Werewolf the Podcast. Misdirection (Episode 236)

Belphastus makes his play.

The Professor's Pressing Matter: Episode 191: Werewolf The Podcast - A Serial Killer Drama (Short Stories for Halloween by Gregory Alexander Sharp Book 3)

Find at the link below.

https://amzn.to/47expjw

Please check out Odin Apparel for amazing Viking-themed kits and our T-shirts. Preorder it now at this link.

https://odinapparel24.myshopify.com/collections/werewolf-a-serial-killer-podcast

The Old Man's Podcast:

The writing duo speak to the Old Man himself. Go check us out on his award-winning Podcast.

https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast/the-old-mans-podcast/id1595940192?i=1000708626677

Grendel Press, our horror genre partner

https://grendelpress.com/

Grendel's very own cool Podcast.

https://grendelpress.com/sinister-soup. 

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://books2read.com/ILLUPO

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

Intro partnership with Grendel Press.

https://grendelpress.com/

Outro partnership with Grendel Press.

https://grendelpress.com/

Transcript

Mystery of the Missing Heart

by J.M Tilbury

The P.I.T. Crew is back—and this time, the monsters are playing for keeps. When a string of bizarre disappearances grips Northern California, Dr. Darrell Diamond back and his ragtag team of supernatural sleuths—nicknamed "the A-Team of the paranormal realm"—are pulled into a deadly game of obsession, betrayal, and eldritch horror. As a seductive black widow spirit hunts her prey, star reporter Jaiden Fox vanishes in the misty depths of the Siskiyou Forest… only to be captured by a tribe of sasquatches guarding an ancient, flesh-eating death spirit.

With the world unraveling and the stakes higher than ever, the PIT Crew must split up to stop the chaos from spreading. But when urban legends come alive and love is used as a weapon, the real threat may lie within the bonds that hold them together.

Author J.M. Tilbury delivers another razor-sharp blend of dark humor, high-octane thrills, and bone-deep chills in the second installment of the Tales from the P.I.T. Crew series. Fans of The X-Files, Supernatural, and Hellboy won't want to miss this pulse-pounding paranormal mystery.

Eleanor rigby

The door to Professor de Montfort's office always unsettled me.

Not because it was old — everything at the University was old — but because it never felt like a door so much as a boundary to a less servicable reality.

A crossing. 

Something that separated the rational world from whatever impossible realm the Professor inhabited with such maddening composure.

Wing Commander Fortescue rapped his knuckles against the wood once. Sharp. Decisive. And spoiled the moment of reverence with one of his English veteran harumphs.

'Brace yourself, Rigby,' he murmured dryly. 'He's in one of his moods. I know you couldn't give a twisted fig, Wil, but try and... not be... you.'

Wil shifted beside me, the leather of his coat creaking softly as he adjusted his stance and smirked. 

He looked oddly subdued, like a reprimanded schoolboy trying very hard not to attract attention.

The door opened.

Warm air drifted out, carrying the faint scent of incense, parchment, and something sweetly floral I couldn't quite identify.

The Professor stood framed by towering bookcases and cluttered oak desks, spectacles perched on his nose, as though he'd been expecting us every second of our absence. He glanced at his watch.

'You're later than anticipated,' he said mildly. 'And the wards have been humming since noon.'

'Good afternoon to you, too, Professor,' Monty replied huffily, stepping inside without ceremony. 

'May I present Eleanor Rigby, Wil and Fen. Alive. In some cases, irritatingly so. Which we'll consider a resounding success for me. Obviously, no need to thank me.' He said, directing a barb at the Professor.

I offered a small, awkward smile.

Hello, Professor. Sorry.'

His expression softened in a way that felt genuine.

'Please don't worry. Once you hear the nature of our business, you will understand that it means little as we stand at the edge of another bloody apocalypse.'

Wil muttered, 'You didn't mention the apocalyptic bit last time.'

The Professor offered a warm smile to the Werewolfy man. He actually likes the... thing.

'As always, Wil, if what is it you say, the shit hits the fan, I need your psychopathic nature to help. Even if it just reassures me that a thing that neither Hell nor Heaven wants must be able to unsettle even angels.'

The Professor gestured for me to go further inside. As Wil looked away, I saw the Professor's face change. A moment of fury. I could see he was angry with the man, but he kept it in check.

And that was when I noticed them.

The others.

