As she learns more and more about the regulars to this lodge from hell she realises she is either next on the menu or about to become one of the more regular guests herself.

This movie differs from the others introducing a ‘pack’ idea. You haven’t got one werewolf to worry about here but several and they all look out for each other. It’s a bit slow to be honest but it’s a fresh idea and the ending I must admit, is worth the watch. Transformations are okay but not great, the story line is interesting and overall its pretty entertaining. If you love the old 80’s horrors then this is a must for your collection. It has many sequels that I personally wouldn’t waste my time on, but the original is well worth the watch.

The Company Of Wolves ( 1984) – Director: Neil Jordan For something a little different. This movie is more like a fairytale than a traditional scary movie. A young and influential girl that is changing rapidly from a young girl into a young woman is fed stories by her grandmother about men that are hairy on the inside. The movie takes you through stories she tells her grand daughter and an ending where the grand daughter herself meets up with a werewolf herself. The imagery in this film is adorable. The camera work is nothing short of amazing and the glossy screen will make you feel like you are in another world. Its different from your average movie and I’m not doubting that it wont be for everyone but I will tell you that it is original! This movie goes back to the early traditions I discussed earlier about men with hairy palms, longer finger nails and eye brows that meet in the middle. It’s the only movie of its kind I believe and is definitely worth checking out, as I said, merely for something different. Personally I’ve never seen any of the actors before but they do a great job. The movie consists of little stories in amongst a big one so don’t treat it like your average werewolf saga.

The Wolfman (1941) – Director: George Waggner Anyone that knows me on BD will know how much of a hater I am towards old fashioned black and white movies. I was going to get someone else to write me this bit to save myself the agony but just for you guys, I tortured myself through this. And well… I will add, it wasn’t THAT hard to watch.

A man comes to town and is attacked by a wolf that you later learn is that of a gypsy man that passes through every year. He kills the wolf but is left with the teeth marks on his chest that will stay with him forever. As he falls in love and realises what he is he does everything to protect her and face his own destiny.

This is the daddy of them all. I was surprised to see that so many movies have adopted so many ideas from this old gem. They had it right way back in 1941 because a lot of the traditions and even this basic story line has been used over and over in the decades of werewolf movies that followed. I will give it that. It has and probably always will be the blue print for all werewolf movies. The

make up is terrible, the CGI doesn’t exist because it didn’t back then but overall its still full of suspense and only predictable because so many movies have stolen its idea. Give it a go, even if you hate old movies like me, and if you don’t well its all the more reason to see it if you haven’t already.

Silver Bullet (1985) – Director: Daniel Attias Corey Haim guys, come on, you have to see it! Once again, if you love 80’s cheese, it’s a must see.

A small town is terrorised by animal attacks and only one young boy seems to be game enough to whisper the word ‘werewolf’. As all the pieces start to fit together for the young boy everyone calls him stupid and ignores his theory of what is going on in town. Problem is, when they do finally believe him, it could be too late.

I classify this one much like Bad Moon, which is why I thought Id throw it on last. It’s good for entertainment value but not much else. Based on a short story by Stephen King (another good reason to check it out) its not award winning material. The characters are cliché and the story line is much the same but if you really like the notion of the werewolf then this is another you really should add to your list to see. Haim plays his usual helpless character that no one listens to (see The Lost Boys for an example), the werewolf itself is nothing special and the acting of the other characters is nothing more than average. But it is watchable and I’m sure if you dig werewolf films enough, you’ll walk away with something to talk about.

Other Werewolf And Wolf Films The Werewolf (1913)--Canadian two-reeler.

The White Wolf (1914)--a Navaho Indian turns into a timber wolf.

Le Loup-Garou (1923)--French.

Werewolf of London (1935)--a "wolf man" now vs. just a wolf.

The Wolf Man (1941)--summary and commentary available.

The Undying Monster (1942)--from 1922 novel.

Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man (1943) Cry of the Werewolf (1944)--good gypsy stuff.

House of Frankenstein (1944) House of Dracula (1945) She-Wolf of London (1946)--Don Porter and June Lockhart Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein (1948) I Was A Teenage Werewolf(1957)--Michael Landon takes a half-pint.

The Werewolf (1956)--mostly hunting.

Face of the Screaming Werewolf (1959, Mexican)--Lon Chaney, Jr. Curse of the Werewolf (1961)--based on 1933 novel.

