Moonrise Soho

  

 Friday October 6, 1978 London:

               

        The day started out normal enough. 6:00 a.m. sharp, I awoke to the soothing clamor of my alarm clock; as per usual. Stretching and yawning I reached over, slamming my hand down on the snooze button. Fumbling around for the remote on the nightstand, I turned on the morning news.

              

       “Carry an umbrella when you head out folks! It looks like it’s going to be raining cats and dogs all day,” said the ghastly polyester garbed weatherman, with manufactured cheer. Shuffling the papers in front of him “Oh…..err and a full moon tonight,” he said vaguely, adjusting his wig.

                 

     Outwardly groaning, I seriously considered calling in sick, before I petulantly resigned from the peaceful embrace of my bed. With slow measured steps I migrated towards the bathroom. Squeaking; the shower knobs protested as I set them to full blast, and then I drew the shower curtain closed. While the water heated I turned on the bathroom faucet and mindlessly brushed my teeth. Gazing at my disheveled state in the clouded reflection before me, I tried to bolster enthusiasm for the day ahead.  Turning off the tap, I stepped into the shower. As the steamy jets of water hit my skin; I had not made up my mind yet as to whether or not I wanted to drop everything, and join a hippie caravan.

Being a square in a suit; working a job I loathed (a promotion hopefully loomed in my future), paid the bills. Once presentable, (which means suit and tie) a piece of toast stuffed in my mouth, an umbrella tucked under my arm; I left my flat and joined the throng of joyous rush hour rushers. Working Harrods customer service counter occupied my daily 8:00-5:00 activities slot. After a hard day’s work, my smile dull and wilting; I slogged my somnolent frame home through the deluge.

               

  That evening found me crashed out on the sofa watching reruns of ‘The Benny Hill Show.” The dregs of a Tangle Foot beer and a mystery meat (was it beef or pork?) TV dinner sat in peripheral view on the coffee table. “Do unto others, then run!” said Benny; the studio audience roared with laughter.  “Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzz,” drowned out the laughter as the buzzer rang. “Hold on!” I shouted, extricated from my comfortable position on the couch.  There was only one person who would call at this time of night; without invitation.

                 

   Removing the lock from the door, “Jim,” I said in terse acknowledgment; somewhat annoyed and pleased to see my best mate standing before me.

Without waiting, Jim burst into my flat. Striding over to the pea green fridge; running his fingers through long, lush, damp Leif Garret hair. He looked rather disheveled in a denim jacket, orange Wheaties t-shirt; blue bell bottoms and baby blue waffle trainers were spattered in mud. Flinging open the fridge, he browsed through the contents; holding up the last beer “Do you mind?” he asked smiling apologetically.

“Oh no, please make yourself at home,” I replied sarcastically, closing the door; securing the lock back in place.

Pacing back to the couch, I sat. Jim seated himself in the recliner opposite. He looked at me expectantly for a couple seconds.  Breaking the silence, sighing I asked “Jimmy, what are you doing here?”

Drinking deeply from the last beer, he replied “Ok, I’ll tell you but don’t freak out.”

I nodded, this had better be good.

“I saw a Werewolf,” Jim said without preamble, in hushed tones.

“Quit fucking around,” I responded, laughing loudly with disbelief.

“I am serious,” his eyes intense; begging me to believe him.

“What happened then?” my voice colored with skepticism. I sat forward to listen.

The story he related to me is as unbelievable as the day is long; yet truth rang out in Jim’s voice. I knew he was not intentionally having a go at me. A man sees what a man sees.

‘“Earlier this evening, I was walking through Soho. When I got to Wardour St., I popped into ‘The Hobbit,’ for some smokes. As I exited the shop, I realized that I had forgotten to buy a lighter. Mentally kicking myself, I dug through the pockets of my jacket for change; without any luck. As I stood there the smell of wet dog filled my nostrils. I turned to go back to the shop, when I noticed a man; who looked like he had a bad reaction to steroids or something, walking briskly towards me. His red plaid shirt and jeans torn to shreds. In his hand he held a soggy menu.

“Can I bum a light?” I asked apprehensively, thinking it better not to inquire about his appearance.

“Sure,” he said in a gravel tone. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he fished out a lighter. Which I thought was odd, seeing as he was not wearing a jacket. As he lit the lighter, I noticed thick, black sharp nails that looked like they might be caked in blood.

“Thanks man,” I said eyeing the stranger. “You know Halloween isn’t until the end of the month?” I asked jokingly, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

Smiling widely (snarling?) and quite amused, the stranger revealed sharp white teeth.

“What you got there?” I queried conversationally; nodding, indicating to the menu in his hand.

