Werewolf the Podcast: Werewolf in the Fairy Foundling Factory. (Episode 199)

Werewolf in the Fairy Foundling Factory. (Episode 198)

The Professor is trying and failing to get on with the job of sorting out what the heck is going on with the Fairies, particularly Foxglove. He is disrupted in his thoughts by a phone call from Inspector Gabriel Cárdenas, to whom he gives a strange but just answer. 

Wil the Werewolf wakes up in a factory for Fairy belief. Hundreds of children are made to repeat, 'I believe in fairies.' He also meets Gupsi, the poo stirrer. 

Grendel Press is our partner on this horror journey. 

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Choking on the Deadlight

by R.D. Nightshade

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Transcript

Werewolf in the Fairy Foundling Factory. (Episode 198)

The Professor is trying and failing to get on with the job of sorting out what the heck is going on with the Fairies, particularly Foxglove. He is disrupted in his thoughts by a phone call from Inspector Gabriel Cárdenas, To whom he gives a strange but Just answer. 

Wil the Werewolf wakes up in a factory for Fairy belief. Hundreds of children are made to repeat, 'I believe in fairies.' He also meets Gupsi, the poo stirrer. 

Grendel Press is our partner on this horror journey. 

Link: https://grendelpress.com

Choking on the Deadlight

by R.D. Nightshade

https://app.grendelpress.com/store/books/choking-on-the-deadlight

Please give us some support.

Buy us a coffee At this link right here:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/Werewolfwil

Buy a book about werewolves. Here it is, straight from a fang-filled mouth.

Il Lupo

Greg's first Werewolf book. Brilliantly written characters in an incredible story. 

https://amzn.to/4090lpy

A Werewolf's Story

https://amzn.to/3BjXoZu

Werewolf the Colouring Book.

What should I do this evening? Why not sit and do some Wonderful Werewolf colouring?  Red may be a theme.

https://amzn.to/40k93l6

Facebook Group

https://www.facebook.com/groups/werewolfthepodcast/

Greg's X profile:@SempaiGreg

Werewolf the Podcast:@AWerewolfsStoryWil

Distressing deaths and laughing at them. Werewolf the Podcast. The Serial Killer Drama.

Available on Podbean at the following link:

https://www.podbean.com/ew/dir-sgdak-18eef640.   

The Professor

I sit once more in my library in the Manor. My old mahogany desk is cluttered with books, half-burnt candles, and a half-empty glass of whisky. I sit before a piece of paper and start writing all I know about this Foxglove. I like this methodology. Put everything you know on a bit of paper and then draw the links between them. I would not be surprised if there is not some sort of software for this these days, but as you know, I like the old ways of dealing with the old... erm... world. 

I write what I know of her. Not a lot, really. Two bloody sentences. Hmm! Then, chewing slightly on my pencil, a bad habit I will vouch, I think about who I should talk to and what the issues with her are. 

(Phone rings Landline)

Hmm! Should have put that bloody thing off the hook as well. 

I set down my somewhat chewed pencil and reach for the receiver.

'Yes?' I say with a little more vehemence than was necessary.

'Professor de Montfort, this is Inspector Gabriel Cárdenas of the Paranormal Police Department in Mérida, Mexico. I need your expertise,' the voice on the other end was clipped, tense, and urgent. I smiled in response. I had an idea of what he was going to say. The last time I had helped out on the Yucatan Peninsula was in 1894. Hmmm! I have fond memories of that case, particularly of her. 

'Of course, Inspector. What seems to be the issue?'

'There's been an attack. Three men are dead.' I smiled. I knew exactly where this conversation was going. 

'Their bodies were found near the same ceiba tree outside the city. They all died the same way—faces twisted in terror, bodies showing no signs of struggle, yet completely drained of life.' I had a little laugh as I listened. I could sense the confusion over the line. I should not be laughing, should I? Men had died. 

'And witnesses? Anything unusual?' I asked.

'A few locals claim to have seen a woman in white—beautiful beyond belief. They say she lured the men into the jungle, and they never came back. Classic Xtabay behaviour.'

