Werewolf Horror Audio Drama: Summoning Lucifer to Reveal Fenrir (WW1 Occult Story)

Episode 223 – WW1 Occult Horror | Lucifer, Fenrir & Supernatural War

In this episode of Werewolf the Podcast, Major Simon de Montfort performs a forbidden ritual to summon Lucifer Morningstar herself—not to be feared, but to be questioned.

Set during the chaos of the First World War, Simon seeks answers about:

• The mysterious werewolf forces on the battlefield
• The ancient entity known as Fenrir
• And the role of heaven, hell, and war in shaping human suffering

But when Lucifer appears, nothing is simple.

This is not a typical summoning. It is a conversation between:

• A war-hardened occult soldier
• And the Devil herself

What follows is a chilling exchange revealing:
✔ The true nature of Fenrir (a “wolf soul”)
✔ How supernatural forces manipulate war
✔ The hidden bargains between heaven, hell, and humanity
✔ The cost of power, souls, and sacrifice

As Simon confronts Lucifer, he begins to understand that:

The battlefield is not just fought with guns… but with souls, contracts, and ancient forces.

Themes in this episode:

• Lucifer / Devil character interaction
• WW1 horror & occult warfare
• Werewolf mythology (Fenrir)
• Dark fantasy & supernatural storytelling
• Psychological horror & moral conflict

If you enjoy:

• Lucifer stories
• Occult horror podcasts
• Werewolf mythology
• Dark fantasy audio dramas
• Supernatural war fiction

Then this episode is essential listening.

Books by Fenrir Thorvaldsen

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The Werewolf's Story by Fenrir Thorvaldsen

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Books by Gregory Alexander-Sharp

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Il Lupo by Gregory Alexander-Sharp

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Transcript

Major Simon de Montfort.

Well, I had to do it, did I not? 

She was obviously up to something, and to be quite honest, when she... is involved, there is no point trying to do anything about it without consulting her. 

She's like that, you know. Difficult in extremis. Well, she is the Devil, so she should be, I guess.

Annoyingly, the summoning... no summoning is an incorrect description. 

A request to talk is a better way of saying what this magical rite is than a summoning. 

You can not summon something like her. Well, I can't. Maybe the main chap can. You know the bearded one in the sky.

'Right. Well then. Let us begin.' I said to the evening air. 

I took off my jacket, carefully hanging it before starting the procedure with a resigned sigh.

Not a part of the Magic, but I always add a sigh at the start to make it seem as though I don't enjoy this.

I had scrubbed the temporary wooden floor of the tent. I mean, the least I can do for the lady is make sure that everything is hygienic and tidy. 

We should always have standards.

Now, how to continue.

One must always start with a circle. 

Tradition? Or superstition? Or possibly simple geometry. Who knows. It takes me three attempts to make something almost circular. Drawing a circle is... 

Ah, you know what?

It will bloody do. 

Whatever the case with circles, I draw mine anticlockwise with this rather excellent stick of chalk procured from the stores. 

Ah—but of course, one segment must be clockwise, which makes the whole thing delightfully confusing, just like British forces policy.

Now. Into the circle goes the square.

Into the square goes another circle. 

Into that goes the septagram. 

Honestly, it looks less like a sacred sigil and more like something an enthusiastic child might draw after seeing a compass for the first time, but apparently, this is what gets the Devil's attention.

I think she makes us do this because she finds it funny.

There must be a more straightforward way of... inviting her. 

Well, I suppose offering my soul would get her here, but there are things that even I am not willing to do for King and Country, and I'm not sure if my soul is hers or not at the moment. 

Maybe I could offer someone else's... hmm!

Probably not ethical, but a lot less annoying than this malarky.

I pause for a moment to consider this... Probably a no. Maybe she makes the magic rite so complicated because she does not want every Tom, Dick and Harry disturbing her... work.

'What now?' I refer to my book and notes. 