Werewolf in a Girls' Dormitory (1961) Blood of Dracula's Castle (1967) Mad Monster Party (1968)--stop-motion animation.

Fury of the Wolfman (1970)--mind-control psychiatry.

Nympho Werewolf (1970) Blood Moon (1970)--a.k.a. The Werewolf vs. the Vampire Woman.

Werewolf on Wheels (1971)--cycle gang vs. Satanists.

Dr. Jekyll and the Wolfman (1971)--wrong Dr. to cure lycanthropy.

Moon of the Wolf (1972)--Small-town grotesquery.

The Rats Are Coming! The Werewolves Are Here! (1972) Werewolf of Washington (1973)--a Nixon/Watergate spoof.

Black Werewolf (1974)--a.k.a. The Beast Must Die. Legend of the Werewolf (1974)

Night of the Howling Beast (1975) Werewolf of Woodstock (1975) Werewolf Woman (1977) Wolfman (1978) The Howling (1980)--from novel by Brander.

The Craving (1980) An American Werewolf in London (1981)--Rick Baker effects.

Wolfen (1981)--supernatural breed of wolves in city.

The Wolfman (1982)--turn-of-the-century Georgia.

Children of the Full Moon (1982) Thriller (1984)-The Company of Wolves (1985)--Little Red Riding Horror.

Howling II: Your Sister's a Werewolf (1985) Deathmoon (1985) Silver Bullet (1985) Teen Wolf (1985)--Michael J. Werefox.

Teen Wolf II (1987)--Jason Bateman.

The Howling III: The Marsupials (1987) Howling IV (1988)--novelist in the country.

Howling V: The Rebirth (1989)--stranded at castle.

Hard Rock Nightmare (1989) Lone Wolf (1989) My Mom's a Werewolf (1989)--comedy.

Curse of the Queerwolf (1989)--horror spoof.

The Howling VI: The Freaks (1990)--carnival sideshow.

The Runestone (1991)--coal-mining unleashes ancient wolf-monster.

Mad at the Moon (1992) Full Eclipse (1993)--Matheson, made-for-tv.

Wolf (1994)--Nicholson and Pfeiffer.

Werewolf (1995)--ancient curse on isolated desert town.

The Howling VII: Mystery Woman (1995)--drifter suspected.

The Howling: New Moon Rising (1995)--country-western.

Project: Metalbeast (1995)--metal-skinned werewolf emerges from experiment.

An American Werewolf in Paris (1997) The Werewolf Reborn! (1998)--Teenage girl visits older European cousin.

Brotherhood of the Wolf (2002)--France, 1764, and martial arts.

Ginger Snaps (2000) – Canada Ginger Snaps Unleashed (2004) – Canada, sequel to Ginger Snaps (Thanks to: http://www.wsu.edu/~delahoyd/wolf.films.html) Other mentions of my own: Van Helsing (2004) Brotherhood Of The Wolf (2001) Wolfen (1981) Romasanta (2004) Ginger Snaps Back (2004)

BLACK NICKLE by Doug Hainer Walking Willie, a fifty-seven year old homeless man. In his mind, his demons speak freely and openly. He wanders along the roads of a small Michigan town angrily shaking his fists at passing cars wanting to believe that the voices in his head are coming from the people driving pass him. There not.

Random whispers, screams of anger, anguished moans of pain, the voices taunt him day and night. So Willie walks until he can’t walk anymore an exhaustion allows him to sleep. Such is his life day after day, week after week, year after year.

Willies “home” consists of a mat of used cardboard boxes, and old, torn blanket he has hidden under a bridge far from public view near a local park. He guards the site with his life convinced someone else will lay claim to the spot if he’s not vigilant. Everything the poor black -man owns is carried in the pockets of the heavy winter coat he wears yearround.

People know where he stays and avoid going near “Willie Bridge”. Willie is “crazy” and has a history of attacking those who stray too close.

His meager life is sustained by the generosity of church groups that leave donations of food and clothing in boxes left under the bridge three or four times a year. Willie eats the food, wears the hand-me-down clothes, and uses the collapsed boxes as bedding.

Nothing is wasted, nothing is thrown away. His fortune consists of a few coins matted into the inside pocket of his grey, heavily padded coat. He counts them twenty p-times a day knowing at all times exactly how much he has. Today’s balance begins at ninetyfive cents.