There were too many people for the space's quiet sanctity.

Ben Johnson stood near the far desk, hands in pockets, looking exactly like someone who had wandered into a supernatural nightmare while on his way to buy a sandwich.

He gave me a polite nod — the expression of a man who had long since abandoned the concept of 'normal day.'

'Sula Abda' was seated near the old window, calm and still, her eyes observant, serene, as though everything that terrified me was simply weather to her. 

When our gazes met, she inclined her head gently — a gesture so full of quiet depth that I felt inexplicably humbled.

These were only people I had read about and seen as photographs in my studies. My studies that had now become... real.

And then…

There was him... I have never seen any man so utterly beautiful. He was mesmerising. 

He smiled at me and winked, then Erm. Erm... His image flickered and changed to that of a she. I shook my head to see if I was seeing things.

'What?' I say, but the... erm, the now she shakes her head in response to my question. It was a dismissal of a kind. Explaining with eye contact that I did not want to know.

'It's easier like this.' She... she said. 'Humans find gender... strangely confusing.'

I stood with my mouth hanging open with such confusion.

She was leaning casually against a bookshelf. Dark hair, cool eyes, an almost lazy amusement curling her lips like she'd wandered into a dull meeting rather than the Professor's heavily warded sanctum.

She looked… human. Beautiful. Even faintly bored. Like someone waiting to be entertained.

The Professor cleared his throat.

'Miss Rigby, allow me to introduce—'

'Prepare yourself, young lady,' interrupted the Wing Commander.

The Professor smiled in acknowledgement of Monty's statement before his eyes flicked toward the woman.

'—Luci-fer.'

The word landed inside me like ice.

I actually laughed — a soft, surprised sound, completely inappropriate.

'I'm sorry?' I said. 'You said… Lucifer.'

'Yes,' the woman replied smoothly, straightening. 'That would be me.'

I stared.

At her hands. Her casual stance. The subtle irritation in her eyes was like someone being interrupted in the middle of a very long day.

'The Devil?' I ventured weakly.

She laughed, then smiled a terrifying but seductive smile, slow and almost fond.

'Technically, yes.'

I turned helplessly to look at Monty.

He was pouring tea with a broad grin showing beneath his manicured moustache.

'Told you.' He said before adding a squeeze of lemon to his cup.

Wil was examining a strange artefact on the side table.

Ben nodded politely to Lucifer as if she were just another guest.

Sula was regarding her nails as if bored.

No one screamed.

No one fainted.

No alarms went off.

No one attempted holy water, crucifixes, or even slightly concerned breathing.

It was casual. Casual like discussing the weather.

'You're all incredibly calm about this,' I whispered, finally.

Monty glanced up.

'What? Lucifer? Yes. The lady has been here three times this week. She's quite punctual.' He raised a cup of tea to offer to... Lucifer. To... Lucifer. She waved her hand and shook her head in response, and lifted a brow. 

'You know I only drink the blood of unborn babies and virgins sacrificed by my bleak covens.' She smiled as the Wing Commander smiled.

'Sorry, Waitrose were out of both, but you should try this Darjeeling, my dear. It's divine.' He was joking around with the... Devil. The Devil.

'Oh, and I have been here four times this week. You keep forgetting Monday.'

'Oh, good heavens, was that you? I assumed that was just the moral decay and decline of all civilisation.'

I swallowed hard.

'You’re… really…'

I gestured vaguely in Lucifer's direction.

'The Devil.'

She sighed.

'Such an unfriendly title. I prefer 'cosmic administrator of consequence. Call me Luci'

That didn't help. In my mind, I wondered what that meant and held back my student mentality to ask follow-up questions.

'Right,' I breathed. 'Right. Of course.'

My mind tried — and immediately failed — to find a rational foothold.

'Don't worry. You may get to find such circumstances as these to become routine.' Said the Professor.

'May' in that sentence worried me.

Ben and Sula smiled in acknowledgement of the statement.

Yes okay. Act professional, Eleanor. This was all routine. 

More alarm bells rang beneath my carefully cultivated calm exterior. 

The words' This will become routine!' blasted through my mind. Routine! That's the Devil. 

My entire understanding of good and evil, religion, morality, theology… all quietly collapsed beneath the weight of her very relaxed presence.

'You're surprisingly… normal,' I blurted.

Lucifer smirked.

