They say, "the blood remembers," but they have no idea how well or how far back it can remember. Frank’s blood remembered well; all the way back to January of 1792, all the way to Provence, to that night when Michel Petit had, once more, way too much to drink. It remembered the urge, it remembered the smells, and it remembered the sheer terror of every act. What it failed to remember, what it didn’t carry across generations, was not to fall asleep on a crowded bus on a night of the full moon; to get off before the sun had completely set. To run for the hills. But we will get to that…

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Michel Petit caught his coat sleeve on a nail as he staggered through the door of the inn after being thrown out. He was the last patron left, again, and the innkeeper was getting tired of serving him. When it turned out that he hadn’t the coin to cover his bill, again, the innkeeper chased him off; again. "Michel the Sponge" they’d call him, because he could just keep on drinking for hours on end. He stumbled along the pathway leading to the edge of town, using the fences along the way for balance. He’d forgotten his glasses at the inn and his vision was blurry. When he reached the last house on the road and ran out of fence, he fell, and the journey would have to continue on all fours for a while. He crawled through bushes and tall grass into the very opening of the adjacent woods, where he fell asleep on a muddy patch of moss. He remained like that for a few hours, until something woke him from his torpor. Was it cannon fire? A dream? Oh, God, his mouth was drier than a basket of wool. Half in delirium, he dabbed his fingers in a puddle several times and wetted his lips and tongue, then drank a handful of the dirty water. It accomplished nothing, aside from making his mouth taste like mud. He spat and scratched his itchy beard. He tried to adjust his glasses but remembered that he didn’t have them. Chantal would be furious; again. She’d have to go to the tavern in the morning to get his spectacles and cover his bill, again, then throw him out on his ass, again, until he’d come crawling to her and beg. That was fine, he had practiced crawling tonight. What difference would a bit more of it make? He straightened up as well as he could and tried to walk the rest of the way home. It started snowing. Behind him, the first full moon of January was reflected in the puddle he'd just drunk; it was shaped like the paw of a really large wolf.

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Chantal was sitting alone in her small living room. It had been a month since she threw Michel out of the house. She had not forgiven him this time. He drank away her weekly salary, and she was tired of apologizing for him and paying his debts. On top of that, he’d also lost at cards, a new vice he’d added to the collection. Fortunately, Maurice let the debt slide when he realized that she’d have to pay for it. Maurice had a heart of gold… for a criminal. He could have insisted on the debt being covered one way or the other; made her do things she’d not dare confess come Sunday. But he was decent. More decent than the man who took her heart once, and then just kept taking her money and her youth. She was reading by the fireplace but could barely make out the words. A candle was out of the question until she’d balanced her budget again. Outside it was getting darker and colder by the day as winter was in full swing, and keeping the fire alight in the evenings already cost much. Too much for a woman whose earnings had ended up in the innkeeper’s purse one time too many.

 

She was getting sleepy, so she’d call it a night as soon as she was done with this chapter. She yawned, rubbed her eyes and stretched. She heard a strange sound at the door, like a scratching at first, then a thud. For a moment it was quiet, then someone pounded really hard. Who could it be at this hour, this far from the village? Her house had been a ways away from the rest, on the outskirts of the forest. It was all she was able to afford with her small inheritance, one income and two hungry mouths, one of which was also thirsty all the time. Could it be that Maurice had changed his mind? Or was it… Oh no, it wouldn’t be him, back to beg for forgiveness one more time? She’d been strong three times now. She’d endure it again. Just as she was about to ask who it was, the pounding turned into slamming. She gasped. Someone threw their body against the door with full force. Once. Twice. Three times. The door exploded into a hail of wooden shrapnel, and in the wide frame, hunched forward, was a dark, growling figure. The full moon lit it from behind, revealing only its silhouette. It was some sort of animal - too slim for a bear, but what other animal stood upright? Her hands became clammy and all warmth left her body. Whatever it was, it moved toward her. It moved fast; too fast. Her scream echoed through the night and was heard by no one.