It’s seven in the morning, late September. The sun hasn’t yet risen in the clear, dark sk y. It’s close enough though to make the Eastern horizon glow a milky blue making the frost that covers the ground glitter like tiny frosty gems. Willie shuffles restlessly under his thin blanket under the over-pass shivering in the cold. The voices of the demons in his mind chatter loudly saying everything and nothing all at once in a chaos of words and shouts only Willie can hear. They woke him up almost an hour ago and he stayed there waiting for the noise to end. It wouldn’t, the voices never stop.

If his lucky, his breakfast could be a warm cup of coffee from the Quick-Stop gas-station only a few blocks from his “home”. Willie knows, has enough cognitive thought left to do the math; he has ninety-five cents, the small cup of coffee costs exactly one dollar.

He’s a nickel short. Before he’s rewarded, he needs to find a five more cents.

His dark skin appears near absolutely black in the early pre-dawn light and Willies breath comes out in ghostly-pale puffs in the cold air. He waits huddled under his blanket for it to become light enough to see. He opens his eyes and they appear as bright white almonds in the eerie bluish hue of light. His eyes stare blankly at first, focus, and then begin scanning the shadows that surround him. In the gloom, his gaze locks on something just off the edge of his cardboard sleeping mat. The shadow of a shape on the concrete. A small circle the size of a coin only two feet away.

It takes a moment for Willie to comprehend what he’s seeing, but when he finally

understands, his first thought is that the coin is one of his that somehow slipped out of his pocket. Under the cover, he slops off a dirty cotton glove he wore and put the bare hand inside the hidden pocket of his coat to count the coins there. There were five coin; three quarters and two dimes, ninety-five cents worth. Still not convinced, he digs his dirty finger nails into the bottom of the pocket probing for a possible hole finding only a solid seam in the fabric.

Slowly, he reaches out and takes the coin from the ground. The cement of the bridges structure is cold but there’s an unmistakable warmth to the coin as Willie palms it. He squinted his eyes and held it close in the dimness trying to see exactly what he had found. The coin was dark, covered in a heavy tarnish on both sides. It was a thick coin slightly larger than a penny, smooth. But the glint of Thomas Jefferson’s profile on the “heads” side that identified the value; it was a nickel Willie dropped the coin inside the pocket with the others and recounted. Six coins, three quarters, two dimes, and now nickel; total of one dollar. The cost of a small regular coffee at the gas-station. He got up and stuffed his blanket into the iron beam to hide it, and began walking towards the store.

As soon as he stepped out from the shadows of the bridge he stopped in his tracks.

Sounds, Willie suddenly became aware of the sounds created not by his mind, but by the environment around him. The whoosh of rubber on road as cars drove across the bridge above him, the chirping of sparrows in a near-by tree, the rustling of drying autumn leaves still clinging to the branches of the oak trees around him. The voices were silent .

The endless ranting of a hundred nameless demon that had plagued him for years were suddenly gone; What did it mean he did not know; He would never realize the connection between the silent voices and the nickel; He began walking again. By the time he made it to the Quick-Stop one voice had returned. Not one of his own, a new one. A dark, low toned voice that Willie began listening to.

Jacob spotted Willie walking towards the gas-station from a distance. the thirty-year old clerk hoped that the vagrant was just on one of his daily road-side marches and would pass by. It ws already getting busy and he didn’t want the crazy old man in the stare stinking- up the place’. and bugging customers for their change. But as he approached the lot, his path turned towards the store. Jacob couldn’t hide the repulsed look on his own face as Willie walked in and moved across the shop to the coffee machines on the far wall.

Jacob had dealt with Willie before and had seen the man on his “bad days”. He had to call the police on him a few times before when the unpredictable man became aggressive with customers or when Willie started wandering into the busy traffic on the road that passed in front of the station.

The store manager, an over-weight red-headed woman named Shirley, refused to ban Willie from the store. She said it was “bad for business” to turn anyone away as long as they had money. Jacob thought that either she felt sorry for the man or she was afraid of what he might do if she tried to keep him out on the few occasions he actually came inside.

