Werewolf Cellmate Horror: A Killer Meets the Devil | Supernatural Thriller Podcast (Episode 247)

A man is locked in a police cell… but his cellmate isn’t human.

In this chilling episode of Werewolf the Podcast, a terrified killer is placed in a holding cell with something far worse than prison: a calm, calculated werewolf who treats murder like a minor inconvenience.

What follows is brutal, darkly humorous, and deeply unsettling.

But the horror doesn’t end there.

As the body hits the floor, a new presence arrives—Lucifer herself, watching, judging, and offering something far more dangerous than death: a deal.

A fight in Hell.

A test against a demon general.

And a chance to become something even worse.

This episode blends supernatural horror, psychological tension, and dark humour into a gripping serialized thriller.

🎧 Perfect for fans of:

• Werewolf stories
• Supernatural horror podcasts
• Dark comedy thrillers
• Lucifer and demon mythology
• Violent, character-driven audio drama

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Transcript

Eleanor Rigby

'I'm terribly sorry, Wil, but the book is quite clear on the matter.'

The Professor adjusted his spectacles with all the gravity of a man preparing to discuss agricultural subsidies rather than supernatural haemorrhage.

'It requires blood,' he added, as though mentioning milk for tea. 

'Not symbolic blood, not metaphorical blood, but quite determinedly yours.'

Wil blinked.

'Right. Fine. We discussed this. A drop. Pinprick. Like a little jab. Tiny.'

He demonstrated with two fingers, narrowing the space to microscopic proportions.

'Yes, well,' The Professor said delicately, glancing at the Liber Malifercorum and hiding his mouth from it with an open hand, as if it might overhear them plotting economy.

'It turns out the original Aramaic was… enthusiastic.'

'Define enthusiastic.' Wil asked.

'In the sense of apostolic plumbing, rather than diabetic wellness.'

Wil paused. 'You're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting.'

'I'm suggesting,' Simon said patiently, 'that on this occasion the most efficacious method would involve the surrender of your dominant hand.'

'My WHAT?'

'Only temporarily detached... I should imagine. It will... grow back. You know that'

Wil stared. 'You want me to CUT MY HAND OFF and bleed INTO THAT FUCKING BOOK?'

'Yes, but only a moderate amount. We're not savages. Just a few pints'

Montgomery Fortescue coughed into his hand, clearly attempting not to laugh and clearly failing.

'I was told it would be a pin prick,' Wil growled. 

'A dignified nip. A droplet! This is not, that is it?'

'Well, if you'd read the footnotes,' Simon replied.

'Fuck the footnotes.' Wil said frostily.

The Professor ignored this and continued with an assertive air.

'If you read the footnotes. You'd see that the pin prick is recommended only for nymphs, minor demons, or local councillors. Archangels require… commitment.'

'Yeah. My fucking commitment! You should be fucking committed. Literally.'

Lucifer leaned casually against a spectral filing cabinet only she could see, and folded her arms.

'Oh, do go on,' she purred. 'This is the most 

entertainment I've had since the Spanish Inquisition tried aromatherapy.'

Wil rounded on Simon. He was angry. Not a great state to have a psychotic, murderous Werewolf in, but the Professor held his ground.

'You said a DROP. Not AMPUTATION.'

He looked at his wolf soul for help and got none apart from a wolfy laugh. 

He looked at Ben. Ben, not wanting to upset the beastly man, did not really know how to react. He sort of half-heartedly shrugged.

'Oh, Wil, don't be hysterical,' Simon said. 

'We'll put it back. I've provisionally researched three restorative psalms and a Bulgarian knitting charm if it does not grow back.'

'NO ONE IS KNITTING MY HAND BACK ON!'

Everyone took a step back, at least mentally if not physically.

The Professor sighed. 'Very well. A compromise. We shall remove only the fingertips.'

'No.'

'The thumb?'

'No.'

'Between the third and fourth knuckle?'

'No!'

'A ceremonial slicing of the palm, then. A romantic gush rather than an agricultural flood.'

Wil crossed his arms. 'Absolutely not. I agreed to a drop. Not a gothic plumbing project.'

'But you're our most powerful entity present!'

Wil pointed at Lucifer. 'Really? Hello! ' he said.