Glancing nonchalantly down at the damp piece of paper; then back at me, he answered “Have you heard of Lee Ho Fooks?”

I thought for a minute, shifting from one foot to the other; becoming uncomfortable in his probing stare.

“I can’t say that I have,” I replied, trying to avoid the stranger’s magnetic gaze.

At that moment a woman passed us. She was walking a Toy Yorkie. His eyes glowed like yellow flame as he observed at the dog. Turning back to me, he growled “I’m going to get a big dish of beef chow mein.”’

“Without another look at me, he continued to walk down the street. It was the weirdest thing.” Jim finished, disturbed and subdued.

“You’re sure it was a Werewolf?” my eyebrows raised.

“Quite certain,” he held firmly, running his fingers through his curly locks.

Jim was goon, there was no doubt about that; he was not one for making up stories. A “Good Times Charlie,” womanizing was his main game. I think I found it hard to wrap my mind around the thought that Werewolves were roaming the streets of London; where I had been born and raised. Part of me was suspicious that it was not cigarettes that Jim was smoking but another recreational herb.

In the days that ensued, it became apparent Jim’s hallucinogenic story was indeed footed in reality. Being a London denizen was about to become much, oh muchly more interesting. It was brought to my attention a couple days later on my day off from work. Flipping through channels, BBC news flashed across the TV screen.

“Bump bum, bump bum,” introduced the news team. Almost mirror images of one another, two tackily clad news anchors sat before the camera shuffling papers busily. “You’re on!” hissed the soundman.

“We interrupt your regular broadcast to bring this breaking news,” announced the older of the duo in a slightly nasal voice. “Late last night, in the Westminster district; near Vincent Sq., an elderly woman was savagely mutilated. Some are saying it was a Werewolf. I think it is safe to say if you hear them prowling around your kitchen door, you better not let them in. Barbra Fields has more on the story. Barbra.”

“Hello, Ken?” Barbra asked tapping the microphone, sweeping Farrah Fawcett style tendrils out of her face with a manicured hand. Adjusting her black and white hounds tooth s suit skirt, she asked one of the crew members “Is this thing on?” He nodded encouragingly and gave her a thumbs up.

  

 “Sorry for the mix up Ken,” Barbra apologized “there has been quite a bit of confused excitement here since last night. We are standing outside the victim’s home.” The camera panned over; catching a shot of the house, then panned back again. ”With me I have Mrs. Milena Leopold,” she said beckoning a stooped woman with a cane over. “Milena, I can call you Milena can’t I? I was informed that you heard the attack and called the police, can you tell us more? Barbra prodded, raising her eyebrows with feigned concern.

Mrs. Leopold overstepped Barbra, placing herself in main focus. Smiling into the camera, she revealed moss green teeth. What little hair she had left was wrapped in a turban. A small group began to form around the camera crew. If the greater London area was not enough, she sought to call even more attention to herself. She wailed “Gladys Winters was my best friend in the whole world! Now she’s gone, gone, gone!” Sniffling; crocodile tears flooded her unfocused eyes.

“Yes, but can you tell us anything about the events that unfolded last night?” Barbra inquired impatiently.

Patting at her eyes, with a handkerchief; then peering around at the crowd “It was most dreadful!” Mrs. Leopold announced. “Why the screams were almost deafening!” she proclaimed dramatically, then paused. The eyes of the reporter and crowd now glued to the old woman. Very much akin to a train wreck; don’t want to look, can’t look away.

“Please, tell us more,” asked Barbra urgently, her eyes burned with vicious glee.

“Gladys and I have been neighbors going on well over forty years. Every morning we had tea together. Yesterday, she told me that her good for nothing son had decided to put her in a home. He would be coming by the next day to help her pack up her things. Real underhanded like; didn’t even ask her if she wanted to go.” Mrs. Leopold said conspiratorially.

Without warning; Mrs. Leopold raised her cane, jabbing it at the camera “Punks these days, don’t have no respect for nobody!” She cried angrily, spittle spraying the cameraman.

Regaining her composure, acting as if nothing had happened “Now where was I?” she questioned adopting a wizened voice. “Oh yes, last night I thought I heard somebody shuffling around in the back garden; so I grabbed my binoculars from the nightstand. Drawing back the curtain, I looked out of my bedroom window; I didn’t see anything suspicious at first. I noticed Gladys opening her back door, calling for her cat Mr. Tittles.

“You all right?” I called down to Gladys through my open window. She said she was fine and continued to call for Mr. Tittles. I was about to put my binoculars away; when I saw a hairy youth in tattered clothing slide out from the shadows. He lunged at Gladys, and attacked her!” Mrs. Leopold said energetically.  The crowd gasped.

