The cold, hard facts are these: There have been five murders in the past five months; of the last two, we can pinpoint the time of the murders to the night of a full moon, the other three we’re less certain of but they were also committed around the time of a full moon; and finally, at each crime scene physical evidence of an animal, of hair and footprints, the body torn as if by claws and teeth—it all leads on to the conclusion that the local legend of a werewolf has come to life in the twentieth century.
But this is preposterous. So I say. Yet, what do we do in the face of the preposterous? My own supposition, of which I have no hard evidence, is that the murders are a smokescreen of some sort. My instinct tells me that we are facing a facsimile, though my own dogged search has produced nothing concrete in this regard. All the evidence sides against my guts on this.
We must therefore play this murderer’s game. He is either insane—unlikely; an insane man could not hide the evidence so well—or has some reason, a reason beyond merely covering up his crimes, to perpetuate an age old myth.
Yet, as far as we can tell, there is no reason, nothing connecting all these girls besides living in this small town. Nothing connecting them but everything. We are, in a sense, drowned in meaningless connections: They all went to the same school, as has everybody else, all shop at the same stores, like everyone else, and this whole small town seems so horribly interconnected that if all these connections were strands of yarn, I could weave a blanket!
Against my better judgment, I am left with one recourse; I must now hunt a werewolf.
Tale Told 