'Cut me, and will I not bleed?' Lucifer quoted.

'Well, actually, I won't. I don't have that leaky yucky stuff in me.'

Wil looked perplexed.

'Well, in that case, summon something else that has!' He was acting like a huffy child, and at this moment, I did not blame him, to be honest.

The Professor took on an air as though he was considering this. 

'Well, Monty's allergic to ceremonial silver and Eleanor faints at Latin.'

'THAT'S NOT MY ISSUE.'

Simon removed his spectacles, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered, 'It is extraordinarily difficult to persuade a werewolf to bleed tastefully.'

Montgomery leaned in.

'For what it's worth, Wil, I once gave three pints to a Tibetan dream oracle. Still have the receipt.'

'Did they want your LIMB, Monty?'

'Well, no, but the goat was terribly demanding.'

Wil glared at all of them.

Then at the book.

Then, at the knife.

Then at his right hand. 

Then at the Professor.

Then at his hand.

Then at the book.

Then at his hand.

He thought for a moment. 

He took a resigned breath. 

'No. Ah, ah. Nada. Nope!'

'In fact. Upscale the no. To a fuck no. Tell you what. Try and make me do it!' He said, folding his arms and smiling at what was now his audience. 

The words had landed like divine punctuation.

'I'm not having my hand off. I'm not bleeding into a possessed library item. And I am absolutely not participating in whatever middle-aged occult nonsense you've scheduled for this afternoon.'

Simon stared, genuinely wounded.

'Wil, we're invoking the Archangel Michael.'

Wil folded his arms tighter.

'Then he can bring his own fecking blood, then can't he.'

He turned sharply and marched out through the door and off down the corridor.

The Professor watched him go in silence, then sighed.

'Wonderful. The one creature here with regenerative abilities and he's unionised.'

Behind us, the Liber Malifercorum fluttered a page in faintly offended disappointment.

Lucifer smiled thinly.

'Oh, this,' she murmured, 'is shaping up to be a delightful catastrophe.'

The Professor shook his head, looking at her. She obviously sensed his flabbergasted nature.

'Give me a minute.' She told him, waving him off before following the Wolf man.

The Professor

The Abrahamic texts had never agreed... that frightened me the most. 

One would think the hosts of Heaven might at least possess the decency of consistent identity, but no — they were presented as choir, as flame, as geometry, as storm, as administrative functionaries of cosmic temperament.

In Isaiah, they blaze like living suns.

In Ezekiel, they mire themselves in wheels and eyes and impossible wings.

In the Book of Daniel, they are courteous, terrifying civil servants announcing impending catastrophe with impeccable diction.

And in certain Talmudic fragments — uncanonised, unwelcome, but painfully persistent — they are described as so dangerously precise that even summoning their attention constitutes a violation of creation.

Then there were the apocrypha.

Ah. The beautiful rot beneath scripture's fingernails.

The Book of Enoch spoke of angels who fell because curiosity outweighed obedience. 

The Testament of Solomon insisted angels could be compelled by holy geometry and divine names, while Islamic esoteric writings warned that to force the presence of an angel was to invite something pretending to be one, and that Heaven itself would not intervene in such embarrassment.

Michael's nature was especially contradictory.

Warrior.

Protector.

Judge.

Flame.

Mercy.

Executioner.

Shield.

Storm.

In certain forgotten Syriac fragments, he is described as "the angel who resents men yet defends them from their own extinction." Which, frankly, sounded entirely fair or unfair depending on your viewpoint.

The problem was this:

If angels cannot be summoned, yet I summon one,

what arrives is not necessarily an angel.

And I had not shared that little nuance with the others.

Wil believed we were invoking celestial justice.

Lucifer believed I was attempting provocation.

My rational mind knew I was simply gambling with eternity.

The Liber writhed as if enjoying my despair.

'I detest this,' I breathed, voice thin as cracked parchment. 'I loathe every second and shall loathe the memory of it even more.'

Wil had returned and shifted nervously. He felt it too — not danger, but scale. Something too enormous to truly comprehend.

He did not know the full horror.

He did not know I was not certain the sigil corresponded to Michael of the Host or Michael the Concept or Michael the Blade of Divine Correction — or worse, something that had once been him and now merely remembered the name.

