Welcome, friend.

Have a seat by the fire.

Make yourself comfortable. Rumored law of bloodthirsty beast, roaming the woodland of crooked-run, Virginia had been passed on from the old country.

Whispered superstitions of elder folk, often striking mortal terror,

into the hearts of the young and gallible.

Nevertheless, something feral did seem to prey on the livestock of local farmers during the rise of a full moon.

On some rare instance, this legendary carnivore might even sink its deadly fangs into the flesh of unwary human prey as well.

You're listening to Camp Fire Radio Theater.

Tonight, the waning days of the American Civil War set the stage for our tale of howling creatures of the night, written by resident lycanthrope John Ballantine.

The play is called The Dreams of Wolves. of wolves.

To whom it may concern, my name is Daniel Martin Calloway. I was a courier in the U.S. Army Signal Corps during the war.

I relate this account now, some time later. For fear, my memory of the events in the wilderness of Virginia will fade with advancing years.

And while this story may seem fanciful and perhaps even a product of delusion,

I must assure you that I have never been prone to superstition. And it is all quite true.

During the autumn of 1864, we were caught in a skirmage with a band of mountain rebels

near Hickory Creek.

My party had become separated during the fight and found ourselves lost in the woods, no familiar

landmarks.

By this time, there was only four of us as we tried to evade another

band of ribs. We fled to a withered brown cornfield narrowly escaping. We had no idea where we were.

And this cornfield seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see.

You think they're still our tail, Sarge?

...