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Lycanthropus

By C. EDGAR BOLEN


  The jellied night has oozed its miry black
    From out the hills to fill the valley floor.
  Atop the ragged hills the torn cloud-wrack
    Is lightning-limned into a hellish door.
      A gust of wind across the sky is hurled--
      The gods of old are loosed upon the world.

  Age-old, the blood-lust wells within my throat;
    Tensely I wait, and feel my body shrink;
  My hairless hide becomes a furry coat.
    Blood-hungry, through the opened door I slink;
      I raise my head and howl in horrid glee--
      And from the plain a howl comes back to me.




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: This etext was produced from Weird Tales
August-September 1936. Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.