Autobiography of a Werewolf Hunter
Brian P. Easton
Published by Permuted Press at Smashwords.
Copyright 2010 Brian P. Easton
“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.”
For most of us, the werewolf is a literary creation that exists only on film and in the minds of lycanthropic lunatics. We attribute its legend to medieval paranoia, the disorder Porphyria, or Nordic tales of berserkers. It is our skepticism that makes our world a fertile field for the werewolf to hunt.
Ask yourself: How dangerous might you be if no one believed you were real? Answer that, and you will understand why the Beast wouldn’t have it any other way.
When I was twelve, I couldn’t wait to be a man. And I thought I’d be one when I turned thirteen. That meant everything to a boy who, more than anything, wanted to be like his Papa. What I wanted was to make him proud of me because I had caused him so much grief. I thought if I did everything right, I could make it up to him.
My father’s name was Foster James, and he was French-Canadian. He met my mother, Abigail, in Nova Scotia where they married and settled after World War II. Mother was half-Cheyenne Indian. I was born in Halifax in 1950, and it was the nurses who named me Sylvester Logan. They said they couldn’t stop my mother’s bleeding. I don’t think she ever got to hold me.
We lived in an old house in Lethbridge, Alberta, near where Mama had grown up. Her parents were gone, and Papa’s had died when he was young, so we only had each other. Papa had been a woodsman most of his life; he said it ran in his blood. From being with him, I learned to read the forest’s secret language of sight and sound. The time we spent in the woods together was the finest I remember. We’d find tracks in the snow or mud, and he’d quiz me on which animal made them. Or he’d point to a tree and say: “I wish I knew what kind of tree that is,” which was my cue to provide the answer. He taught me to fish in the summer, to hunt in the autumn, and to trap in the winter.