I allowed myself another slight smirk. 'Ah, so she's at work again.' The other end of the line went quiet as the Inspector tried to wrap his head around what I was saying. Should I not be concerned? I did not sound concerned. I was not concerned, to be honest. 

'You sound... unbothered, Professor,' the Inspector replied, sounding almost offended. 'This is a dangerous situation. We need to know how to stop her.'

'That depends,' I said as I filled my glass and swirled my whisky idly. 'Tell me, these men who died—who were they?' I took a sip.

'Erm... Just three local men. Do you need their names?' He asked.

'Oh, let me reword that. What type of men were they?'

Cárdenas hesitated, then sighed. 'Okay... ' Papers rustled on the other end of the line. I smiled. Paper records. Lovely. 

'One was an abusive father and a heavy drinker. He squandered his money on mezcal while his family starved.' Pause shuffling.

'The second was a big-time gambler with debts all over town and... the... The third? A notorious womaniser. He had a history of domestic violence, left a trail of broken homes behind him.' His voice trailed off as he realised these men were... not good men. 'Ah,' He finished. 

I barked out a laugh, leaning back in my chair. 'Ah indeed... I see. And you're calling me because…?'

'Because three people are dead.' Cárdenas said with almost an apologetic air. 'And if we don't act, there will be more.'

'Yes,' Simon said, amused. 'But let's be honest, Inspector—does it sound like she's killing at random?'

Silence. A long pause. Then, finally, the Inspector exhaled sharply. 'She? ...No.'

'Exactly. The Xtabay isn't a mindless killer. She punishes men who abuse, exploit, and degrade women. These weren't innocent men; they were marked by their own actions. So, unless you're worried about being next, I'd leave her to it.'

Silence on the line

Eventually, Cárdenas grumbled something under his breath. 'I still have to file a report.'

'Then write the truth,' I suggested, finishing my whisky. 'You have my backing. The higher-ups should really not mind her work. I am sure it is something that these... men deserve.'

'And if you're feeling particularly responsible, set up a fund for the families left behind. I'll send some money to help out.' I continued.

Another moment of silence as I could hear him think.

'... That's more than our government will do,' Cárdenas admitted.

'Then perhaps it's time to reconsider who the real monsters are.' I told him.

Silence again.

'Erm... are you still there, Cárdenas' I asked the handset.

'Yes... okay... Thank you, Simon.' Eventually came. 

'Well, I hope Olivia and the boys are well.' I said.

Again, a period of silence. I could tell the man was thinking about what to do as a result of this conversation.

'Cárdenas?' I asked.

'Oh... Yes, Alejandro is doing well at school, and Maria is the local football team captain.' He told me stiltedly, his mind on other things. 

'I will have to go, Simon. Thank you for your time.'

'No problem, always happy to help.' I realised I really had not, and with that, I hung up the phone, poured another drink, and raised my glass toward the shadows where I imagined the Xtabay might be listening to me. 

'Carry on, love,' I muttered. 'Seems you're doing just fine without me.' I said, taking a deep drink.

After the toast, I turned back to the desk and the piece of paper. 

Suddenly remembering the phone, I reached down to the wall socket and unplugged it. 

'Right, Foxlglove, let's see what you are up to.' I said to myself. 

Suddenly, Vaughnt was in front of me. Her cat-like eyes filled with concern.

The door was open, and she was standing just there. How did she do that? Just appeared.

I was going to chastise her for not knocking, but that face stopped me.

She signed for me 'visitors.'

'Oh, okay? Send them...'

She shook her head and silently sighed. Rolling her eyes dramatically.

'Unwanted!' She signed. Her body language with an exclamation mark linked to it. 

I smiled in response to this and downed my whisky.

'Well, I need to stretch my legs. Let's go and welcome them.' I told her; she gave a deep smile and wiggled happily at the thought of what would or could happen. 

I opened my top drawer and took out my thrice-blessed Browning Hi Power. With its silver hollow points and protective charms, it had stopping power for the Fae folk of a 50-cal. I mean, it would not only kill Fae. It would kill almost anything. I smiled as I hefted its weight and put one in the chamber.

Vaughnt had transformed into her human cat form when I was not paying attention. The Werecat now stood before me. Black pelted and oozing danger.

'Mwhaooo!' She said and then disappeared.