The book I use has an interesting title, but I'm not going to speak it out loud.

Doing so gets the Demonic hordes to perk up and notice me. Not a great thing to do.

I have done that a little too often recently, and I need to stop doing it. 

Oh, don't get me wrong, they are a friendly bunch of chaps, Demons. I happily admit that. They will smile and laugh while they torture your immortal soul for all eternity. 

Definitely not cricket.

Back to the book. Hmmm! Let's just say that this particular grimoire makes the Necronomicon seem like a children's picture book.

I move my finger down the list of requirements. 

Sparks of magical energy earth themselves from the page as I touch the... let's call it vellum... 

Yes, vellum, but not from a calf. These pages are taken from unborn babes of a certain dark nunnery. 

Let's leave that one there. Burnt the place down in '73. Was it 1773 or 1673? Not sure. All blurs into one after a while. Ghastly place, mind.

You get the idea that this book is pretty rank. Smells of toast mind... Maybe I am having a stroke?

'Ah, candles next.' I say to no one in particular.

There are four of them. 

Red, black, white…and one that is made from a paedophilic priest's earwax. 

Sadly, said earwax is not as difficult to source as you would hope. A good stick of chalk, like the one I am using, is more difficult to obtain than Peado Priest Earwax. (PDE). You can tell how common it is. It has its own acronym.

Now the other ingredients. 

Silver spoon — this one has stirred tea in anger, specifically mine, when the mess insisted on serving it without milk or lemon. Not a magical spoon in any way, but it does the job and gives the idea of quality.

Raven's feather — yes, this one belonged to poor old Algernon, the angriest bird I ever knew, who expired while glaring at the gardener. Very appropriate. 

Gardener was a ghoul called Geoff. Finest Tomatoes this side of Tooting, we never talked about his compost heaps. Best not to ask, I find.

Three drops of blood: my own, a goat's, and — ah yes — from a civil servant in Whitehall who pricked his thumb while filing forms in triplicate.

Most useful man, dreadfully boring.

You might be wondering how this complicated spell came about. Was it years of trial and error by generations of dark practitioners?

No, it was dictated by Lucifer herself. 

Although it is unclear how she managed to do so without this spell to get her there to dictate it, it presents a chicken-and-egg level quandary.

Right. The chant. Latin, poorly translated. 

Which means, of course, that I must speak it as though I am ordering claret in a Paris restaurant. Ahem.

‘Nos humiliter, inconveniens, et cum formae debite in triplicatum… postulamus praesentia Lucifera Morningstar, Esquiress.’

Splendid. She hates being called Esquiress. I have to take the piss a little bit for my own amusement, what?

Offerings into the centre now: bottle of claret — Château Lafite, I should hope she appreciates the expense — contract signed in blood (mine, neat handwriting. Yes, the neatness matters), and… salted caramel fudge.

Yes, you heard me. Fudge. I don't understand it either.

Now…the dreadful bit. The reading of the Terms and Conditions. 

All ninety-seven pages of them. 

'Clause Seventeen, Subsection Four: The Summoner accepts that, should the Infernal Entity appear wearing unsuitable footwear, they shall not be mocked…' 

Honestly, but rules are rules. Best to get on with it.

That bit takes three hours alone. So truly... Satanic.

And at last, the final clause. 

'Clause 384 A1. The summonee is not held to any clause or part of this contract because they are the Devil and can never be held accountable for anything they actually do; however, the summonee will enjoy the fact that the three hours or so of reading you have just done have been a waste of pityingly short mortal lifespan.'

'Not in my case, there, Luci.' I finished smugly before I took a sip from my pocket flask.

The last step. The coded knocks. 

Spin the spoon. 

Count up to ten dramatically. 

'One. Two. Three. fou...'

She taps me on the shoulder. 

'What are you doing?' She asks in a fake enquiry as though she has just accidentally stumbled onto the scene.

'Damn!' I hold my chest in shock.

