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    The Werewolf (Fantasy and Horror Classics)
    The Werewolf (Fantasy and Horror Classics)
    The Werewolf (Fantasy and Horror Classics)
    Ebook58 pages46 minutes

    The Werewolf (Fantasy and Horror Classics)

    By Clemence Housman

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    About this ebook

    Clemence Housman was an author and suffragist best-known for her 1896 novella The Were-Wolf, praised by H. P. Lovecraft for "attain[ing] a high degree of gruesome tension and achiev[ing] to some extent the atmosphere of authentic folklore." Many of the horror stories of monsters and ghouls, particularly those dating back to the 1900s and before, are now extremely scarce and increasingly expensive. We are republishing these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions, using the original text and artwork.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRead Books Ltd.
    Release dateApr 25, 2013
    ISBN9781447499954
    The Werewolf (Fantasy and Horror Classics)

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      The Werewolf (Fantasy and Horror Classics) - Clemence Housman

      CLEMENCE HOUSMAN

      Clemence Housman was born in Bromsgrove, England in 1861. Her brother was the renowned A. E. Housman, the pre-eminent classicist of his age and arguably one of the greatest scholars of all time. In 1883 Housman enrolled at art college in London, where she learnt the art of wood-engraving. It was while here that she first began to write short works of speculative fiction.

      Housman split her time between the Suffragette movement – in which she was a leading figure – and novel-writing. She wasn’t prolific, producing only three novels – The Were-Wolf, Unknown Sea and The Life Of Sir Aglovale De Galis – between 1896 and 1905. Of these, The Were-Wolf, published in 1896 is her most well-known. H. P. Lovecraft said of the novel that it attains a high degree of gruesome tension and achieves to some extent the atmosphere of authentic folklore.

      Housman was almost a hundred years old when she died at her home in Bromsgrove.

      The great farm hall was ablaze with the fire-light, and noisy with laughter and talk and many-sounding work. None could be idle but the very young and the very old: little Rol, who was hugging a puppy, and old Trella, whose palsied hand fumbled over her knitting. The early evening had closed in, and the farm-servants, come from their outdoor work, had assembled in the ample hall, which gave space for a score or more of workers. Several of the men were engaged in carving, and to these were yielded the best place and light; others made or repaired fishing-tackle and harness, and a great seine net occupied three pairs of hands. Of the women most were sorting and mixing eider feather and chopping straw to add to it. Looms were there, though not in present use, but three wheels whirred emulously, and the finest and swiftest thread of the three ran between the fingers of the house-mistress. Near her were some children, busy too, plaiting wicks for candles and lamps. Each group of workers had a lamp in its centre, and those farthest from the fire had live heat from two braziers filled with glowing wood embers, replenished now and again from the generous hearth. But the flicker of the great fire was manifest to remotest corners, and prevailed beyond the limits of the weaker lights.

      Little Rol grew tired of his puppy, dropped it incontinently, and made an onslaught on Tyr, the old wolf-hound, who basked dozing, whimpering and twitching in his hunting dreams. Prone went Rol beside Tyr, his young arms round the shaggy neck, his curls against the black jowl. Tyr gave a perfunctory lick, and stretched with a sleepy sigh. Rol growled and rolled and shoved invitingly, but could only gain from the old dog placid toleration and a half-observant blink. ‘Take that then!’ said Rol, indignant at this ignoring of his advances, and sent the puppy sprawling against the dignity that disdained him as playmate. The dog took no notice, and the child wandered off to find amusement elsewhere.

      The baskets of white eider feathers caught his eye far off in a distant corner. He slipped under the table, and crept along on all-fours, the ordinary commonplace custom of walking down a room upright not being to his fancy. When close to the women he lay still for a moment watching, with his elbows on the floor and his chin in his palms. One of the women seeing him nodded and smiled, and presently he crept out behind her skirts and passed, hardly noticed, from one to another, till he found opportunity to possess himself of a large handful of feathers. With these he traversed the length of the room, under the table again, and emerged near the spinners. At the feet of the youngest he curled himself round, sheltered by her knees from the observation of the others, and disarmed her of interference by secretly displaying his handful with a confiding smile. A dubious nod satisfied him, and presently he started on the play he had devised. He took a tuft of the white down, and gently shook it free of his fingers close to the whirl of the wheel. The wind of the swift motion took it, spun it round and round in widening circles, till it floated above like a slow white moth. Little Rol’s eyes danced, and the row of his small teeth shone in a silent laugh of delight. Another and another of the white tufts was sent whirling round like a winged thing in a spider’s web, and floating clear at last. Presently the handful failed.

      Rol sprawled forward to survey the

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