Luckily for Jacob on this particular morning, Shirley was working in her office. The clerk knocked on the open door and his boss came out after a few seconds. She quickly spotted Willie and realized the potential problem. She grabbed a rag from under the counter and walked out closes to the homeless man acting like she was dusting the shelves and displays in the store slowly moving closer. Careful not to let Willie notice, she kept looking at him trying to asses his state of mind. Her worse fear was that he would have a violent “episode” with a fresh cup of scalding-hot coffee in his hand or worse, an entire of pot of it. This morning, Willie seemed calm. He wasn’t mumbling to himself like he usually did, and his hands were steady ad the poured a small polystyrene cup full. Willie gently placed the half-empty coffee-pot back on its burner and carefully put a lid on the steaming cup.

“How you doing this ?” Shirley asked when she got close enough (consciously just out of arms-reach of the man).

Willie slowly turned his head to face the over-weight female manager. His eyes now glazed over and unblinking. Shirley thought he looked like he was in a daze, like he had been hypnotized and was following someone elses direction. She didn’t know how close her perception was to the truth.

“I’m good” Willie replied in a quiet, perfectly calm voice.

Shirley’s mouth dropped open in stunned silence. She had worked at the Quick-Stop for almost five years and had seen Willie do some crazy things and say some crazy things.

He had attacked cars at the pumps and on the road in front of the store, carried on a hour long conversation with the fire-hydrant in the grass on the other side of the road, and she even seen him piss on a telephone pole in broad daylight in plain view before.

But, she had never heard or seen him act so…..sober.

Willie reached inside his coat and Shirley caught herself flinching at the motion. He pulled the coins out and showed them to her as if trying to prove he intended to pay.

“Let me take care of that for you.” Shirley offered cautiously holding out her hand to receive the change. There was a small line three or four people deep forming at the counter in front of Jacob and Willie was already drawing some glares from them. Even with the cold air outside Willie carried an odor with him. An offensive smell like mold, body odor, and old urine mixed. Shirley didn’t want to have one of her regular morning customers get caught having to stand next to that . Anyways, it was just safer not to have him that close to people just in case.

Willie understood the gesture. He felt he understood everything now. For once in his life, everything made sense. The new and only voice in his head had explained what it all meant and Willie had been listening no longer confused, no longer angry, no longer trapped in a crowd of mindless sounds within his mind.

He reached out and dropped the coins into her hand with the nickel landing on top of the quarters and dimes. Even in the light of the overhead flourescents, the coin had no shine. It was absolutely black. Like the darkness of a star-less night sk y, it seemed to absorb the light around it. Willie watched Shirley close her hand taking the money from him.

He gathered his coffee cup, and walked out of the store without saying another word.

Shirley watched him go and seen him walk through the busy lot. He wasn’t looking down like he usually was and he show no aggression towards any of the cars park at the pump. His gate was steady, almost confident as he walked back to the road and then towards the park. She went to take the change to the register when she realized that she wasn’t the only one who had noticed Willie oddly sane behavior. Everyone in the store included Jacob had stopped what they was doing and watching the man leave.

Finally one of the customers broke the silence by saying what everyone was thinking that was weird everyone nodded in agreement. Someone else ask “ that was walking Willie, right”?

Shirley handed Jacob the homeless man change. He tapped the bottom marked small coffee on the register, open the drawer, and deposited the coins in their assigned compartments mixing the nickel in with several other nickels that are already there.

Business resumed.

Neither Shirley or Jacob heard the ambulance a few minutes later when it responded to the scene. Jacob heard a customer mentioned something about an accident just down the road but it wasn’t until Shirley read the article in the paper the next morning that they learn what happen. According to the paper, Willie had been struck and kill by a commercial vehicle near the park where he was known to stayed. Later, witnesses to the event claimed that it wasn’t an accident at all. That Willie threw himself under the front bumper of the semi truck just as it was driving pass. The driver had no chance to stop. Willie wanted to die.

The black nickel that little unsuspected token of evil Willie had brought to the store.

Jacob had unwillingly handed it out as change for another customer and the voice. The voice had whisper such wonderful things in his ear and explained the world to him; the same voice that force him to walk in front of a speeding grain truck went with the coin.

With the new possessor of the coin, new evils will be discovered!

A n exp o s e on P h oto gra pher a nd A rti st A pril Ta ylor.