'Perhaps.'

Ah. There she is—tailored British Soldier's Uniform, folder under one arm, expression of infinite disdain.

'Lucifer Morningstar,' I say, bowing, because good manners never go amiss. She offers me her hand, which I kiss the back of. (I could write a good thick book on the experience of that single hand kiss)... (sigh)

'Thank you ever so much for joining me. I do apologise for dragging you away from… whatever it is you were doing. A committee meeting, I presume.'

She smirks. Always smirks.

'You know you don't need to go to all this nonsense, for little old me.' She says.

'Hmmm!'

'It's not like you and I are strangers, is it, Simon?'

I pause a bit, nonplussed. Must continue. Stay focused.

'I need a word with you about what is going on here,' I continued. 

She nodded

'About Mons. About the Demon and yourself. 

'About why you were there, meddling.'

'Meddling?' She repeated, a little annoyed at one's word choice.

'Not meddling then. Erm... I don't know how to put it. I need to know why you are here.'

'It's not like you are merely observing.' I said apologetically.

Why should I be apologising? I needed to stiffen that upper lip and be a little more forthright.

'I intend to have answers. And if those answers involve bureaucracy, footnotes, or interpretive dance...' Interpretive dance? Was I actually losing my mind? I shook my head to rid it of the idiocy.

'...I shall require... er... answers in writing, on proper parchment, with signatures and all the i's dotted and the t's crossed.'

Luci raised one perfect eyebrow in amusement and offered a smile as sharp as a knife.

And for a brief moment I thought to myself, ah yes… Simon, old boy, you've done it again. 

You've summoned the Devil. Still got the hoodoo, old chap. 

Yes, I was extremely pleased with my achievement. Utterly filled with pride even. Until I realised what I had done and the enormity of it. 

What I had achieved was actually incredibly stupid and dangerous. I had summoned the bloody Devil! This was definitely not a good thing. No...

Especially when all you've got for company is fudge and an infernal soldier in her heels...

Oh, and on top of that, I had probably re-dammed my soul. How many times can I be re-dammed and then un-dammed? Hmm!

'You are a complicated fellow, aren't you?' Luci said.

Gosh, she is pretty, though. 

Lucifer cocked her head. She had obviously been listening to my thoughts. 

The fact that she could hear my inner dialogue made it very difficult for me to talk to her. 

I mean, my intrusive thoughts were open for her to see.

Another sunrise of a smile bloomed on that unholy visage.

'Very...poetic.' She said

I could see genuine humour in those eyes that glittered like coals in the half-light, and she gave me another full contact smile that would make most men sink to their knees. 

I felt my body sag in reaction. It wanted to worship her, but I fought hard for control and just looked like I was desperate for the loo, bobbing up and down ridiculously and with significant discomfort.

She pouted and wiped a little dust off my epilette with a dextrous red-nailed finger before walking to a canvas seat and settling herself daintily down.

Once comfortable, she turned that ferocious focus back on me, and it was like taking a body blow from a heavyweight pugilist.

'Are you not going to offer me a glass of the Château Lafite?' She asked, pointing at the bottle.

'Only reason I demand it for this... thing.' She said, waving at the chalk scribbles on the floor.

'Nice circles by the way.' She offered genuinely. 

'You should see some of the poor efforts I have to deal with.'

I hastily snatched up the bottle at her request. I was being a little too hasty. 

Ah, of course, she had her glamour of control working hard on me, and I was struggling not to... obey.

I gritted my teeth and thought of my dignity and good old Blighty. That was the only way I would get through this.

There were no glasses in the tent, so I took a tin mug and carefully wiped it clean of dust with my pocket square before offering it to her. 

The mug that is.

As soon as it left my hand and was in hers, the cup transformed into a perfectly beautiful cut crystal wine glass. 

Of course it did. Why not. Evident Magic and bollocks were in full flow.

This sparkly change confused me for a second and threw me off my step before I gathered myself again. 

