Throwback: The Werewolf at the Inn

Hello! Welcome to Stories Podcast. I'm your host, Amanda Weldon. Today's story is a throwback episode. Tune in to hear one of our classic stories from the archive that you might have missed the first time around. We have Stories Podcast merch available at storiespodcast.com slash shop. We're also on Cameo for all of your personalized video message needs and don't

forget to follow us on Instagram at storiespodcast. If you send us a drawing of your favorite scene or character, we'll share it on our feed. Now here's a word from our sponsors. Thanks! Enjoy the episode! The Werewolf at the Inn

Once upon a time, there was a cozy old inn. It sat at a lonely crossroads of a quiet road and a sleepy lane, and its visitors were all weary travelers moving from one place to another, like leaves on the wind. Its old stone walls were blanketed with moss, and its cheery little chimney billowed blue smoke into the cool winter air. The inn was called the Silver Moon, and its owner was called

Old Cob. No one was sure which had come first. The pair had simply been there for as long as anyone could remember, serving food and renting rooms to whoever happened by his lonely stretch of road. That night, what happened by was trouble. It was late, the sun no more than a purple bruise on the horizon. Old Cobb had just set a beef stew to simmer when a man nearly stumbled through the

door of the inn. His hair was long and matted. His beard looked like he borrowed it from a billy goat. His tattered boots made a slip-slap sound as he walked, and he scratched at his ears like a dog with fleas. Well, hello there, in keep, he said, smiling a bright white smile. Hello, sir, old Cobb said, eyeing the shabby man skeptically. He was used to all sorts of travelers coming through,

but this one was wilder looking than most. He reminded old Cobb of some shaggy beast. Could I get you dinner? A room? Perhaps a bath? The shaggy man laughed heartily, taking no offense. I got lost out on the road. I'm afraid I don't have a bent penny to my name. He held up his hands, showing off his tattered clothes. His pants were held up by a length of

hemp rope. But I'm a good worker. Maybe there's some snow you need shoveled or some cordwood you need cut for the fireplace. I'd happily take care of some chores in exchange for a bowl of that lovely stew I smell. And maybe, if you would, a warm spot to sleep by the fire. The innkeep looked the visitor up and down, considering carefully. He had no other visitors,

and it was late enough that none were likely to happen by. He didn't like the shabby look of the man, but maybe he could get some work out of him all the same. All right, uh, he looked at the man pointedly.

Bast, the stranger said. I'm Bast, and I'm pleased to meet you. All right, Bast, he said. I'm old Cobb, and I guess I have a few chores you could take care of for me.

An old tree fell in the back last storm we had. You could hack it up into manageable logs for the fireplace here. Do you feel up to that? Bast smiled, lacing his hands together and cracking his knuckles. Sounds like just the thing, right around back. Old Cobb nodded, already regretting the offer just a little. The man was entirely too eager,

and he smelled something fierce. Yes, the axe is in the shed. Mind yourself now, it's sharp. The man nodded and walked out the door. A short while later, old Cobb heard the telltale sound of the axe biting into the fallen tree. Thunk, thunk, thunk. He busied himself with the soup, but something was teasing at the back of his mind. Something about the stranger just felt

off. Maybe it was the smell, maybe it was the wild hair and beard. It nagged at him, but he couldn't quite place it. Just a dirty beggar, Old Cob muttered to himself, cutting some wild carrots and adding them to the stew. Nothing to get yourself all flustered over, Cob. Dunk, dunk, dunk. The sun set and darkness fell like a bad omen. Old Cob kept looking over

his shoulder as he cooked, half expecting the stranger to be standing there behind him. What was it about the man? Why couldn't he shake the feeling? Outside, the stranger worked steadily. The axe fell in a constant, relentless rhythm. Donk, donk, donk. Finally, old Cobb took off his apron and threw it into the corner. His hair was standing on end. His heart started to flutter like

a fly caught in a fist. That stranger, that bast, he just rubbed Cobb the wrong way. Maybe it was those ratty shoes. Maybe it was that wolfish smile. He froze, mouth going dry as a dustbin. The wolfish smile? The wild hair? The animal smell? Old Cobb thought about every story he'd ever heard about skin changers. Old stories his nan had told him of men who were only men by day,

but turned to ravenous wolves by the light of the full moon. Hands trembling, Old Cob peeked out the window. To his horror, he saw the yellow moon hanging heavy in the sky. The yellow full moon.

Oh, werewolf, he whispered. What was that? Old Cob whirled around. The stranger, Bast, was just closing the front door behind him,

breathing a little hard, but still smiling that too white, too wolfish smile. Ah, out, Old Cobb snapped. You're not welcome here. The stranger blinked, surprised. He held up his hands in a gesture of peace. Hey now, he said gently. We had a deal. I just spent the last hour chopping and hauling wood

for you. A bowl of stew and a warm place to sleep, that was the agreement. Old Cobb jabbed a finger at him, slapping the shutter's clothes to block the moonlight. That was before I knew what you were, what you are, he said, shakier than he would have liked. You're a, a, a. A stranger? Bast said, confused. A vagrant? A poor man just looking for a warm meal? All of that is true, but I mean you

no harm, and a deal is a deal. A vagrant? A poor man? Oh, Old Cobb said. I know what you are, and I know why you came here. What am I? Bast asked quietly. Why did I come here? The low voice made Old Cobb more scared than ever. Was it his imagination, or was that wild hair and beard spreading,

getting thicker, darker, wolfier?