The Professor vs Vampire in Scotland | Supernatural Horror Comedy Story (Episode 191)

Episode 191: The Professor vs Vampire in Scotland

In this supernatural horror-comedy episode of Werewolf the Podcast, the Professor returns in a darkly hilarious side story that blends vampire horror, magical weapons, and classic British humour.

After surviving the chaos of the Gorman’s deadly game show, the Professor heads north through Scotland to return the powerful Dagger of Amun Ra to Ernest Wainwright. But what begins as a simple journey quickly turns into something far more dangerous.

Stranded in a remote roadside stop in the Scottish Highlands, the Professor finds himself facing:

• a brutal vampire attack
• a mysterious resurrection moment
• and one of the most uncomfortable supernatural encounters imaginable

This episode expands the wider Werewolf universe, connecting to characters and lore from Il Lupo, including:

• Ernest Wainwright
• the Witch of Scythian Blair
• cursed werewolf Charlie Mortimer

Blending horror, fantasy, and absurd comedy, this story explores immortality, survival, and the strange overlap between the supernatural and the everyday.

Perfect for fans of:
supernatural podcasts, vampire stories, werewolf fiction, dark comedy, British audio drama, and fantasy storytelling.

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Transcript

Brought to you an association with Grendel Press.

This is Werewolf the Podcast , a serial killer drama.

Hello, this is Werewolf the Podcast and today we've got a lot of things to celebrate.

We have hit 100,000 downloads in under 12 months, which is absolutely phenomenal.

Thank you very much for everyone who's listening and following.

If you're not listening and following, then I can't thank you because you didn't do it.

But anyway, we need to get on with it'cause as I got for me to sort of fill in.

So if you're listening, right, this is the 191 episode intro.

Are you ready?

Okay.

Hello and welcome to Werewolf the Podcast.

Now, to get this episode in context, we have to fill a little gap.

Basically, there's an sort of unanswered question from recent turn of events because I't get quite there..

Okay.

But actually, there's probably quite a few sort of unanswered questions and we'll address some of them, but one we actually intend to answer is the following .

Why the fuck did the archangel Gabriel stick his oar in and stop the garment from destroying Will Fen and the professor?

All right, I know, I know he didn't exactly pull that off unsupported, as you might say, but still, why was he even there in the first place?

Why ?

Well, the good news is we actually know the answer to that.

Yeah, which, as many of you will be aware, isn't always the case.

In fact, it's almost never the case.

I mean, when we're writing these crazy stories, we usually do it gagged and blindfolded and stuffed into a cupboard with no means of communication to the outside world or even food or a peephole or a light or anything or a toilet...

Sorry.

Sorry, about that.

I'll get back to the point, which is.

Oh, shit.

What was my point again?

Oh, thanks.

Yeah.

Gabriel.

Why was that self satisfied super angel even there in the first place?

Well, you'll just have to wait for a bit, won't you?

Actually, do you know what?

If you're a member of our Facebook group, yeah, you can find it linked down in the description if you're not.

Why not post your thoughts about why Gabriel rocks up there?

If you get it right, maybe we'll tell you.

Maybe we won't. Actually..s sort of best to keep you guessing in it, I suppose.

I don't know, I'm making it up as I go along again.

As you see, normal services resumed.

Oh, and normal services resumed.

Whatever the case, though, I do promise we knew why Gabriel arrived, even before he did arrive .

And that reason still exists, and we will reveal all in due course, a promise. Promise.

I suppose the important thing for now is that the prof and whale and fence survived the ordeal of being contestants on the ghastly Gorman's Grizzly game show.

The fanf is over, the war is won and the dust is settling in fate and life , or whatever these things have it sort of goes on.

So, the professor is still around and he's a small p personal matter to attend to before he can get back to his, you know, normal mission, and that brings us to this week's episode.

This one's written by Greg and stars Greg and yeah, it's dead good, so I hope you enjoy.

This is a little side story that brings Greg's books and characters to our podcasts.

So we're mixing the books and the podcast together.

So he's bringing it in his characters from Il Lupo and such things.

I mean, again, it's a rare thing to do in podcasting fiction to make fictional worlds collide, but we love to do it.

