The full moon shone in the sky,
The darkened landscape clear,
This is the hour of the wolf,
The hour of old fear.

The werewolves are no more,
All that were found were killed,
Every last one slaughtered,
Thousands of un-named graves filled.

Their howl hovers on the wind,
Just on the edge of hearing,
A lone grave sits on a hill,
A gravestone in the clearing.

The named one she was called,
The only one who deserved a name,
She was skilled in more than the hunt,
For the beast of the wild she could tame.

But hunted like the rest she was slain,
Forever buried to lie alone and still,
But in the darkness the hand starts to move,
Clenching with the need to kill.

The lone one can never leave this plain,
Even hell would not allow her inside,
In the darkness she calls them to her,
Her red eyes, staring, open wide.