I laughed and made my way to the door, only stopping to take my arming sword from the Umbrella stand. I stood looking at it, then the gun. 

Again, I laughed as I placed the pistol on the dresser and swiped the sword back and forth a couple of times. 

'Well then.' I said to myself. 'Tally ho.'

Wil

I awake. Wow, that sounded properly dramatic, didn't it? I awake. I am, erm, being subjected to some sort of torture by sound. I keep my eyes closed and let my mind wander to the back of Fen's mind to see the world through his eyes and see where the fuck he is. Hopefully, he is close to me, so I can see what there is to see. He says nothing at my move into his head. I know he knows that I am there, but there is obviously some reason why he is not communicating with me. We know each other so well that I can make the guess that someone can listen into our mental conversations. That is why he is ignoring me. 

He is laid next to a large steel-built chair. It holds someone or something very tightly within it. I go back to my body for a moment to sense if anything is constricting me. Oh yes, that's probably me in the chair. Yep definitely.

Flashing back into the wolf's soul's head, I slowly start to use his eyes with his aid to look around the area. We are in a vast warehouse, and at one end of it is a giant cinema screen that is high up a wall. It is playing some sort of cartoon. It's a Disney cartoon. It's Peter Pan. I know I am a horrible beast, so why would I know anything about Peter Pan? But, anyone alive on this planet, especially in the western hemisphere, has been brainwashed by Disney, have they not. I would like to sound high fa looting and say that I recognised the content of the cartoon from the book written by Barrie. Although, that would also mean that I read children's books or have read children's books. Maybe if I had read Peter Pan as a child, I would have an excuse, but that is not the truth. I was almost middle-aged when I read Peter Pan and Harry Potter, and I don't give a shit if that's a bad thing for an adult to do. I really enjoyed them. I was rooting for Voldy and Hook. I think they got a bad rep. Voldy, especially. He was just looking after the magical creatures. You know, like werewolves. 

I lift Fen's head and look left and right to get some idea of what is going on in here. There are hundreds if not possibly more. Perhaps thousands of wooden chairs in this room, each with a child strapped into them.

I look at the kid next to me. He must be about, erm... Young. I have no idea. I don't really understand the concept of age and kids. I have nothing to do with them, really. Well, not beyond the small snack every now and again, but I can tell he is young because he is... er... small. 

He has a cloud of unkempt red hair. His eyes are rheumy as he stares at the screen. His mouth is constantly working, and he is saying something as he sits there. I can't make it out, but I sense in the cacophony that whatever it is, it is being said by many, many voices.

His head is held in some sort of metal device, so it can not be moved. It is being held, looking in the direction of the screen. The chair is quite high off the ground, and beneath it is a bucket-type thing. I look at the bucket, and I am instantly repulsed as I see it is full of shit. In revulsion, I take Fen's head away from this. I notice that the child's bottom half is naked. He just defecates and wees in the bucket when he needs to. Yummy.

Around his body is a web of leather straps that tie him tight. They seem to be very adjustable, but the boy can not move. I stand as the wolf soul and move to try to look in front of him. I am physically stopped as I meet a barrier of some kind. We, Fen and I, are in a giant soap bubble like thing. It is a thin film-like thing in the air that corruscates and moves as colours shift over it like the light over a starling wing or, more accurately, oil spilt on the surface of a puddle. Ah, Magic barriers again. I fucking hate these things. It must be. 

I look down at the ground from where the bubble extends to make sure it's magic. Yup, I see the evidence of the magic being used. The chair I sit in is at the centre of one of those pentagraminy starry things. I shake my head. Shit. Well, that is for future Fen and Wil to worry about.

I go back to looking at the young lad. His body is covered in sores. I realise these are compression sores where the straps and items of the chair have touched his skin for a significant length of time. Poor little bastard.

Poor little bastard? Poor little bastard? What the fuck is going on in my head. I am totally fucking sick of this shitty empathy thing. Fuck him. Let him die. Who cares. 

Well, for some reason, I do. I hate this fucking guilt lead emotional shit. 

Okay, okay, ignore that. Let's get more detail of what the fuck is happening in this place. Try to forget that I care a bit now. Hmmm! 

