ENGLAND 1891

Far cry from the modern,

Grand, cosmopolitan

City of London,

The forested land of Blackmoor

Is always densely foggy at night

And at the turn of each

Full moon, most dangerous.

Each person in the village

Clutches onto

Superstition

As their security blanket.

But superstition, in this case,

Has one of its products

Prowling the moor,

Slain family and friends.

Word travels from the tavern & streets.

Is it any small wonder

The village men, with their shotguns & lanterns, hunt for monsters?

The nomadic camp—

Collection of wooden wagons & tents—

Offers warmth from bonfires,

Entertainment from the dancing trained bear

And all the rum and dark-haired ladies they could stand,

But above all, sanctuary from the one

Apparent danger out in the misty woods.

When it rushed in, many were slashed

Trying to capture & contain it. Hunters & campers.

Sanctuary is disrupted. Stained with blood.

Is it any small wonder

The Roma, with their spells & legends, dread monsters?

Again, the full moon rises over Blackmoor.

She exerts enormous power, doesn't she?

Her pallid glow, full round face

Caused one nobleman, the family actor,

To twist in pain, assume his most 

Terrifying role, on a larger stage.

Thicker body hair than before, 

Longer hair, longer nails, wet black snout,

Compulsion to snarl, growl, mutilate & howl.

Part man, part vicious wolf

Running loose on the countryside.

Leaving reddish work behind.

At times, two such beasts.

Is it any small wonder

The rich men of Talbot Hall become monsters?

The mansion's devout Sikh servant, loading silver shells

Into his shotgun like the prepared warrior he is, will attest

Sometimes, monsters hunt you.

Inspired by The Wolfman, directed by Joe Johnston.