Derisive murmuring stirred in the phantom-air behind me where Lucifer lingered. She had not laughed in some time.

Good sign, that.

'I am aware,' I continued, addressing no one and everyone, 'that the Midrash declares angels incapable of deviation.'

'Yet the Gnostic fragments place them suspiciously close to cosmic bureaucrats with tragically flexible morality.'

'Meanwhile, the Hadith indicates that no man may see an angel in its true form and remain sane.'

'Which presents an unforgivably poor prognosis for our afternoon.' I told them, scratching the bristles now evident on my chin from 48 hours without a shave.

The feather shone like a devout prayer.

The room seemed to lean.

The book pulsed.

The geometry groaned faintly beneath the floorboards, a sound like old granite blocks remembering burial.

I reviewed the steps once more, not confident but obsessive:

Not accuracy, Simon. Alignment.

Not obedience, but acknowledgement.

Not summoning — invitation under blasphemous duress.

Every line of the Liber disagreed with the one before it.

One verse demanded silence; the next, a precise cadence.

Some diagrams implied symmetry, others demanded deliberate imperfection — because perfection, apparently, offends Heaven unless it is exclusively theirs.

And through it all, the same warning whispered between scholarly margins and monastic footnotes:

He may come.

Or something may answer instead.

I swallowed.

Cold shame blossomed behind my sternum.

'I hope,' I muttered, voice barely surviving the weight of the moment,

'I hope it is you, Archangel. And not whatever has learned to imitate your patience.'

'Hope, A truly ridiculous thing.'

The air vibrated with a tension so refined it felt almost holy.

My heartbeat was appallingly loud.

Lucifer had fallen utterly silent now.

Even the shadows seemed to brace.

The final phrase hovered upon my tongue — the last obscenity masquerading as liturgy. 

The conceptual key. 

The impossible permission.

I despised myself for knowing it.

I despised that I would speak it.

And most of all, I despised how desperately I needed it to work.

The Liber Malifercorum flared — not with light, but with expectation.

Wil stood with his lower arm bared, as were his teeth. His shirt sleeve formed a ready-made tourniquet.

He had Montgomery's blade, held above his head. 

Ready to be brought down at his wrist. 

Ready for the slash. 

The cut and the flow of blood. 

'Look away.' I announced to the room.

I was pleased to see that everyone listened. 

Well, everyone but her ladyship, the queen of Hell. 

It was in moments like this that her reality became evident. 

Her smile was no longer beautiful but bestial. 

She was excited for the action and the blood. 

The sacrifice was tantalising and almost seductive for her. Avarice filled those now black pits of eyes.

I nodded at Wil.

His eyes were pleading for a moment. He did not say it, but his eyes said, "Please, no."

I looked the man in those eyes. 

I had a duty to do this for the fellow. Be he monster or not.

He had been hurt by the Angels. 

He had been weakened. 

He had not healed in his miraculous way after they had damaged the link between him and his wolf soul, Fen. 

He did this and did not know if he would die or not. 

I had no idea what Lucifer had promised him, but it must have been worth the loss. 

He did nothing for anyone but himself.

A flash of light from the blade as it fell, powered by the beast's strength. 

It passed through the wrist of the extended arm, and time slowed. 

The hand flew spinning free from the wrist. 

The man and the beast roared their pain. 

It was not just pain; it was pain-filled with anger. 

Anger at having to do this. 

Great, a Werewolf that was now more enraged at the world. Nice work, Simon.

Somehow, Wil managed to hold the stunted limb above the book as the red liquid poured forth. 

It looked like a waterfall spewing into the pages of the book, which seemed to suck at it greedily. 

The blood touched the glowing parchment and then was gone. 

Wil tried to lift his stump and move it away from the book. 

Something held him. Something kept him bleeding. 

I saw a rare thing in the Werewolf's eyes. 

Not fear. 

He never showed fear, but he had lost control. He was stuck. He had lost his... surety in himself.

Still in that now extended moment of slow motion, Montgomery rose from his seat and bodily tackled Wil to the floor. 

As they fell, the book flashed with Angelic brightness and the pits' gloom as the blood stopped feeding it. 

