 In today's modern world, we tend to ridicule the idea that there are people possessed of the power of transforming themselves into animals. Yet, every now and then, a story appears in the chronicles of the strange and the incredible that makes us pause to wonder. Consider, for example, the case of Carl Janus. When the writer Maurice Russell retired to a lonely cabin in the mountains of northern Georgia, he took with him voluminous notes which would have formed the basis of his next novel. But he did not know then that the most intriguing, the most tantalizing story that he would ever write lay not in his carefully kept files, but in the creature who bore the name of Carl Janus. Tess? Come in. Good morning. The sound of that voice, Russell whirled around. My name's Janus. I just moved into the hot, dull valley. Well, I'm glad to know you. His new neighbor's appearance had shocked him to the core. His brows were shaggy, and his black beard failed to conceal his remarkably powerful jaws. The hands were covered with thick hair and tapered off in long, dirty claw-like nails. His front teeth protruded like fangs. Why? He's like an animal. A week later, Russell stumbled on the answer. During a conversation with another neighbor, Sol Pritchard, who had dropped into the cabin with a piece of bad news. Tom was to feel as boy, walking along the road last night, and all of a sudden this critter jumped out at him and durned near Tom to pieces. He says it might have been a big dog, or wildcat, or even a wolf. That's it, of course. That's what he looks like. A wolf. In the two months that followed, four other men were also attacked. And then, on a certain night, when Sol Pritchard was returning from a trip to town, his wagon had just rounded a sharp curve on Little Ball's mountain, and suddenly his horse reared back and whinnied in care. It's the wolf. As he spoke, the wolf would have been crouched on a boulder at the side of the road, sprang through the air. Sol Pritchard seized a pitchfork that laid beside him in the wagon. He raised it in front of him to guard himself, and the beast's body, hurtling against the improvised weapon with terrific force, was entailed on the ground. Sol did not wait to see whether it was dead or not, but the following morning, searches who returned to the scene found only the bloody pitchfork. Afterward, as time passed, and no more attacks ensued on the roads around Bald Mountain, the inhabitants concluded that they were at last rid of the killer. But the writer, Maurice Russell, has added a significant footnote. A few nights after Sol Pritchard's encounter with the wolf, Russell and Pritchard visited Carl Jean's hut. No one responded to their knocking. Janus lay motionless on his bed. His shirt brunt was stained with blood. Russell unbuttoned the shirt and examined the body carefully. That pitchfork you used, darling. It had three prongs. Yeah, that's right. Why do you ask? Because there are no holes in Carl Jean's shirt. But there are three deep gashes in his chest. Yes, the man Carl Jeanus, the man whose appearance in the community had been simultaneous with the appearance of the wolf, had died with marks on him which one might have expected only the wolf to bear. Let those who scoff at the werewolf tradition. Let them explain this astonishing story. A story incredible but true.