I notice that below the cinema screen, there are two black-robed figures wafting their arms around like conductors at a weird concert. Maybe they are directing the trapped victims in the words that they are saying. Who knows. Oh, flashing above the Cinema screen on the wall is a sentence.

'We believe in fairies,' It flashes at random in a violent green.

The two cloaked figures are hidden in voluminous cloaks that encase them. Normally, I could smell if they were human or not, but knowing what sits below these children's chairs, I am glad that the barrier does not allow any smells to cross it. I would be in a pungent hell.

The hands the cowelled creatures wave in a weird, monotonous manner are pale and wraith-like. That means very little to me though. If I had a deep supernatural knowledge, I would probably recognise what the cloaked things were. I just knew that they were stirring up some magic and bollocks. Hmm! 

As I look around, I notice a small green-skinned creature walking down the gap between my row of seats and the row before us. He is pushing a little cart with an old steel oil drum on top of it. He is mumbling his misery as he walks. God, he is fucking ugly. Green skin and gangly. His clothes hanging off him. I really have no idea what he is, but his red eyes never leave the little wooden rickety cart with the drum on it. The drum is taller than he is. He must be three feet high. As the oil drum gets closer, I notice that a bright light shines from the open top of it, and smoke pours from it like a bad mid-80s movie special effect. 

At each seat he passes, he pulls the bucket briefly from under the seat's owner and looks into it. He sniffs each, and his face sometimes wrinkles into disgust and a more disgusting shape. 

'Yucketh, Shitty, shitty. Poor Gupsi avin to clean up shitty human cubs.' He mutters.

'Fuckin Fairies...' Is all I recognise of the next sentence as it breaks into unintelligable mutter. 

He pulls the bucket from under the seat of the kid in the row before me. I can tell by its weight that it is obviously very full. I can hear it dangerously slop as it moves. He looks in and sighs. He steels himself for a moment before he peers in, closing one eye as he does so, trying to half protect himself from what he sees. 

'Shitty, shitty, shitty, piss shitty.' He says quietly and bitterly.

The barrel on the little truck is a little taller than him, so he has to carefully hoist the slopping bucket to a shoulder before getting it to the edge of the barrel. At its edge, he waits for a second to gather himself. He rests it there for a moment while adjusting his rotting garments, pulling down what was once a linen shirt to cover the bits that had been on the general display. 

'Furking nassti fucker kiddy, nastit horrid nasty.' He wipes his nose with the back of an overly long-fingered hand and reaches to carefully tip the contents of the bucket into the barrel. Once emptied, he slowly and carefully lowers the bucket, which he then looks into to carefully consider its remaining contents. 

'Fucking furker sticky shitty sticky. Hate flippin fur shit kids shit.' He does not seem happy at revealing its remaining contents, and he has a very controlled tantrum. An impressively self-contained tantrum. He obvioulsy does not want to show his emotional state to too many people? Things. 

He wanders around to the front of the crumbling wooden wheeled cart, mumbling. He swears bitterly as he lifts a horribly stained cloth that covers a compartment at the back of the little truck. I can tell it used to be cotton but has become so solid with... erm, whatever it is covered in that it is now a flap more than a cloth. 

Reaching into the space, he removes a large ladle. This is weirdly out of place in this setting as it is one of the plastic ones you get in modern kitchens. It seems so odd in the context of this creature. He lifts it and sets it on his shoulder as though it is some kind of weapon of war. He is proud of this ladle, and I can see that. 

Bimbling back to the pot, he carefully scrapes the ladle around the inside of the bucket, getting any of the remnants of the dark materials that are in there. This takes a lot of focus from the creature, and he lets his tongue come to the corner of his mouth and hang loose in concentration as he does it.

Once happy with his haul from literally scraping the bottom of the bucket, he carefully takes the ladle back to the barrel and puts its heaped contents into the bright light emanating from the top. 

As he leans forward, he slips slightly, and his empty hand touches the surface of the barrel as he tries to catch himself. He yelps in pain and, shaking it brings his hand back to his mouth and gives it a suck as he kicks the cart so hard that it moves a little. Kicking the cart elicits a new pain response as he now holds his toes and hops around on one foot. I laugh literally out loud at this. I catch ourself and hope that he cannot hear us laugh.