'So are you.' She said, looking inside me. I flinched. 

My mind had felt like it had been very quickly rummaged through. 

Her eyes stayed on me.

I tried to ignore them. 

Well, I tried, but imagine you had the Devil not looking at you, but into you. Routine?

The others started a conversation that we had obviously derailed on our entry.

Discussing wards. Sigils. The false Michael. 

Lucifer thankfully looked away and stood near the bookshelves, arms folded, her expression unreadable but edged with something dangerously thoughtful. 

Wil hovered near the desk, restless. He seemed bored with everything and everyone. 

He picked up something from the Professor's desk. A small rosewood box, which he attempted to open but was gently stopped by the Professor, who retrieved it from his hand without a word and returned it from where it came. 

Ben leaned against the wall. Nonchalant.

Sula was seated in still contemplation, eyes half-lidded as if listening to something more profound.

Wing Commander Fortescue cleared his throat.

'Right,' he said, settling into his chair. 

'For the sake of clarity: we are all currently proceeding under the assumption that the insurrectionist is the actual Archangel Michael.'

Lucifer exhaled slowly through her nose.

'Don't say it like you're discussing a faulty washing machine, Fortescue.'

'I assure you, I reserve my deepest disdain for the military equipment I least understand,' he replied calmly.

She smirked in response as she regarded him.

The Professor returned to his chair at his desk, rolled it, and rolled himself under the ancient wooden thing, before steepling his fingers.

'If Michael is indeed attempting to dethrone you,' he said, glancing toward Lucifer with academic concern, 'then we are facing a theological catastrophe the Church has never even allowed itself to imagine.'

I gulped.

'And he'd want Hell because…?' I asked.

The Professor nodded gravely, as if I had asked the most correct and most terrifying question possible. 

I actually felt a moment of clarity and understanding before I remembered the Devil was standing a couple of yards away from me.

'Ah. Yes. Why would the champion of Heaven wish to reign in Hell?' The Professor asked.

He stood and walked toward one of the older bookcases — the ones no one except him touched. 

The books were locked behind glass, which he opened with a small key.

'Because,' he continued, voice darkening, 'in the earliest strata of Judaic-Christian doctrine, Hell was not originally a kingdom of punishment. It was a domain of custodianship.'

Lucifer smirked faintly.

'Caretaker of divine failure,' she murmured. 'That was the original job description, yes.'

The Professor took a heavy, worm-eaten volume bound in cracked leather from where it nestled like a roosting bird between its brethren.

'In the oldest iterations of Abrahamic theology — before the New Testament softened the language — Hell was not ruled by a rebel. It was governed by appointment.'

He opened the book carefully with reverence. It was almost as if he were welcoming an old friend. I know it's a strange description of a man opening a book, but it felt like that.

'In the Book of Jubilees, the Testament of Solomon, and fragments of the First Book of Enoch not canonised by Rome, the 'Adversary' was never meant to be a rebel monarch. He was a warden. A balancing principle. A celestial executioner.'

Lucifer inclined her head.

'And I was exceptionally good at it.'

There was now a cat. An evil green-eyed black cat. Where did the cat come from? 

There was a little black cat now nestling against the... Devil's ankles where nothing had been seconds ago.

I opened my mouth to ask, but was given a shake of the head by her... Satanicness. Another suggestion to not ask.

Wil broke my focus as he muttered, 'It's… comforting to know that you were a good devil.' 

He grinned as though he had said something clever and acknowledged the empty space next to him where his invisible wolf soul must have been standing. 

I could not hear it, but I could feel its laughter.

'It gets worse, old chap,' Monty assured him.

The Professor paced now, warming into scholarly dread.

'There exists an ancient theory — labelled heretical in 397 A.D. — that the Archangel Michael was originally designated as the final Judge of Fallen Things. Not merely demons… but of Heaven itself.'

Ben frowned.

'I'm sorry — did you just say Michael judging Heaven?'

'Indeed,' the Professor replied. 'A role too grave, too absolute. The Council of Nicaea ensured such language was expunged, but traces remain in the Roman and Ethiopian canons.'

He gestured to a passage.

(quoted passage)

'And Michael, who knoweth the weight of flame and the sorrow of dust, shall one day stand above both Kingdom and Pit, and decide which shall endure.'

Silence fell.

Lucifer's expression tightened.