“Well, I nearly toppled out of the window in shock; Gladys was screaming. Fumbling with my binoculars in one hand and the phone on the nightstand, I called the police. They assured me they would be sending somebody around. Then I hung up the phone,” said the old woman, providing a comprehensive play by play account.

 “I crept over to the window and peered out. Outside the whole kit and caboodle had gone silent, the assailant had disappeared. On the back porch steps lay Gladys in her night dress, covered in blood; she was not moving. Large chunks were missing from her face and torso, as if something had tried to eat her,” continued Mrs. Leopold, relishing her no holds barred description. The crowd winced in unison.

Drawing in a deep breath, prepared to share further grisly details; Mrs. Leopold was interrupted by a detective that was disbanding the crowd “Alright!” he shouted “Get moving you lot, this is an official crime scene!” The crow groaned and began to disperse.

“Here, let me help you,” he said kindly to Mrs. Leopold; supporting her elbow as he tried to escort her home.

“Don’t touch me!” She hollered, beating the detective around the head and shoulders with her cane. Eyeballing the constables that moved in closer to assist their comrade, she raised her cane threateningly.

 “Let her go!” cried the detective raising his hand, exasperated.

Mrs. Leopold turned and toddled home, tripping passerby’s with her cane if they got to close.

“That’s a wrap,” Barbra mouthed to the cameraman, drawing her finger across her throat. The screen switched back to the news anchors who were watching in open mouthed astonishment.

“Well, it looks quite action packed in Vincent Sq.,” laughed Ken uneasily “Now for the weather; what can we expect for the upcoming week Berry?”

I clicked off the TV, not very keen to hear what Berry had to say about the weather. Werewolves in London? I fully expected to see Rod Serling walk across my living room with his hands clasped behind his back: “There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone.”

The next few days seemed to pass by without incident. Police assured concerned citizens that they would do everything in their power to bring the furry assailant to justice; lulling the public into a false sense of security. As usual whatever was being done was not quite enough; things began to progressively spiral out of control around midweek.

Wednesday, I was set to meet Jim after work; at the Shakespeare’s Head on Great Marlborough St. Strolling on the rain slick sidewalk adjacent to the pub; I noticed a grotesque parody of Shakespeare dangling from an upstairs window. It appeared to be scrutinizing passing pedestrians from its perch, ready to spring into the street below, performing extraordinary prose in the Queen’s English.

I noted that the pub was unusually busy for this time of day. Exiting the street and entering the crowded pub, I looked around then glanced at my watch. Waiting for Jim to make an appearance, I sat at the bar eating typical bar fare (peanuts) and nursing a pint. The muted TV over the bar was playing a mind-numbing sitcom. The Smiths ‘There Is a Light That Never Goes Out’ played in the background. An hour later, when I was ready to pay my tab and leave, Jim entered the pub. Spotting me, he waved an edition of The Evening Standard excitedly, weaving his way through the crowd.

“Sorry I am late,” Jim apologized, sitting on the bar stool beside me.  

“Fashionably,” I mumbled, irritated. If the world ended tomorrow, Jim would be late.

Not registering my annoyance; Jim proceeded to open the paper with a sharp snap, spreading it out on the bar before me. “Look!” he said, enthusiastically jabbing the paper with his index finger. On page two of The Evening Standard:

Werewolf Runs Amok in Ramsgate Cemetery, Kent

Tuesday October 10, 1978. Late visitors to the Ramsgate Cemetery received a startling surprise. At 6:45 p.m. near dusk, observers say the reputed werewolf made an appearance. The main witness (who has asked to keep her identity private) was laying flowers on her mother’s tomb; when she glanced up. At the edge of the graveyard, a man was staring at her intently. Unnerved, she watched as the man suddenly doubled over; dropping to his knees like he might be sick, groaning loudly. Cautiously, the concerned witness walked in the direction where the man had been standing minutes before; now shielded by headstones. As she approached, she was horrified by what she saw. A large bulky creature was kneeling on all fours, covered in thick coarse black hair. It turned, fixing its large yellow eyes on the witness; growling low in its chest. Terrified, the witness fled screaming loudly; running in fear of her life as the creature stood up on two legs and advanced rapidly. A pair of witnesses nearby heard the woman’s screams and hurried to her aid. They claimed to see a large beast in a frenzy, knocking over gravestones; chasing down the frightened woman. As quickly as the ordeal began, the creature turned in the opposite direction. With inhuman speed, it hurdled over tombstones and propelled itself over the cemetery wall into oncoming traffic; causing a minor traffic accident. Police were called to the scene to investigate. No arrests have been made.