“He’s got an awful way about him, he has!” Chappy shrieked, waving his cane out in front of him, barely able to remain upon his feet. His eyes were wild like angry gray storm clouds swollen and brimming with tears. His hair was a wiry wreck, deliberately neglected and exceptionally coarse and unkempt. No one could have imagined what he would say next: “I know where he buried her... I know where to find Johanna.”
“Johanna Schierling?” I asked. “The girl who was found dead yesterday in South Side?”
“That’s the one,” he howled just as his face erupted in hair, and with seconds, he was fully transitioned into his dangerous, feral state: a werewolf. Sometimes, when he was afflicted with lycanthropy, it helped to play a game. He could still understand and reason but he was far more perceptive when treats are involved, so I carried his favorite beef jerky in my pocket when I learned he would be in my charge.