A pril A Ta ylor (Detroit) 93.9 F M' s A rti st of the M o nth - 06/10 http://www.apriltaylor.com/ www.facebook.com/aprilataylorphotography

April A Taylor is an independent internationally published and exhibited artist based out of Detroit and luckily for us she stumbled upon our publication and offered some of her artwork, she told me that she fully supports independent horror in all formats so I have decided to showcase some of her work. I am sure you will find it as awe inspiring as I did and hopefully we will have more from her over the coming months, a truly inspiring artist!

Always Change your Locks.

Forest of the undead.

Movie Corner with Amanda Savieri Hi there Horror Hounds!

Welcome to the movie review section in the first edition of Chupacabra Magazine! I hope you are enjoying the magazine thus far and being that this is my first time here too, I thought I might introduce myself before getting into this month's selected reviews. But before I do so, I will let you know what you can expect from me every month. I will give you three reviews. One new movie review (either a current to cinema's or dvd film), one older movie review (from the 70's-90's for instance) and one random review that may tie in with whatever theme we have going for that month or just something that may be of interest at that given time. For example, this month’s review is Trick R' Treat to go with the Halloween release of this first edition. If you have any requests or anything you'd really like to see reviews in the magazine then please don't hesitate to email us along with any other feedback for that matter, we are all ears.

Now... about me. I am not a professional writer nor have I done any film school or anything like that. I am like many of you and that is just a die-hard horror fan that just happened to do some writing for horror sites etc along the way. I have been watching horror movies since I was 10 years old and 20 years on, I still love being scared. I am that rare breed of female horror fan that manages to quite easily watch movies that make my male friend's stomachs churn numerous times over. I am a huge fan of exploitation cinema including grindhouse, zombie flicks and killer animal/monster flicks as well, hence why I chose Piranha 3D as my review this month for current cinema. I do watch a lot of non-horror films as well but horror is my passion and that is why I am here to share it with you! Now, enough about me and into the reviews....

Piranha 3D (2010) Director: Alexandre Aja I went into Piranha not expecting too much. I had read reviews that it was pretty much gore and boobs and although I have a pair of my own boobs so they really aren’t as interesting as other’s may find them, I was interested in the gore. And of course, the fact that I loved the 1970’s original and of course Cameron’s (sort of sequel) several years later. What I kept reading about this movie again and again was simply how much FUN it was. And that, I must admit, met all my expectations. It wasn’t a masterpiece by any means, but at the same time, it wasn’t trying to be either. But one thing it was, for the entire duration of the movie.... was a blast!

Piranha doesn’t have much of a plot really so this won’t take long. Basically there is a

shift in the earth just below Lake Victoria and this opens up a part of the lake (a lake under the lake so to speak) that has been harbouring an ancient species of piranha that were thought to dead for thousands of years. When scientists head down there to see what has opened up they of course find the nest. The local law enforcement realise that they have a problem on their hands as they witness thousands of these fish come out of their hiding place and into the lake which happens to be the Spring Break Hot Spot right now just crawling with tourists, teenagers and movie crews that come out every year for the lake, the women and the fun. So the water police then head out to tell everyone to get out of the water but they are a little too late because hell breaks loose as these happy Spring Breaker’s get eaten alive.

Piranha manages to successfully blow an entire hour and a half on boobs, ass, bikini’s, killer fish and major major carnage. But the movie makes just as much fun of itself as you are making of it so it somehow manages to work out really well. You have everything in here from stark naked swimming ballerinas, wet t-shirt competitions, lots of well known actors that have all played in horror movies before and of course, even Eli Roth is splashed in there too. The biggest and best scene in the movie is when the piranhas manage to make it to the party and it is feeding time at Lake Victoria. Kudos to the makeup artists for Piranha as they would have been working overtime to make this scene as effective as it is. And to make the movie even more hilarious and over-the-top, the piranhas themselves are not the only ones doing the killing as mayhem breaks out and people do some really stupid things to try and get out of the water, which of course has some drastic and gory consequences.

Look out for some other horror movie spin offs. I picked up, of course, the beginning with the shark expert from Jaws on a boat dressed up as he was in Jaws and possibly even singing the same song? There were some very Romero reminiscent scenes as many bloodied people scampered onto small boats, trying to escape from the water, causing them to capsize but the filming of the scene made them appear almost zombie-like. And there is a scene with a man and a boat propeller that was very Dead-Alive AKA BrainDead reminiscent if you remember the infamous lawn mower scene in that one.

