What most people think they know about werewolves and what's actually true are two wildly different things, especially in the case of Jack Russell. Russell was neither bitten nor scratched; he didn't offend a gypsy, and he had never drank water from a wolf's footprint. Hell, he'd never even seen a wolf's footprint. The truth was, Jack wasn't even present when he became a werewolf. He wasn't even born yet. No, his family's curse had its origins in the pages of a very old book. The Darkhold.
Jack had made it his life's work to gather the Darkhold so that it could never harm anyone the way it did his family. The book was, conveniently, never bound, so the loose pages have been known to wind up in all sorts of places, but this one was a lucky break. When Jack's friend, Father Adobe, had called earlier in the week, He could hardly believe what the Father was telling him. A page of the Darkhold was being auctioned off in the area. No plane tickets, no late night gas station burritos, no snarky hotel clerks, just a thirty minute drive and some old fashioned waiting.
The sky was growing dark as Jack pulled up to the Blackpool Holdings townhouse in his newly purchased jet-black 67 Impala, (which was most definitely on his "Charge to S.H.I.E.L.D." list) He stepped out of the car and stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets.
The thin man at the building's front door took a step in front of Jack, and in a voice not dissimilar to that of Boris Karloff's, he uttered "By the pricking of my thumbs..."
Jack stared blankly at him for a moment, until the man grew impatient and repeated himself in a more irritated tone.
Jack's expression hardened. His stare became flecked with gold, and he opened his mouth to reveal a row of sharp, glistening teeth. He growled.
The small man, seeming oddly unphased, stepped to the side and motioned for Jack to enter.
He took a seat at the back of the room as the tall, mustached man began to beamingly present some sort of bloody skull.