Elsa: She-Werewolf of the S.S.

by Ross T. Byers

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You spent the last decade turning yourself into a monster. You frequently find yourself wondering whether monstrousness is something you forced upon yourself to better fit your environment, or if instead you were a monster all along whose environment allowed you to finally emerge from hiding. More and more, you believe the latter to be the case. But you are merely a monster in service to a greater monster, invincible and mighty, which rolled over the continent, subjugating all.

Despite how despicable and depraved you know yourself to be, your conscience never left you. It has wheedled you through these many years, eating at your self-worth like a worm at the core of an apple and poisoning your dreams. It conjures up, at the most inopportune times, memories of your most bestial acts, such as when you gunned down a cowering family on a street in Warsaw, or that time you let your men have their way with a woman before bashing in her skull and prying out her gold teeth. Yes, you know all the terrible things you’ve done under the aegis of the Reich really mean nothing. All the violence, the domination, has left a hole inside that will plague you to your grave.

It is with the twin goals of forgetting your troubles for a while and building camaraderie with your men that you lead them into the brothel in the Bavarian countryside. In particular you seek the company of beautiful Elsa. No other woman can match her – not your wife, not your young mistress, not the many women, faceless and interchangeable in your memories, whom you used to satiate your desires. Elsa shines in your thoughts, a beacon, a flawless diamond. You visited her here before you left for the war, and you return whenever you have the chance.

What you did not expect was that, sometime between your last visit and now, all the women working there had become werewolves.

Even as a monster yourself, even with all the brutal, unforgivable, heinous things you’ve seen and done, you could never have imagined the carnage on display around you. One werewolf holds her fist in the air, its gray fur matted with blood, young Werner’s penis limp and dangling from between her claw-tipped fingers. Werner himself lies on the floor, screaming as his life spurts from his mutilated groin. Another of the wolves pulls long glistening ropes of intestines from the gash her claws slashed through Holstein’s stomach. Weiswurst’s arms have been ripped off and thrown to hang dripping from the rafters. Yet another pins Klemperer against the wall, and he screams as she nibbles off his cheeks. You stand in the midst of this tableau of gore, untouched but stunned.

But Elsa, beautiful, perfect Elsa, stands before you in a diaphanous white negligee. She sports no lupine features, though her smile bares her teeth in a way that is perhaps more feral than you remember. She takes your hand and leads you, too numb to resist, deeper into the brothel. As she takes you down the corridor you see Kunstmeister through a partially closed door. He is on all fours, a bit and bridle between his teeth, a saddle on his back, and a horse tail plugged in his arse. A small werewolf is mounted on the saddle, and she whips Kunstmeister with her riding crop. He screams out a whinny. As you pass you see her lower her fangs to the back of his neck. You don’t see what happens next, but his screams follow you down the corridor.

Elsa leads you to an unoccupied room. She takes you over to the wide bed and lays you on your back. You stare at the ceiling and let everything happen. The will to fight what is coming is gone, if you ever felt it. She undoes your tie and collar, tosses the tie to the corner of the room. Elsa disrobes. Her body is as perfect as you remember it, but her head is a shaggy gray wolf’s. She leans over you and lowers her muzzle. You lift your chin to expose your throat to her. She takes it with a snap of her jaws.

You choke and gurgle, suddenly cut off from air. Elsa swallows, then raises her bloodied muzzle towards the ceiling and howls. Other howls answer from elsewhere in the bordello. As Elsa lowers her head and bites a hole to your guts, as your blood pools and darkness creeps in from the edges of your vision, you realize this is what you’ve ached for: to throw off the mantle of monster and finally be the one who is consumed.

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When not writing, ROSS T. BYERS lurks beneath your bed and feeds on your nightmares.  If you value your sanity do not visit rosstbyers.com or follow him on Twitter @RTByers. 

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