The Missing Ring: Werewolf, Demon Theft & Astaroth’s Shadow | Dark Fantasy Horror Podcast Ep. 251

Something important is missing… and that’s a very bad sign.

In this darkly comic and increasingly dangerous episode of Werewolf the Podcast, the Professor prepares for a night that already includes Lucifer, a werewolf, and a potential mission to confront the demon Astaroth.

But preparation falls apart when a critical artefact—the ring of summoning—vanishes.

Stolen.

By something… or someone.

As suspicion falls on a mysterious demonic figure, tensions rise.
Because without the ring, whatever comes next may be uncontrollable.

Meanwhile, in a Wetherspoons pub, Montgomery Fortescue attempts to understand the mind of a predator—only to discover something far more disturbing than violence:

A complete absence of morality.

As Wil calmly explains his view of killing, the true nature of the “weapon” the Professor relies on becomes terrifyingly clear.

Darkly funny, deeply unsettling, and packed with supernatural lore, this episode sets the stage for chaos, confrontation, and a journey into Hell that may already be going wrong.

Perfect for fans of:

• Dark fantasy and horror podcasts
• Supernatural thrillers and demonology
• Werewolf stories and antiheroes
• Occult mysteries and magical artefacts
• Psychological horror and villain protagonists

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Transcript

The Professor.

I stood alone in my office, staring thoughtfully at my desk, in the way we scholars often do when we are contemplating matters of extreme academic importance, irrelevance, or perhaps violence.

In this particular case, the matter of extreme academic importance was whether I should take a thirteenth-century bastard sword home with me.

I know it's not an everyday thinking thought.

The office itself had the dignified clutter of a man who had spent most of his life acquiring knowledge and very little time acquiring storage solutions.

My books lay in carefully unstable towers. 

Scroll tubes leaned against filing cabinets like retired soldiers. 

A framed medieval manuscript hung crookedly above a shelf that held a surprising number of labelled jars containing substances that had once been necessary in the exorcism of extremely inconvenient entities.

I would have to think seriously about what I was going to do when that jar of kobold scrotums ran out. 

I would assign someone who was currently in my literal bad book to do that... horrendous scrotal retrieval assignment.

I smiled at this thought as I opened my much-loved ancient leather satchel.

It was a large, much-loved ancient leather satchel. 

A much-loved ancient leather satchel that had once belonged to an antiquarian in the 1890s and had since developed the quiet authority of an object that had been present for many decades of extremely strange conversations.

I began packing it.

First came the reports.

Notebooks filled with my meticulous handwriting.

Handwritten one-offs for security, sort of. 

No copies

But also handwritten because cursive has so much more meaning and power than typed text. 

The reports held cross-referenced observations. 

Several documents concerned the non-regrettable but scientifically interesting death of Nicha earlier that afternoon.

They would be burnt when this particular world-saving operation was done. 

I smiled at this. 

If the operation succeeded or failed, they would be burned.

If it went well, it would be in my manor's furnace.

If it went badly, they would be burnt in... Well,

In hellfire, as the demon realm would flood the earthly plain.

I comforted myself for a moment with a reflexive scratch of the back of my neck as I thought about that and laughed as I slid them neatly inside.

Gallows humour.

‘Destroyable documentation,’ I muttered to myself, 

‘Is the cornerstone of responsible covert operations.’

Next came the grimoires.

I selected two.

The first was a carefully preserved Latin transcription of the Ars Goetia, annotated heavily in my own hand. 

The second was a slimmer volume, bound in cracked brown leather, with the deeply worrying habit of occasionally changing page numbers when left unopened.

I hesitated.

I weighed both in my hands, trying to decide on which had the most gravity for the evening's work.

I smirked and placed both inside the satchel.

‘Preparation,’ I said quietly, ‘is the cornerstone of survival.’

A Wing Commander Monty quote right there in his distinctive pentameter and accent.

I closed one drawer and opened another.

Inside sat a white paper bag with its own great gravity, bearing Waitrose's elegant green logo.

I regarded it with a certain scholarly satisfaction.

Earlier that afternoon, I had received a small delivery from Fortnum & Mason, a modern grocer that, in my professional opinion, represented one of the few remaining pillars of civilisation in modern Britain.

I removed the cheeses with the care normally reserved for sacred relics.

