Georgia Werewolf

The only werewolf in Georgia's ghost lore is said to be buried in O'neal's District in Talbot County. Some of the older citizens can tell the story of the old spinster who turned into a wolf at will to maraud among the sheep. The whole county had always thought the oldest sister of the Burton family was a little odd, and there was talk among the slaves of seeing her wander among the graves in grove nearby or of locking herself in her room for days without seeing anyone, but no one could put much trust in those old slave tales, especially when they concerned such a highly respectable family as the Burtons.

It was just about the time that the Burton spinster returned from her latest trip to Europe that the sheep of the farmers began to be attacked. Each night, in spite of the guards around, the marauder would take his toll-never for food, but for the joy of killing. Several valuable sheep dogs were lost at the time, too. Although a few of the farmers in the area reported that they had seen the culprit and shot at it repeatedly, nothing seemed to fell it.

It species was unknown. There were some grey wolves still in Georgia's forests at the time, but this animal's tracks were not those of the grey wolf.  Nor  rifles  were brought and professional hunters were engaged, but the traps remained empty. Although the hunters seemed to hit the animal as evidenced by a few drops of blood on the ground, the depredations continued.

One farmer who had suffered more extensive losses than the others swore that he would kill the animal. To make doubly sure that he would be rid of it, he offered a $200 reward for its head. He was surprised when he received a note asking him to go to the farm of a new settler, a man who had but recently arrived from Bohemia.  The writer was a thrifty hard-working and religious man who was separated from the people of the valley by a language barrier.

"Back home in Bohemia, I remember we have this same trouble," the immigrant said to his visitor. "People lose their sheep for months until a very smart man nearby tell us of the werewolf legend of my people. The werewolf, he love to kill for the sake of killing, just to taste the blood; not for food. So we villagers did the same thing I am asking you to do. Here is my silver cross. Take it and melt it into the shape of a bullet. Give it to your best hunter for his rifle. It is the only way a werewolf can be stopped."  Jackson, one of the victimized farmers, was desperate enough to believe anything, even a crazy tale from a foreigner. The silver cross was melted down and fitted into his own rifle, and Jackson insisted that he himself would stand guard for a few nights.

He was not kept waiting long. On the second night of his vigil the marauder came to the flock he was guarding an began its nightly slaughter. Jackson took careful aim from an advantageous position and fired. The beast screamed, but not like and animal cry. Instead it was the sound of a woman's voice-piercing, desperate, and haunting. He hurried to the place and searched closely for the animal, but it was nowhere to be found. Instead, however, he found the left front foot of the beast, where the silver bullet had cleanly sliced it off. The slaughter stopped.

No one thought it strange that the Burton spinster now had a bandaged left arm; they assumed that she must have hurt it somewhere. It was not until years later that the town doctor revealed that on the very night of the shot he had bandaged the spinster's arm for what looked like the damage from bullet which had taken off her entire hand and wrist.