This conversation was going to be a battle. A very one-sided fight. Her will was so strong I could feel it thick in the air as though I was trying to move through Cook's best custard.

I paused, looking at her, thinking that she might start her story, but was slightly disappointed when she shook her head 'no' and pointed at the wine.

I half-filled her glass while I studied that face. I had never been so close to her. 

She was perfect. Perfect.

That level of perfection made me realise that she was not... not one of us. 

'Really? Should I be insulted?' She asked before batting her eyelids with an unsettling outcome. Unsettling outcome for me, that is.

Again, a laugh from the now blood red lips that had seductively sipped on the wine. 

'Not a demon, my dearest Simon.' She started.

'What?' I said. 

I had literally got myself lost in her eyes, so I had to mentally regroup to get to a point where I understood what she was saying. 

She swirled the wine in her glass, paying it all her attention, allowing me a couple of moments to recover and bring things back into context.

Ah, eventually, I got back to the Demon on the battlefield.

'Not a Demon?' I asked. 

'No, a wolf soul. Ancient, sharp, and perpetually in need of a good groom.' She smiled, taking another sip of the wine.

'It's a little cold,' she told me as she sniffed at the rim of the glass.

'Hmmm!'

'Calls himself Fenrir.' She continued, holding the glass in both hands to warm it. 

'Who does?' I was a little lost again.

'The wolf soul I was telling you about.' She said.

'Ah, yes.' Yet again, I had to catch up with the conversation. I lifted my cap and scratched my head, a little preoccupied with... erm.

'He's been haunting the world since men first figured out spears weren't just pointy sticks.'

'Fenrir doesn't haunt places, though. He haunts people.' She lifted the glass to the oil lamp, letting the light stream through it, and smiled before taking another sip.

'Aaah, perfect.' She smiled.

'Are you not partaking, Simon. It's very... good.' She spoke the word 'good' as though it held a slight distaste for her. 

I shook my head.

'He wears people like a favourite coat. Some fit. Some… come apart at the seams once worn... Sadly. Little Clarence may have to... You know?' She drew a finger across her neck.

My jaw tightened.

'Private Clarence Smith, then? Just a coat to be worn and discarded?' I growled. 

She used her full-beam stare to root me to the spot before releasing me and shrugging.

'What do they call it. Collateral damage?' She said, returning her eyes to the glass. I was grateful she did

There was now a long silence between us. 

She was in her own head. She was listening to her own thoughts. It wasn't uncomfortable; it was just a break.

Eventually, she wiped a fingertip around the rim of her glass before continuing.

'Oh, Clarence was a misfit from the start. Fenrir tried him on, but khaki doesn't suit wolves. Too buttoned up, not enough howl. They've parted ways. Like a divorce where only one party gets to keep their teeth. Sadly, Clarence will have to bear the price.' She smiled.

'And sadly, that's my price'

I leaned forward, my foot tapping the floor with irritation at this.

'He prayed to save him and his friends.' I said to her bitterly.

She nodded at this.

'He prayed...' I was upset. This should not have happened. 

'His prayer was answered. He asked for Angelic help and he got it.'

'And tell me, Lucifer. Was it you who encouraged this? My men are not playthings for your menagerie.'

Her smile was exquisite and infuriating in equal measure. 

'Encourage? No. Permit? Yes. Fenrir owed me a favour, and he begged to settle the debt. He wanted a host; I wanted my ledger cleared. That, Simon, is called good business. You'd hardly expect me to refuse payment, would you?'

'You are playing games with soldiers,' I snapped.

'There is enough horror on this battlefield without your… amusements.' I scolded her—a mistake I soon realised.

'You think I am enjoying this? Think hard before you answer.' She said harshly.

She leaned in across the table, close enough that I caught the scent of roses threaded with smoke. Her voice dropped to velvet.