'So he believes,' she said quietly, 'that by taking my throne, he inherits the authority to reshape damnation itself.'

The Professor nodded.

'Yes. CONTROL Hell, and you do not merely govern punishment.'

'You redefine consequence.'

'You rewrite the nature of sin.'

Monty exhaled severely. Not a Harumph.

'Which would give him theological dominion over the entire moral gravity of mankind.'

'Bingo,' Lucifer said darkly.

Sula spoke for the first time, voice like falling ash.

'In the unclean scrolls of Qumran, there is named a doctrine called The Crucible Crown. It states that the masterof the abyss may one day rise to absolute sovereignty over the tree of judgement itself.'

The Professor's eyes flicked to her.

'And it states that such a ruler would no longer punish the wicked — but harvest the faithful.'

My breath hitched.

'You're saying if Michael takes Hell…?'

'He doesn't punish evil anymore,' Lucifer finished. 'He weaponises righteousness.'

Monty sat very still.

'Good God.'

Lucifer tilted her head.

'He would become not the Angel of Defence, but the Angel of Divine Correction. No mercy. No nuance.'

The Professor's voice became almost reverent with fear.

"If Michael sits the Throne of Hell, the following happens:

• Redemption becomes impossible

• Free will collapses under absolute obedience

• The concept of moral struggle ends

• Human suffering becomes refinement

• Faith becomes currency

• God's mercy becomes functionally obsolete.'

He looked around the room.

'You would not be living under a merciful divinity.

You would be living under celestial law.'

Ben swallowed hard.

'And that's worse?'

Lucifer laughed softly, bitter as winter.

'Oh yes. You can negotiate with Evil. You can bargain with sin. You can survive moral ambiguity.'

Her gaze sharpened.

'But a Heaven that no longer forgives?

That's tyranny wearing light.'

Monty folded his arms.

'So what you're telling us is… the Devil on the throne is preferable to Heaven's most loyal general.'

Lucifer gave a thin smile.

'I do my best work within all the shades of grey.'

The Professor straightened.

'In short: if Michael assumes Hell's throne, existence becomes a system — not a story. No sin, no forgiveness. Only compliance.'

Silence.

The air felt colder.

I held myself. Trying to comfort my thoughts

'So… he's not trying to dethrone Lucifer because he hates her?' I asked.

'No,' the Professor replied.

'He wants her throne because it is the last place God cannot fully control.'

Lucifer's eyes flicked toward the window, distant.

'And Michael has always been uncomfortable with anything that thinks for itself.'

Monty stood slowly.

'Well. That's terribly reassuring. A heavenly coup... Again.'

He glanced around the room.

'So we're in agreement.'

'If Michael truly seeks Hell's crown… then the Devil remaining in charge may be the only thing standing between humanity and eternal bureaucracy.'

Lucifer raised an eyebrow.

'I'll take that as a compliment.'

And somewhere in the silence of the office, a faint tremor passed through the wards — soft, expectant, ominous.

As though something holy had just leaned closer to listen.

Belphastus the Unclaimed

I am not meant for this bastarding room.

This festering little cell of damp wallpaper and municipal despair was not fashioned for a mind such as mine. 

The mould crawls like a slow green scripture along the skirting boards, and the air tastes faintly of rust, mildew, and crushed ambition — yet still I endure.

Because greatness, true greatness, is forged in indignity.

The ignorant would call this a bedsit.

I call it my chrysalis.

A pipe weeps behind the wall. 

The radiator ticks in arrhythmic apology. 

My breath fogs before my face as I tighten the third layer of wool around my shoulders. 

The gas meter stares at me accusingly, but it will not receive tribute today. I refuse to fund the infrastructure of mediocrity.

Across the room, Hal E. Tosis shuffles with all the grace of a miscarried alchemical experiment, bearing the saucepan like a sacred chalice.

'Thoup is heated, Martha,' he croaks reverently.

Excellent. Warm sustenance for the future sovereign of Hell. 

Let historians argue how many tyrants have supped cream of tomato soup from a pan in preparation for apotheosis.

I take the pan without comment and inhale deeply.

Tinned. Unseasoned. Heroic.

I lower myself onto the edge of my bed — which sags like a tired conscience — and open the true instrument of my ascension: The Ninth Gate and the Throne of Thorns. Its pages glow faintly in the sallow yellow light, as though recognising their rightful reader.

Yes. This is how empires are unmade.

