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I have lived alone for many years now, my wife left me for another man. There might have been a poetic justice in it all if she left me for a younger man, but he was older, much older than I, older and richer. Anyway, over the years, my friends had tried to fix me up with other women. Nothing came of their efforts because I was far too stubborn to even try to “date.” Finally, one of my darker friends took me to lunch.He took me to a very discreet inn, where only distinguished, mature gentlemen were allowed entry, in fact, my friend and I, in our early sixties, were the youngest men to come inside. We were greeted in the lobby by an aged husband and wife dressed in formal kimonos, hers was adorned with a bright obi, while he wore a woven sash. My friend introduced me, affirming his sponsorship of my membership.The old lady then led us into the “dining area,” a room intricately divided by finely carved ebony dividing screens with a small table in each cubicle. We arrived at my table. She remembered crawling, further back into the hole beneath an old oak where her mother had sought to hide her. She had shook in abject terror as the clansmen gleefully slaughtered her brothers and sisters. How they had thrown dry grass and sticks into their home as kindling then set it alight. Her eyes had widened in renewed terror when he suddenly appeared out of nowhere. He was a monstrous eight-foot nightmare, with a vaguely human shape and a massive wolf’s head. His fearsome fangs and claws flashing as he tore the stunned clansmen to shreds before they could react. Moments later he stood with gore dripping from his huge maw filled with enormous fangs as his chest heaved and claws convulsed reflexively. He turned slowly, sniffing the air for scent of further danger, then as if by magic reverted into the shape of a man. His long hair was wild and unkempt. His torso lean and muscular but marred by scars of battle. Her mother had told her stories of this one, the Deamhan.
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