THE WEREWOLF

It was an unusually beautiful dawn at the beginning of April. After a cold night the ground and the forest trees were covered in frost. These wore pale green buds on all the branches and twigs of the deciduous trees which perhaps carried the hope of a long warm summer. It was an incredible time to find the half-eaten body of the shoemaker's daughter. It would have felt better to have found her during a cold stormy night in the autumn. But there she was, thrown away in a thicket in front of my feet like a cheap rag doll with a ghostly veil of frost which seemed to whisper: "I am your shroud and now you belong to me. Unfortunately,