It wanted more. It was desperate for it. 

As I heard the thunder of the bodies hitting the ground, the world came back to the full speed of our reality. 

The book went black. 

The room followed as the light from it entered the text, then...

The blood-sigil ignited into blinding symmetry.

I covered my eyes with both hands, closing my eyelids and turning away, but the light was still blinding. 

I heard yells of discomfort from the others in the room. 

I waited as the light faded, and through blinking eyes that began to recover from the blast of photons, I saw it. 

I watched it.

The feather's remaining ash vanished as though taken as payment.

Every nerve screamed sonorous warning.

And as the unseen threshold began to rupture like reality rewinding itself, I allowed one final, bleak thought to escape into the cosmos:

I pray you answer, Michael.

Because if you do not…

Something else will be thrilled to take your place.

The final syllable of summoning escaped my lips.

The air broke.

The heavens leaned nearer.

And something ancient stirred its wings in the darkness between worlds.

Belphastus

I have lifted the thrice-unblessed carpet.

This heroic act has revealed three things: the actual colour of the lino (a sort of defeated beige), the outline of a radiator burn, and what I am generously calling a space for destiny.

The pentagram, as drawn by Hal E. Tosis and myself, is chalked with admirable care. 

However, Hal insists on adding small decorative filigrees' for infernal ambience,' which look suspiciously like sausage links.

The air is damp. The walls perspire. The gas cooker ticks with the resigned patience of a pensioner waiting for death or hot baked beans, whichever comes first.

Hal squats beside the circle, his damp little fingers polishing a candle with oily devotion.

'All is ready, Martha Belphastus,' he croaks proudly.

'It's master, you lisping cretin.' I chastise him.

'Master not bloody Martha.' It was a half-hearted rebuke born of irritation and boredom more than anything else.

I was being a bit of a bastard.

'Soon Hell shall tremble.' Continued Hal, ignoring my offhand comment. 

He knew me well enough to know I would not be unkind to a Homunculus.

Evil, yes, but unkind no. 

Manners are bastarding manners at the end of the day.

Evil does not need to lose those, does it?

'Indeed, hell will tremble', I murmur, yawning and wrapped in two jumpers, a scarf and a fury that has not paid rent since the 1970s. 

'Soon the abyss shall kneel to my brilliance.'

From the corner, a scuffle of mouse feet announce themselves like a tragic drum roll.

We wait.

Minutes ooze.

Nothing occurs.

The silence grows awkward.

Hal shifts his weight. A faint squelch and then a long and malodorous fart follows.

'Erm… What shall we do to pass the time, Dread One?' he asks.

'I don't care.' I tell the malformed face. 

'The game,' he says. Eye Sthhhhphyyyyy.' 

The final word filled the world with aerosolised spittle and odiferous rancour from his ridiculous lisp.

I sigh. The mark of the pentagram smears slightly beneath my slipper.

'Very well,' I concede. 'I spy, with my little eye, something… beginning with M.'

Hal beams excitedly, displaying several teeth that do not belong to him.

'Oh goody. Is it the wall or my left shoulder? Both are M for mouldy.' I nod my agreement and my congratulations.

It was his turn. 

He was actually good at this game, and I seldom beat him.

Amazing how we all have certain talents. 

He can beat anyone at Eye ThhhhhSpy. 

I can destroy worlds. 

Collapse Heaven and rule Hell. 

We all have our things.

'I thspy with my little eye,' Hal croaked cheerfully, 

'something beginning with P.'

I stared across the rancid kingdom of my bedsit. 

The pentagram pulsed faintly on the lino like a disappointed pastry. Too obvious.

The mouse made a small, threatening squeak. 

The radiator hissed accusation.

Then came the tap tap tap on the window.

A malformed pigeon flapped against the glass, its one remaining eye twitching, its wings shedding something that might once have been feathers or might simply be despair.

Ah, ha. I had the answer. I would beat Hal.

'Is it Pigeon?' I sighed.

Hal squinted. 'No, Master. A good effort. That's not a pigeon. That thing at the window is P for Pointless.' He either coughed or laughed at this personal amusement. Whichever it was, it contained a lot of phlegm. He sounded like he was laughing in Welsh.