The movie has all been done before, it has virtually zero plot, the acting is below average, the actresses are there for their breasts and not much more. It also has very little to do with the original which was refreshing in a way as I hate watching the same thing, just updated. But it is honestly a blast. It is funny, it is over the top, it is completely exaggerated. The piranha’s burp for fuck’s sake! But it is a wild ride for an hour and a half and I cannot help but recommend it and I will no doubt be adding it to my collection when it hits Dvd. I am looking forward to the Dvd actually as I did personally find the 3D a hindrance in this screening. It was blurry and made it very difficult to focus and I found it a distraction rather than an improvement. But that may just be me. Either way, loads of fun, was everything I was hoping it would be, and possibly a bit more as I wasn’t hoping for too much. This is horror as it should be, like the good old days!

Don't Be Afraid Of The Dark (1973) Director: John Newland With the up and coming Del Toro remake, Don't Be Afraid Of The Dark, I just had to see the original first. I am funny like that. I had to read The Lovely Bones before seeing the film and Del Toro has also bought the rights to turn David Moody's book “Hater” into film so I had to read that first as well. I cannot see sequel movies without watching the originals first. I am indeed a bit anal about these things. So before sinking my teeth into the Katie Holmes’ new one, I had to see the old 70's original. I can see why Del Toro would remake it. It certainly has a lot of potential.

Don't Be Afraid Of The Dark is an early 70's (direct to TV movie I believe) horror flick.

It is about a middle aged couple that move into a house that has been passed down to them by the recent passing of the woman's grandmother. The house has been in the family for years apparently and naturally... has a bit of a history. The house needs a lot of work and the couple are used to living in apartments in the city but they give it a go, start the renovations and do their best to make it feel like home.

But it quickly starts to feel like hell. The main character (Sally) discovers a small studyroom within the house. It has a big open fire place and she immediately feels drawn to it. She would love to have it as a nice reading place that is warm, quiet and ideal for concentrating in (Even I found the little room appealing as a reader!) but the fire place seems to be all bricked up and completely out of use. Sally insists that she wants to use the room and wants the fire place opened up but the local carpenter that they have hired to fix the house up refuses to open the fire place up or tear the bricks down that have been placed there. He explains he was told to put them there by her grandmother who believed that the fire place was a way of the spirits of their ancestors to get in. And it has been boarded up ever since. Naturally, Sally won’t take no for an answer. She thinks this is all superstitious nonsense and starts to bash the bricks out herself and in doing so, unleashes little spirits into the house that chose to torment her the minute they are released. But they want to do a little more than scare her. They want her to join them.

So begins the usual story of the little creatures picking on Sally and the rest of her family and friends thinking she is nuts. Her husband, in the peak of his career and has so much potential to secure a very firm place within his business, doesn't have a lot of time for such nonsense with his work responsibilities keeping him so busy. So poor Sally is pretty-much on her own and when the lights go out, they come out to get her....

It is actually a fun little flick. The little creatures are pretty cool and it reminded me a lot of The Gate if you remember that old movie? Sally is a little irritating as she is your typical 70's house wife with no balls and no initiative. She seems to scream for her husband, Alex, rather than just taking the situation into her own hands. But I tried to take it for when it was made and took that into consideration, as much as I wanted to knock some sense into her.

The house itself is beautiful, the decor amazing and what I would do to own a place like that! I found myself lapping up the scenery and being fascinated by this little room

within the bedroom that was set up as a little reading quarter’s with couches and cushions for you to tuck yourself away in there while your other half sleeps a few feet away. The huge and old house also made for plenty of good places for the creatures to sneak up on Sally and play their little pranks.

I am very curious now to see what Del Toro will do with this one, particularly the ending that I am not quite sure I liked. With some imagination and some creepy ghostlike moments I think this one has real potential to be a fantastic haunting horror.

Fingers crossed he does a good job and definitely get your hands on the original first if you can just to see what you are in for. Two thumbs up for yet another old horror.

Trick R Treat (2007) Director: Michael Dougherty I remember seeing the promo posters for this film well over a year before its release.