Simon, this entire war is a game. Men dabble with artillery like children with matches. Gods roll dice over your trenches. Wolves slip into uniforms and call it destiny. And you—' she tapped my chest with a fingernail, the gesture felt intimate, almost tender, though it left a sting where she struck. 

"—you, my immortal knight, are the greatest meddler of them all. Bound by your bargain, forever trying to patch wounds with your guilty hands. Who plays the bigger game? Me, or you?'

The guns outside cracked thunder, but I heard only her voice. I met her gaze — and found it was like staring into the sun.

'I regret,' I said quietly, stiffly, 'every life and soul lost to my sins. That is the difference between us.'

She laughed, low and wicked, the sound sliding beneath my skin. 

'No, Simon. The difference is: I have a defined position. While you walk a very fine line between worlds and your perceived morality.'

'My... job was given but not asked for. You have yours for your pathetic, impossible salvation.'

Her eyes lingered on me — hungry, daring, devastating — until the silence between us strained with something far more dangerous than shells.

Then, as though bored with the tension she had spun, Lucifer straightened and brushed imaginary dust from her hands. The glass was gone.

I felt I had hurt her feelings.

'And besides, if I had not stepped in today, this war would have been over in a couple of months, and my father does not want that, does he?' I saw the hurt briefly flash in those deep hazel eyes.

'He wants the war to go on?' I asked her.

'Well, he does work in mysterious ways, does he not. We can not guess his intentions. We just have to accede to them.'She told me with a curt smile.

'So... You wanted answers and you've had them.'

'Fenrir walks the world, your Private limps behind, and the war roars on. Do try not to summon me every time one of your men grows a little… pious. I'd hate for you to get dependent,' she almost spat.

I collapsed into the chair she had just left.

I tried to keep my voice steady, but my hands were too tight upon the armrests. 

'I depend on no one. Least of all you.' I said bitterly.

Her smile was like a blade, beautiful and cutting.

'We'll see,' she said as she whirled away into the night.

The candles sputtered out. 

Only the scent of roses lingered.

I sat in the dark, hating her. 

Admiring her.

Needing her.

'Dam it!' I yelled, throwing myself to my feet before acting ike a petulant child and sweeping my feet through the septagram and the offerings it contained.

They scattered around the tent.

Two hours later, I was standing over Private Clarence Smith's cot in the hospital tent. My mind confused and in a quandary. 

He had been sedated with opiates. 

It was either very late or very early, depending on your point of view, and the tent was quiet—just the snores and the odd groan of injured men in their sleep.

I had been told that over the course of the day, Clarence had become increasingly disturbed.

He had attacked two officers as they had debriefed him. 

One of them had been bitten quite severely and later told me that he became like a 'Bladdy wild Beast.'

An invisible voice had spoken to Clarence. Telling him to bite and kill, but this time, he had not become the werewolf—just a desperate 15-year-old boy.

He was seeing things that were not there. He was breaking down.

But he looked so settled now, lying there on his back. He looked like a young... boy... asleep.

I rummaged in the cupboard next to his bed, lifting a couple of spare blankets to reach a pillow that was underneath them.

Once prepared, I again looked at the... boy. 

Luci was right, my fine line was much more difficult to tread than hers. 

I had choices to make, like this one. 

I leaned over the private and brushed his hair from his eyes before I clamped the pillow to his face and pressed all my body weight into it. 

He woke and gave a half-hearted struggle. After a few moments, he went still and relaxed. I kept the pillow smothering him for another minute or so and offered a prayer to whichever of the bastards was listening. 

Once I was sure Clarence was gone, I carefully replaced the pillow in its store and straightened my uniform before turning to leave the tent. 

And then I stopped, shocked. 

I had seen it. If I focused all I had on it, I could just about make it out.

A gigantic black shadow of a wolf with blazing yellow eyes. 

'We'll meet again.' I said as I tipped my cap to it. 

The shadow paused for a moment and then slowly disappeared through the canvas.

'