The creature outside made an offended noise like damp linen being torn in half.

'I heard that,' it muffled through the glass. 'And I'd like to remind you I am technically infernal.'

'Open the window, Hal,' I muttered. 'Let tragedy in.'

Hal obeyed. The pigeon-thing flopped through with the dignity of a recently dropped meat pie and landed on the stained curtains.

'I don't choose to look like this, do I, guv? ' it snapped immediately. 

'You try existing at demonic rank forty-seven when there are only forty and see what plumage you get.' It began to witter on in its common ranty way.

'Oh bloody no. I requested ominous raven. They gave me Municipal Pigeon. It's their fault. I'll bloody show 'em.'

'The Devil's?' I asked, already knowing the answer. 

I liked the little Demon having a rant; it made it feel... more... I don't know... something important to it. 

'Yes! Them. With their titles and their authority and their well-adjusted fall-from-grace self-awareness. They dismissed me from Hell because I sneezed in the Hall of Weeping Probation. And now I'm not even in the Book!'

Hal gasped. 'Not even the Book?' Like he cared.

The scrofulitic bird turned its lone beady eye on the homunculus, trying to decide whether he was being sarcastic or not, and decided, wrongly, not.

'NOT EVEN A BLOODY FOOTNOTE.' 

The pigeon pounded its chest with weak... erm... more pigeon than pigeon chested indignation. 'Every Demon has its name inscribed. I don't even get a vowel. I'm technically Demon Placeholder Three.'

'Well,' I said gently, 'fear not. Aid me, and when I ascend as Devil Supreme, I shall make you a Demon Prince.'

The bird brightened. 'Really... guv?'

'You're not having me on, are you?'

It tried to give me half a knowing stare. With one eye, it was less than half knowing.

'I'm trained to spot a lie, you know.' It said. 'I might be unnamed and pointless, but still got me basic training, you know.' It said haughtily.

'Truly.' I smarmed.

This was, of course, a lie so thin it could be used as tracing paper in a courtroom of ethics, but the creature nodded eagerly. Obviously, his training had failed him today.

'I've always wanted horns with little jewelled chains,' it whispered dreamily to the air.

Hal clapped excitedly. 'He deserves a pointless throne, Master.'

He deserves a bin,' I muttered.

The pigeon ignored me and shiftilly shifted closer, adopting what it clearly thought was a conspiratorial posture but was more like a sad, damp shuttlecock that had been mauled by a Spaniel.

'Hey, hey.' It whispered. 'She's gone,' it hissed.

'You know. Her...' It looked left and right as though checking we were on our own and got closer, which was unfortunate... Unfortunate for my sense of smell.

'Lucifer is on-world. Something involving a cursed archbishop and a karaoke bar in Prague, my sources tell me.' It winked its remaining rheumy eye and nodded.

'Now's your moment, Your Future Highness.' It said, bowing and spreading its threadbare wings. I think it was trying to abase itself. Although it would have to step up a few levels to be able to lower itself to a good abase.

'She'll be away a while. She knows all the verses to Hallelujah.' It told me.

A terrible thrill moved through my spine. 

I knew the real reason why she was gone. The little lying thing did not. 

This was it.

Hell lay bare.

Legacy awaited.

The pentagram began to glow faintly, puckering the mould like nervous flesh.

I stepped into the centre, lifting the Pasta drainer as a shield of protection.

I had... had to make do. You understand. 

The shield of, erm... draining, twitched like a living thing in my grasping hands, offended by unreality. 

Hal lit the candles with religious fervour and one surprisingly damp match.

'Oh glorious ascent,' I breathed, 'prepare thyself—'

'Marthar?' Hal whispered.

'Yes?'

'Are you absolutely sure this is safe?'

I smiled brightly at the question. 'Absolutely not.' I replied.

The pigeon saluted weakly with a wing.

'To Hell and glory!' It said as it joined me in the pentagram.

The chalk marks flared crimson.

The air thickened.

The mouse expired with a squeak of fear.

And as the floor opened into something screaming and ancient beneath my feet, I could not help but think:

I've waited centuries for this… and I didn't even finish my Eye Spy.

Darkness roared upward.

And I stepped forward.