Then the production studios kept putting it off and dilly-dallying around and just when I managed to forget about it, it came out as a direct to video release. Finally I got to see not only the anthology they were promising to be as good as Creepshow but also a Halloween anthology to make it even more fun. So I got on board as soon as I possibly could and gleefully lapped up every single moment of this long awaited movie. Because it is almost Halloween again and I hadn’t seen it for a while, I decided it was time for a revisit. And it is just as much fun the 2nd time round!

The four stories involved in this film are as follows: A school principle who secretly kills children in his spare time and buries them in his own backyard. Then this sick and twisted principle meets his match when faced with a young woman (played by the lovely Anna Paquin) who is looking for a suitor to lose her virginity with for the night. However, this virginity is of the supernatural kind.

Thirdly a group of school kids, head out to a rocky ledge where 30 years earlier some children were murdered by their bus driver because the kids were too bad to go to a normal school and their parents had had enough. After the kids play an awful prank on one of the group they realise that the prank is in fact, on them. Finally story four is about an old Scrooge like character (Brian Cox) who has a yearly tradition of scaring the crap out of his trick or treaters just to steal their candy. This year is different however, as he ends up in a life or death fight with a Halloween demon.

I personally love anthologies and am a die hard fan of movies such as Creepshow (I even enjoyed the 3rd one!) and of course grew up with all the Tales From The Crypt episodes. So Trick R Treat really was a treat for me not only because it is well put together and so much fun but also because it took me right back to those times when I was 10 years old watching these short horror stories on the TV. Hollywood attempted to revisit the idea years later with R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps. I don’t know if I was too old by that point or if these new stories really did lack the 80’s charm that really had you scared of those things that go bump in the night. But they certainly didn’t have that

wow factor that Trick R Treat delivered nor provide that excited and fascinated anticipation of what the next story will entail.

With a huge cast such as Dylan Baker, Leslie Bibb and Rochelle Aytes, any true horror fan really can’t go past this one. The stories are well entwined. The scattered humour is well delivered and the jumps and scares are enough to keep any Halloween critter grinning for the full hour and a half. The movie isn’t too gory either so much like the old Tales From The Crypt, they are suited for both teenagers and adults. And kudos to the creators of the little Halloween demon that is cute, creepy, nasty and hilarious all at the same time. I just adore the little guy!

For those that love your urban legends, campfire tales and the old fashioned goofy fun horror then this one is for you. If you haven’t seen this one already then I suggest you grab a copy this Halloween, get your favourite candy, turn down the lights and enjoy the show.

To check out my other work, you can find me at Amanda Savieri on Facebook or my Facebook review page at Manda's Horror (And Other) Movie Reviews Page.

See you next month!

H orror Vi xen s E a c h m o nth w e are g oin g to be s h o w c a sin g for your vie win g ple a s ure a different m o d el in thi s s e ction. T he s e m o del s will be in the horror g enre a nd w e are s ure you will enjoy vie win g their very arti sti c pi c s that w e have on offer. At the end of our fir st year w e will have a vote to s e e w h o you like be st, the winner will be cro wn ed horror vixen of the ye ar and thi s m o nth it i s the turn of Vera Vo o d o o and here s h e i s.

If you are interested in becoming a Chupacabra Magazine Horror Vixen and appearing in our pages please email chupacabramag@gmail.com with your details and pics.

The Darkness Thomas “Smokey� Smith This darkness washes over me, like a pit full of vipers.

It blinds me, my eyes are blurry, I can not see a thing.

Only shadows on the wall, not clear, lifeless shapes.

Suddenly movement, I sense it, I smell it, I know it.

Even though I can not see, I sense there's something there.

Something lurking in the dark, what is it? Still I can not see.

Suddenly out of the darkness something creeps.

It touches my shoulder and I turn.

I squint, I try to see but I can't.

It's got me, fear has set in, I pause for a second; I don't know where to go.

I wipe the sweat from my brow, the hairs on my arms stand on end, my body spasms.

What is this? This creature lurking in the dark.

Still I try to see but my eyes are failing me, will I ever see again? Can I escape the dark?

It seems to grip me, sucking me in, draining the life from my very existence.

Paranoia sets in, what is this creature? What does it want? Where has it come from?

It still lurks there in the dark, still with an icy grip on my shoulder.

The sweat pours from my face.

I am filled with a burning desire of knowledge, a desire to know what I share these dark depths with.

My eyes still fail.

