Lycanthropus

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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.