So I hope you enjoy oh, and buy the books you can there's the links down in the description if you want and if you don't want to buy the books then don't. Anyway, I'll shut up now.

Bye.

The Professor .

It had been very kind of Bossworth to return me to the last name location of my car.

I'd left it in a godforsaken nook between somewhere I didn't know the name of and nowhere else of any prominence.

But it was far away in the freezing northeastern corner of Scotland.

I found the little hatch back exactly as I'd left it, with maybe the smallest collection of dirt that had been deposited by the relentless rainfall, which had now finally, , well, relented, actually, at least for now, anyway.

I knew there was business I needed to get to with the supernatural Police Department, and I'd placed a holding call to Sula, assuring her that I'd returned to London as soon as I could after I'd attended to a pressing personal matter.

It seemed that Ben's recovery from the injuries he sustained during a high speed crash he'd suffered at the hands of Will, were healing better and faster than his physicians could quite comprehend.

That was good news, although it had Lucy's fingerprints on it by my humble opinion.

He was a good boy, Ben, and he certainly didn't deserve to suffer as he had.

I assured Sula that the trip I needed to take would be a short one, and that I would head south to warmer climes within a day or so, no more than that.

As soon as I'd returned the dagger of Amun Ra to its rightful owner, the venerable miss.

Mr. Ernest Wainwright.

Ernest, I knew by virtue of a precisely punctuated text message he'd sent me, was in Scotlandland himself.

He was not unfamiliar with this part of the world, having been involved in a mystery surrounding the death of the laird of some majestic estate or another, but the hands of what transpired to be a werewolf.

The laird had been a friend of the father of Ernest's best friend.

That friend of Ernest's was one Mr. Atticus Frobisher, also a thoroughly decent chap , now sadly departed.

Some of you may have heard his name before.

Having become estranged from the vicinity for a matter of decades, Ernest had in recent times been somewhat more of a regular visitor, seeking the guidance and indeed protection of another who was involved in that great mystery from years gone by.

Her name is Agatha.

And she is more commonly known as the Witch of Scythian Blair.

Yes, a witch, and not to be trifled with, I can assure you.

Some of the tales Ernest has shared with me about her exploits would make the cream curdle in your coffee .

I shit thee not.

But those would be tales for another day.

On this occasion, Ernest was accompanying a young man by the name of Charlie Mortimer on his trip to Sea Agatha.

Charlie himself is a licanthrope.

Not the so good variety we're familiar with from Will and Sally, more the kind who has suffered a curse passed from one unfortunate to the next via acts of violenceence.

Charlie had been most unfortunate to suffer at the hands of the notorious werewolf, Dalemo Russo.

And now he sawought the shelter of Agatha and her son on the occasion of each full moon .

He would remain on their land as the transformation took him, held safe within its boundaries by some form of rather dark magic placed upon the ancient dry stone walls.

I had no intention of being there when this chap started prowling about the place, looking for his dinner.

I might be ostensibly immortal, but being killed and eaten over and over again until sunrise is not a prospect I have any desire to experience.

And so, with that thought fully at the front of my mind, I applied more than a little pressure on the gas pedal in my ludicrously overpowered four seater hatchback.

The drive from where I was located to the rolling hillsides of the Scythian Blair estate would take around three hours, according to my sat mouth, which translated to more like an hour and three quarters if I drove like a bloody maniac , which I must admit to having a tendency to do.

Nonetheless, it seemed like literally days since I'd last taken any sustenance on board, and I was utterly starving.

I decided, therefore, to pull over when I saw the yellow and red sign denoting a shell service station up ahead.

Other service stations are, of course, available, and I'd be happy to edit the name to any other for the requisite fee, of course .

Just putting that out there, you understand.

But for now, let's say it was a shell service station, mainly because it actually was.

I don't know if you're aware, but these days, most roadside refuelling spots now offer far more than the packet of Wriggley's 20 woodbines in a Mars bar that seem to be the pnnial traveler's fair for a very, very long time.

Indeed, nowadays, you can purchase multitudinous varieties of water.

Water?

I mean, you get the H, the 2 and the O in the correct sequence, and I'm not sure what else is required.