I am filled with a burning desire to strike out.

I am now overtaken by rage, hatred, a need to fight my foe, or at least what I believe to be an enemy.

I am not sure, now not only are my eyes blind but my judgment is also clouded.

Decision made, I lash out.

Pain, seething pain, blood trickles down my arm.

A wall? Perhaps a wall I struck.

Now my arm feels broken, shattered in two, weakness.

I drop to my knees, rolling around in agony, an unholy pain.

Suddenly a voice. At least my ears still work; in fact this sense seems to be heightened since the blindness struck.

"Feel the darkness, embrace it fully" I feel myself slipping out of consciousness, my heart beats rapidly I am disorientated.

What does this thing want of me? I ask the question.

"Your soul" the reply comes back. "Your soul, embrace the darkness" The creature tightens its grip on my shoulder; it feels as though there are claws digging in, blood still trickles down my arm.

At this point I panic, I know not what to do, and my body goes limp.

I feel it's breath on my neck, hot breath, smells like rotten fish and fag ends, I feel the end is near.

I know I need to do something, I need to escape its clutches, I need to find my way back to the light.

I scream out in the hope that someone hears my cries and comes.

No one comes.

In a final gasp I take a deep breath and throw my whole body weight back, myself and the creature take a tumble, I still can't see.

It's worked the creature has lost its grip, now's my chance, must find the light.

I know the creatures still there, I know it still lurks in the dark but somehow it's fading, fading to obscurity.

I sense it's pain, its dying, feeding on my soul to survive but now it's lost it's hold, it's soon to be no more.

I start to stagger round in the dark, feeling my way as I go, brick walls? Air vent? I know this, I'm sure.

My basement, I am in my basement.

I remember, I remember now I had gone down there for a hammer, must have been hours ago.

I remember the layout, objects; my feet find the stairs, relief!

I am now running, bounding up the stairs, leaving the darkness behind, hopefully forever.

I reach the door and fling it open, I'm free, I can see again.

I'm out and I slam the door, my ordeal is over.

I haven't been down the basement since and never have any desire to.

I sometimes wonder if the creature did die or even in fact existed but one things for sure, I never want to return to the darkness and indeed will live my life in the light.

Interesting emails Just thought you'd like to hear about a local rumor about why the Chupa Cabra doesn't attack humans.

Puerto Ricans love their rum. In the dark hours one morning, a drunk who worked in a dairy farm fell asleep. He woke in pain and freaked out of his mind when a creature pulled off his neck. The beast tried sucking his blood, but the long time alcoholic must not have tasted to its liking because the ugly beast took off, apparently frightened by the ugly drunkard. The old guy sprinted to his vehicle and hightailed it home. At first he promised to give up drinking, but when they found a cow dead and drained of its blood, the poor bastard drank himself to death.

Of course, I can't collaborate that one, but I did experience the aftermath and interviewed two people who had two separate incidents with the creature. Both described the same type of creature. One of them got to see it sort of hop or fly off. It was too dark to be sure. They both agreed on the eyes though. They said he had the eyes of a diablo. Devil eyes.

Nomar Knight And......

This was sent to me by Delanne Ivey via facebook El Chupacabra... carved by my 10 year old Feyd.

End note from the editor.

Thank you for taking the time to read our publication and we hope that you have enjoyed what we have to offer. We hope that you will make Chupacabra Magazine a regular read and that you keep coming back for your monthly dose of horror.

Also a big thanks to everybody who has contributed towards this issue, with out you none of this would be possible. Please remember to keep your submissions coming in and email them to chupacabramag@gmail.com We are constantly looking for submissions, also if you have an event, book release, movie release or just about anything horror that you would like us to advertise please do not hesitate to contact us and we will be able to sort something out, our full contact details can be found on our website http://www.chupacabramag.info Thanks again!

Thomas “Smokey” Smith Contributors Thomas “Smokey” Smith- Editor, The Darkness Kayleigh Jones- Cover art Amanda Savieri- Something to howl about, Movie corner Zach Black- The masterpiece of Gehenna Doug Hainer- Black Nickel Vera Voodoo- Horror Vixens (Photo by Dynamite Dames and MUAH by vintage flair) April A Taylor- Photography feature

Publication by Chupacabra Magazine http://www.chupacabramag.info Also find us on Facebook.