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Revenge of the Loup-Garou is a Southern Gothic fever dream soaked in whiskey, shame, and something howling just outside the door. It begins, as these stories do, with a body: old, twisted, and smiling. But it’s the letter beside the body that tells the real tale — a deathbed confession that starts with a drunken prank and ends in… well, let’s just say “fur” would be an understatement.

At its core, this story is about what happens when cruelty curdles into a curse. A group of arrogant college boys think it’s funny to humiliate a half-mad street performer. They take pictures. They laugh. They leave him behind.

But he doesn’t stay behind.

The story swings between a slow-burn confession and a lightning-fast unraveling of sanity. Our narrator — bitter, dying, and haunted — recounts the dominoes they knocked over one stupid night. And like all truly good werewolf stories, this one isn’t really about the monster outside.

It’s about what the monster was invited to devour.

Written with a voice that’s both literary and gleefully brutal, the prose pulls you in like a back-alley whisper. It’s part Creole folktale, part frat-house tragedy, and part righteous werewolf vengeance. You’ll meet a charming old man named Rothschild who may or may not be death’s hype man. You’ll watch nine very bad decisions walk themselves into the world’s worst karma. And by the end, you might find yourself rooting for the fur-covered fallout.

Because Revenge of the Loup-Garou isn’t just a horror novella — it’s a moral invoice with claws. And once the debt comes due, it doesn’t knock.

It howls.