Really, I'm not.

Still, the upside of all this madness is a rather excellent array of French breakfast pastries is always available, as well as coffee of varying standards.

This was one of the service stations that had a coffee machine, which offered, among other things, the flat white, which is my personal favourite.

So I procured two of those, and a pan of chocolin and an almond croissant.

I did feel rather like the cat that had got the cream as I sat in my little car and guzzled the lot before taking off again.

Now, I'm quite sure many of you will be able to relate to the following experience.

When I purchased my snacks, the only signal I was receiving from my body spoke to me of hunger.

There was nothing else.

However, almost as soon as the food hit my belly, I started to become aware of myriad other symptoms of being alive.

I had a slight tinetus, presumably a relic of the incredibly loud theme tune of the game show.

I was also a little bruised in places, something most familiar and almost comforting, and I smiled as I felt my muscles ache here and there.

And then, the coffee kicked in.

I knew I still had almost an hour of driving time ahead of me, but the sensation throbbing in my lower abdomen and emanating from my colon eloquently informed me that I had far less than an hour in hand before the shit that was announcing itself would make a break for it, whether I'd found a suitable thunder chamber in which to evacuate my bowels or not.

How relieving, therefore, it was to see the roadside sign, which simply said, WC, half mile.

And when I say WC, I do, of course, mean water closet.

I knew from years of experience driving through remote parts of the United Kingdom that there were still occasional roadside lavatories in which passing wayfarers might take a little tinkle , or for the braver among us, which I consider myself to be, pump out a curling turd.

These facilities are almost beyond measure in the foulness of their perfume and the diversity of bacteria they provide safe harbour too.

For the uninitiated, imagine year upon year of maliciously directed urine, clinging to every surface.

Lavatory u bends, utterly clogged up with deliberatelyately unflushed piles of excreta, all only occasionally danced with derisory splashes of watered down industrial disinfectant that is administered by an uncaring youth on community service who occasionally clears their nose and throat only to spit the contents onto the floor.

Quite disgusting.

However, I needed a shit and a shit I was going to have.

I pulled the car over into the lay by and amused myself by using the handbrake to complete the parking maneuver.

I afforded myself a little chuckle there.

God, I'm good.

Strange the way your bowels seem to be able to tell you when you're only a few yards away from reaching a destination, and how matters become increasingasingly urgent, the closer you find yourself to the thunder box.

Unsurprisingly, the weather was coming in again and it started to rain as I set foot outside the car.

I scowled and furrowed my brow as the cold precipitation began to fall against my handsome features .

And I made my way hastily towards the tiny concrete st structure set back from the road and just in front of the dense pine wood that seemed to suck the light out of the darkening sky.

The walls were covered in graffiti and tags of all kinds, and its small thrusted windows were all smashed out.

I noticed discarded needles on the ground, and a glass crack pipe that I hadn't seen shattered beneath the sole of one of my handcrafted Oxford brogues.

Could have been worse, I thought to myself, I could have been wearing flip flops.

I approached the entrance, and my heart sank as it became clear that this convenience was, in fact, out of service.

There was a wrought iron trellis closed across the doorway, and it was padlocked shut.

Bloody hell, I thought, immediately considering that I would need to make like a bear and take a shit in the woods while it was literally pissing down with rain.

Did I have anything with me that I might use to smash the lock or somehow prize the metal gate , just open enough to get inside and at least try to find a little privacy?

Privacy?

Pah!

I thought.

I was in the middle of nowhere.

There probably wasn't another human being for miles in every direction.

Assuming that I'm still human, of course.

And then the rain started to pour down all the harder, falling in torrents and distracting me utterly.

I remembered that I had an umbrella in the car.

At least I could hold that over my head while I squatted in the trees and had my poo .

With my abdomen starting to cramp really quite painfully, I dashed back to the car for the umbrella and let out a frightening flutter blast from the back of my trousers that almost took matters out of my hands.

But I just managed to clench my arse cheeks tight enough to hold things in.

Thank God.

And then I saw it, the dagger of Amun Ra.

It hadn't worked on the werewolf, but maybe it would work on the bloody padlock.

