Now the beast collapses . . . shudders once . . . and dies.
Mr. Coslaw stares at it, open-mouthed.

Marty turnes to Uncle Al, the smoking gun in his hands. His face looks tired . . .
but at peace.

"Happy New Year, Uncle Al, " he says, "it's dead. The Beast is dead." And then he
begins to weep.

On the floor, under the mesh of Mrs. Coslaw' s best white curtains, the werewolf has
begun to change. The hair which has shagged its face and body seems to be pulling
in somehow. The lips, drawn back in a snarl of pain and fury, relax and cover the
shrinking teeth. The claws melt magically away to fingernails ... fingernails that
have been almost pathetically gnawed and bitten.

The Reverend Lester Lowe lies there, wrapped in a bloody shroud of curtain, snow
blowing around him in random patterns .

December