Elsewhere, far more palatial and unbearably smug, Professor de Montfort will be pacing, no doubt quoting grim doctrine and stroking his chiselled chin while Lucifer and her stumbling entourage circle the phantom enemy I have so graciously provided.

The feather.

The book.

The heavenly masquerade.

Michael, brilliant, terrible Michael — such a convenient decoy. 

Let them fear celestial righteousness. Let them imagine divine revolution. Let Lucifer grow paranoid, defensive, and invested.

She will depart Hell soon.

And when she does, the Pit shall notice its true Master approaching.

Me.

Hal hovers anxiously as I sip, his damp little eyes gleaming with admiration.

'They chase Angels, yes?' he gargles.

'They RUN after him, Hal,' I correct. 'Like moths to a cathedral.'

I glance up, irritation briefly piercing my composure. 

'Do not slurp. It unsettles the atmosphere of ambition.'

He bows his malformed head.

'I have distracted the greatest minds of our age with the mere whisper of Absolution Gone Mad. While they scream Heavenward, I descend. A classic manoeuvre, really. Textbook misdirection. They shall write dissertations on my elegance.'

Another spoonful. 

Slightly metallic. Lovely.

I glance around my sanctum: the peeling wallpaper, the damp-stained carpet, the charity-shop curtains that fail heroically to block the glow of a flickering security light outside.

It is temporary.

All of it.

Soon, the mould will be replaced with obsidian. The scent of mildew exchanged for brimstone and reverence. My current crystal orb (a cracked snow globe from Barnardo's) shall be commemorated as a symbol of humble origin.

The book grows warm beneath my fingers as I read the sacred lines:

And the Pretender shall cloak the void with the cadence of the true sovereign, and the gates shall part if the lie is sung with certainty.

Ah. Certainty. The most overlooked tool of empire.

I know her voice. 

I know the rhythm of her disdain. 

I have stalked her dominion since Babylon learned to blister rises into bricks. 

I have watched how demons react to her passing. 

I have studied the way Hell leans when she speaks.

I shall become her echo.

I shall walk her mannerisms into the Pit until the fires bow. 

Authority, after all, is merely theatre with consequences.

I laugh softly at the delicious paradox of it: me, wrapped in two jumpers and a ceremonial shawl, plotting to dethrone the very embodiment of damnation.

Hal lets out a pleased wheeze, like wet applause.

The soup pan warms my hands as I close my eyes.

I see it now — my coronation.

The gates of Hell yawning open, vast and obedient. Legions prostrate in awe. 

The throne, black as unbearable truth, awaits my silhouette. 

I extend a hand, and flame kneels. 

Even Lucifer herself, aghast, will understand the perfection of the moment.

Belphastus no longer Unclaimed.

Belphastus Resplendent.

Belphastus the Necessary.

Belphastus, Lord of Final Accounting.

I open my eyes.

A spider crawls across the skirting board.

The ceiling drips into my nearly finished soup.

I remove the spider with the back of my spoon and continue eating.

Greatness requires sacrifice.

My breath rattles slightly. 

The windows rattle harder. 

Somewhere below, a neighbour coughs violently and calls someone a wanker.

Hal adjusts the blanket around my knees with the tenderness of something created only to adore.

'Soon, Master will be a warm-blooded ruler,' he croons.

'Soon, Hal,' I whisper, eyes blazing with devotion to my own legend. 

'Soon I shall sit where even Satan dared not overextend her lumbar region.'

I rise slowly, every joint protesting the absence of heating, and spread my arms as far as the pitiful dimensions of the room allow.

'Remember this moment, Hal. The cold before Inferno. The damp before dominion. The bedsit before the abyss.

A bit of ceiling plaster drops onto my shoulder.

I brush it away as if it were holy ash.

They shall speak of my cunning. 

They shall marvel at my patience. 

They shall record how I crafted a celestial war merely so I might stroll unopposed into eternity's state of power.

And when history sings my name, they will forget the smell of this room, the soup, the threadbare knitwear, the wheezing cooker.

They will forget how Belphastus the Unclaimed once feared a gas bill.

They will remember only this:

That greatness was born in mildew.

And that Hell fell silent when I arrived.

I drain the last of my soup in a triumphant slurp and smile.

'Soon,' I tell the dripping ceiling.

'Soon.'

Hal applauds... wetly.