With something outside my body to focus on, well, or perhaps the fart had relieved some of the pressure, whatever the case, I found myself feeling less desperate, more int charge.

As quickly as I could, I ran back to the entrance and jammed the tip of the blade into the hue of the padlock.

Much to my surprise, this supposedly enchanted dagger that had not hurt Will in the least and was a suspected fake as a result of that absolutely cut through the steel of the padlock with only the tiniest amount of of persuasion.

With a clank, the lock fell to the ground and I was in.

The moment I stepped out of the daylightlight and into the gloom of the toilet, the stench hit me in the face with all the vicissitudinosity of the discovery of an old fungus ridden fingernail in your last slice of pizza.

I nearly pebble dashed the wall with my armoured croissant there and then, but I steeled myself.

There were two small sinks, which had broken taps or faucets for our American listeners, and an array of mould and rust where once the plug holes had been.

There was evidence of dried vomit in one of the inks, and I turned my face away in disgust.

There was an old dried out urrinal that seemed not to have been in service for some time, with blood stains on the wall next to it.

I know not how they got there.

The two cubicles had no door.ors, and the lavatories had no seats.

Not that I had any intention of placing my trouser peach on any of the surfaces in this particular corner of hell.

Quite suddenly, I began tramping again, and I knew the time had come, no matter what, I was going to deliver this chocolate child right here and right now.

I completely removed my trousers and underpants in a standing position in order to keep them from touching the floor, which had an unsettling, adhesive quality to it.

And carefully and bravely, I assumed what many may think of as a posture akin to to Shodachi, the sumos dance I had learned in Okinawa, the birthplace of Karate.

And I finally began to relax.

I was almost finished with a heart rate finally approaching normal levels. When I heard the unmistakeable grinding echo of a footstep entering the toilet.

My heart nearly stopped, but I steeled myself and instinctively called into the dark..

Hello there.

I say, there's someone in here, and I'm afraid there's no door in the cubicle.

I'll be finished in just a moment.

The footsteps stopped approaching, and I sighed in relief as I dropped the last of the kids off at the pool.

Then it struck me.

Paper.

I still had paper napkins in the car from the service station, and I should have brought some in with me, but it was far too late for that now.

There was nothing else for it.

I would just have to sacrifice my Calvinclin boxer shorts to the cause.

It was sacrilege, but there really was no alternative.

With you in just a mo?

I called into the semi dark.

Once utilised, I dropped my unfortunate underpants into the stinking h hole behind me and turned my attention to the task of getting back into my trousers commando style in this tiniest of spaces.

If I ventured into the somewhat more open part of the convenience with no trousers or undies on, there was no telling what sort of monkey business the stranger in the loo might have thought I was up for.

And just for the record, I was absolutely not up for any of that nonsense.

I had one leg in and the other still bare when the form of a huge man appeared in front of the door waiter, my cubicle.

" Oh, for the sake of the Holy Saviour, I thought, "N only am I going to have to fight my way out of here, which is not a problem per se, but is at least an inconvenience.

And I'd additionally probably wind up touching something, you know, a wall or the sink , not to mention this probable crackhead.

Amazing the way your luck can seem to eb and flow.

Well, whatever the case, this big lumps luck could just run out, because whatever he'd come here for was about to be replaced by humiliation and defeat, and getting the shit kicked out of him and being dumped in the woods.

Dumped.

Sorry about the awful pun.

He was tall and dark, dark as in dark hair.

It wasn't exactly a looker, and it was quite massive, probably twice my size.

I wouldn't be able to simply shove him out of the way.

This was going to need to to be a proper fight.

I very quickly thrust my left leg into my trousers, and I was just about to do up the button at the top when he reached for me and grabbed me by both shoulders.

With more strength than I'd expected, even from a man of his size, he yanked me towards him, pulling me almost completely off my feet.

It was then that I noticed his teeth.

Long canines seemed to shimmer in the gloom as the stranger drew me in.

I could almost sense his thirst, and he could almost taste my blood.

There was no doubt doubting it.

This was a vampire, and he expected to have me for his next victim.

Now, I have fought and big vampires in the past, and I've killed some of tremendous note.

