It`s dark, nice and dark and warm in his study as he sits in front of his computer, lazily searching the net for information about various ideas he`s been considering for a new show, one of which being lycanthropy. Not the cheesy Hollywood version, but clinical lycanthropy rather. It wasn`t difficult to have someone crawling around on all fours and howling at the moon for a few minutes, he`s done that to more than one unsuspecting party guest to great effect, but would it be possible, all ethical considerations aside, to make someone seriously believe that he was an actual werewolf? Peter Stubbe, a wealthy 17th century German farmer had suffered from exactly that delusion and Derren was currently engrossed in the man`s rather gory descriptions of his crimes, that he`d given at his trial.
Popping a green M&M into his mouth, he was eating the colours of the rainbow backwards, starting with blue tonight, Derren thoughtfully sucked on the sugar coating. The lycanthropy idea held a lot of potential for controversy, which was good, it also held a lot of potential for disaster, which was…maybe not so good. However, it all would depend on the approach, wolves had always been powerful symbols of strength and freedom, maybe that angle would work rather better than the bloodthirsty beast one. About to type a few comments into a Word file, Derren suddenly noticed a small movement in a murky corner of the room. Was that…? He quickly looked away, staring intently at the screen instead. There it was again, this time he had more felt than seen it. Just a little closer. Oh no, not now!
Derren knew what would happen now, his brow involuntarily tensing. The eyes! As if on cue, he could feel them, watching him, unmoving, unblinking. I can ignore them, oh yes, I can, he thought defiantly. He`d just remain completely still, he`d be statue Derren now, then they`d go away, they`d have to. For a moment it almost seemed to work, but then came the voice, that dreaded voice. He didn`t believe in telepathy, he`d said so over and over again. He knew it didn`t, couldn`t exist and yet somehow he could hear it, right inside his head, “look at me”.
Just those three words, deceptively soft. I `m not looking, I`m stronger than you, he told himself, his eyes rigidly fixating the computer screen. Again movement in the dark and the eyes drew nearer, “look at me,” they whispered again. Derren resisted, barely. Now a gentle pressure on his wrist, right on the very spot where he would grasp the wrists of people he wanted to influence or hypnotize. With a twitch of his arm he shook it off.
“It`s no use,” the voice in his head remarked.
We`ll see about that, Derren thought stubbornly, hardly finding the concentration to type but a single word. Suddenly the eyes and voice vanished as if they`d never been there at all. It had worked! But of course it had worked, Derren allowed himself a small, complacent smile, he`d had the upper hand, in the end he always did. Brushing the last M&M into his palm, he was about to finally return his attention to Peter Stubbe and his misdeeds when suddenly…claws! Claws on the back of his neck, where he`d grasp a person during a speed induction!
No, it couldn`t be, he wouldn`t allow it. Deliberately Derren sat up as straight as he could, his eyes never leaving the glow of the screen. Slowly, oh so slowly, the claws slid around his neck, coming to rest on his shoulder. And now he could feel the terrible weight of that unblinking stare again as it seemed to bore into him. “look at me,” the voice whispered.
Derren could feel his shoulders begin to sag, as if the command was sapping him of all his strength. Dammit, no! He was too strong, too clever, too much in control, he wouldn`t…even as he thought it, his gaze wandered to his right. There they were, those eyes, glassy and bulging and incredibly close now. Oh, how foolish he had been to think he would ever be able to resist them. And suddenly, like a scream, that voice inside his head.
“Fill my birdbath, you lazy, perma – molting git!”
It was over, he`d lost. Heavy with resignation, Derren awkwardly rose from his chair and trotted off into the direction of the kitchen, leaving a satisfied looking Rasputin perched on the back of his chair to bask in his triumph. Derren sighed, sometimes it was not easy being the owner of the most dangerous bird in the world.