'Fucka fick der trut fur ti fucker.' He says quietly at the cart as though he is scolding it for what it has done to him. Perhaps he is. Who knows? The cart might be sentient, who the fuck knows. 

Why am I going into so much detail about this character? Well, I am fascinated by him at this moment, and he may become some great part of the wider story arc that we create, or he may just be killed in the next moment. It's called character building, and this is one heck of a character. 

Finally, he casts the ladle back into the space in the cart and closes the curtain... flap. He then looks at the barrel with something like hate before getting a piece of cloth and touching some kind of symbol scrawled on the side of the drum with his cloth-covered hand.

What is he? I wonder? A goblin, maybe, a Gremlin? No, Gremlins fuck things up, don't they?... The light goes out in the barrel at his touch, and the noise of an old-fashioned chain-pull toilet can be heard. As the barrel is flushed, it rattles on its truck Then, after a few moments, the sound goes and the light returns. Hmmm! I think that is something magical or something, I guess. See, I recognise magical things too. It's easy 

Having been a little distracted by the little creature, I get back into greater consideration of my surroundings, but then my attention goes back to the little creature as its grumbling volume increases. I look back at it, I see it is dunking what seems like a small mop into another little bucket on the cart and rinsing it out. He... It has to be a he. Even nature would not be that unkind to make this thing a she. Then he takes the now emptied shit bucket and the little mop back to the seat he had just taken said shit bucket from. What was he going to do with the mop? Oh, oh. Oh, no. Please no. 

He does not need to bend to look at the bottom at the bottom of the seat. It is more or less at eye level. He places the bucket back and looks up at the... the. And, with a look of disgust, he gets the little mop and uses it to... Yes, you can imagine. Maybe you should not imagine it. I fucking don't know. I am sure that there are laws against imagining childrens... 

I have not been concentrating and now realise that I am now behind my own eyes, which are open in my own head. I am no longer in the wolf's. I had not noticed this transfer of consciousness. Shit.

My head is not fixed like the other esteemed members of the tied-in seats gang. So I had turned my head to look at the little green thing as it worked.

I was slightly impressed that the thing had, had the decency to turn his head away from what he was doing while he did it. He lifted the mop and cleaned with his eyes closed whilst facing his head away from the... erm... job he was doing.

As he did... his mini mopping... erm...this. He cringed and stuck his tongue out.

'Hyuck, cablooey, yucky.' it said

I smiled, but the thing had stopped its cleaning and was standing stiff like a statue. Its little red eyes with the cat-like irises were locked on mine. Its face was frozen. Then, a huge, pointed-tooth grin spread across its face as it giggled, malice in its eyes.

'Awakey thenny.' It said smugly. Dropping its little mop to the floor and bringing its hand to its hips while trying to stick out its pigeon chest. I noticed at this point that what he wore was a sort of uniform. 

Only when he turned towards me could I see that he had a huge shiny gold star on the front of it. It was the only thing that was buffed and clean on the whole creature. He was showing it off. He was proud of it. In little letters, it had the word Sherrif. 

I laughed at the primping nature of the little beast. 

'Did you get the star for being the best shit cleaner upperer?' I asked.

The little thing considered this. It took some time to do, and I could see by his body language that he had to think deeply about this. 

When he had thought about it, he stood to attention and nodded proudly, pointing to his shiny star. 

'Bestest shit stirrer.' It said.

I laughed. Its little head fell, and it looked really disappointed in my reaction. Again, I felt guilty? What the fuck am I feeling that for?

Eventually, after some snivelling, it snapped back to attention and looked at me in such a maliciously evil way that it made me reel a little in my seat. 

'Gupsi move shit. You wolfy man in it deep. Upto neck. Maybe deeper.' It said happily. 

'You see. You see. Mock Gupsi, would you? You drown in poo. Hah!' It said and smirked as it turned its head down the aisle.

'Miss Foxglove!' It yelled in a crackly little voice as it turned and ran down the aisle, using its long, gangly arms and little legs like some type of chimpanzee or gorilla. 

'Miss Foxglove!'

'Ah fuck Foxglove! Of course.'