I mean, who could forget Giovaston harundin Fultonian brus , the famous Falcalivian.

But it has to be said, when I killed him, I was carrying a significant set of enchanted mediaeval weapons that had been provided by none other than the Queen of Hell herself.

This beast of a man was far stronger than I, and I had a certain sense that he'd be able to overpower me with ease.

But I'm not one to go down without a fight.

So I kicked him as hard as I could, squarely in the bollocks.

Now, we've seen in previous episodes that kicking an adult male in the gonads, while not being the most gentlemanly thing to do in a fight, is generally accept extremely effective.

And this was no exception.

Immediately, the vice like grip on my shoulders loosened and I was able to break free from the vampire's grasp.

I shoved him in the chest as hard as I could, and he stumbled backwards, slipping on a small patch of liquid of indeterminate origin and smashing his head into the st stinking side of the aluminium urinal.

I dashed for the doorway, but was dismayed to feel one of those massive hands grabbing me by the shoulder from behind.

How had he recovered so quickly?

He must have been quite ancient to be this powerful.

Faster than I was able to respond, the v vampire attacked, sinking its teeth into the side of my neck.

My eyes opened as wider sources.

This was a completely new experience for me.

I'd never been bested by a vampire before and certainly never bitten in the neck like this.

Obviously, I tried to resist, but I had no strength.

None.

I blinked as I began to sense the blood from all around my body, being sucked towards the epicentre of a vacuum , which drew it inexorably into the thirsty mouth of the feasting monster.

It was strange, like a drowning man no longer able to thrash.

I became quite calm.

I felt somehow safe in his arms as he fed upon me.

It became my desire to permit him to rob me of every last drop, as though I was there only only to feed him.

I moaned with pleasure as my head started to spin and my eyesight began to fade.

My eyelids fluttered, and I smiled as I felt the life draining out of me.

Yes.

This was good.

Let him take it all.

Then, quite suddenly, I wasstood a few feet away, utterly restored, fully invigorousated, and very intent on surviving this tack and not being his next victim as well as his last one.

The vampire stared incredulously at his empty hands for a moment, not knowing what had happened to me or where I'd gone.

But then he saw me, stood in the doorway.

The rain pouring down just outside sounded like a waterfall. And I backed away, stepping into the storm and darting to the rear of the concrete hut.

It took no more than a second or maybe two for the giant vampire to appear in front of me, his eyes wild with rage and his evil heart bursting with murderous intent.

But this time, I was ready for him, and this time I was quicker than he was.

I lunged forward with all the skill and speed of an expert fencer, and in one single graceful move, I drove the dagger of Amon Ra into the vampire's chest , and I twisted it with all my might.

The giant's eyes rolled back in their sockets, and it slumped as though in slow motion to its weakening knees before falling face down onto the soaking ground, at my feet.

I took a moment to compose myself, blinking the rain water out of my eyes.

I looked around me for signs of potential witnesses, but there were none.

And then it came to me.

Hadn't Ernest said he needed a vampire to help cure his friend of lycanthropes?

Oh, what a happy coincidence.

If I can just drag this great lump to the rear of my car and stuff him into the trunk, maybe I could help Ernest doubt whilst dropping the dagger back to him at the same time.

Ha!

What a marvellous turn of events.

I rolled the vampire over onto its back and pulled the knife out of him its chest.

Immediately, the nosfaratu drew in a deep breath, its wicked eyes suddenly wide open.

The wound in its che chest was healing at an alarming rate .

I glanced at the dagger only briefly before plunging it back into the vampire's wicked evil heart, killing it once more.

"All right," I thought to myself, "We'll leave the dagger where it is for now then.

And so, I set myself to the task of heaving this dead, undead assailant around the roadside traveler's toilet and towards the back of my car, feeling as though I'd just had two near misses.

I'd narrowly survived a vampire attack, although admittedly by being resurrected, and almost more importantly, I'd managed to successfully utilise a roadside convenience without getting my hands dirty.

One thing was for certain, I had quite a story to tell Ernest when I finally got to see him, at Scythian Blair.

Brought to you an association with Grendel Press .

This is Werewolf, the podcast, a serial killer drama. 

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