A wedge of aged Comté.

A small round of goat’s cheese.

A Stilton whose aroma suggested that it might itself qualify as a minor supernatural entity.

A boulder of Bree.

‘These,’ I said to the empty room, ‘are essential.’

They would be served with a  very fine bottle of Port.

Only the best... I still had, for Lucifer. 

Ingratiation with her would always be a priority for one damened as myself. 

Tonight it would be the Giuseppe Quintarelli 2012 Alzero Cabernet Magnum.

Not the best vintage I have ever owned or had the audacity to drink. 

That vintage was the 1854 from the same maker... no creator in the case of that Port. 

I had drunk it three times in my life... lives... time.

Sadly, the last time I managed a tot or two was in a rude rush in 1912 on board the Titanic, just before it was lost to that devastating ice Kraken attack.

The boat we were told was unsinkable. 

Hmmmm!

Was apparently not so.

It... sank.

Not good.

For reputations, but I suppose not good for those aboard most.

Good came of it, though.

Great film...

Oh,and the attacking sea monster was cowed by the release of Poseidon’s vengeance.

It had not been active for a century now.

Sadly, the Port, like the passengers but unlike the monster, could and would never... be... again.

Tragedy is common. 

The loss of the Titanic was an obvious tragedy.

I mean, technically, a much bigger disaster than the port.

The loss of the Port was a...

A consequential tragedy. 

***Pause***

I packed the required cheeses gently between the grimoires.

Experience had taught me that demonological texts and cheese could coexist peacefully, provided one inserted a respectable quantity of parchment between them.

I did not want the bree infused with demonic energies. 

It tended to give me the most utterly horrendous indigestion.

I paused and added a pack of thrice-blessed antacid tablets.

Just in case.

Once happy with my cheese stowage, I closed the satchel.

Something was not right.

A nagging annoyance pinged my pespsis and paranoia.

Something was wrong.

I stood very still.

I closed my eyes to focus on what I was hearing.

The room was quiet.

I know in most stories it would say 'too quiet' at this point, but that was not the case.

The radiator clicked softly.

Outside, a group of people laughed loudly about something I strongly suspected involved a TikiTok.

I allowed my mind to wander.

Hmmm!

The Port and Cheese were not enough to subjugate my worries.

Lucifer was coming to my home.

Wil would be there.

Monty.

And bloody Wil, I reflected grimly, was planning to fight thee Astaroth.

I opened my eyes.

Very slowly, my gaze drifted to the wastebasket by my desk.

Standing in it was my comfort item.

You know, one of those things you feel content and comfortable with when it is close and within one's grasp.

Normally, something like a soft toy or childhood blanket.

In my case, something... other.

It was not normally a  necessary item to quell my paranoia; I can usually do that with rational thought, but in this case, it was required. 

It was a bastard sword.

The sword and scabbard were nearly four feet long. 

Original steel.

Blue steel in this light, I could imagine it, with not a rust pit on its well-oiled length.

The brass crossguard was simple but elegant, worn smooth by centuries of handling. 

The grip was wrapped in dark leather that had been replaced many times across the century or so, yet somehow remembered every time it had been held.

I had acquired this particular blade in 1893.

I had used it a few times in anger.

Those times had been... utterly educational and utterly thrilling.

I stared at it.

If my mind was telling me to take it.

Then the deeper part of me was concerned.

I looked back down at my satchel.

‘No,’ I said firmly to it and closed the bag's flap.

‘This is utterly ridiculous thinking.’

I put on my overcoat.

I picked up the satchel, swinging it across my shoulder and walked toward the door.

Halfway there, I stopped.

Turned.

Sighed.

‘You are a professor of... Well, negotiable reality, I suppose.’ I said to... to the uncaring world. 

‘You are a... a rational man... dealing with the non-rational.’

‘You do not solve rational problems by introducing medieval weaponry into domestic environments.’

I nodded once in the knowledge that this was correct thinking.

Then my inner voice relayed Wil’s introduction of chaos.

An introduction to the irritating irrational .

‘I’m going to Hell to find Astaroth and see if it’s possible to kill it.’

I closed my eyes in a moment of contemplative contention.

‘Yes,’ I said slowly. ‘Well, in that case.’

I walked back to the sword.

Another internal debate beginning.

It was not a particularly balanced debate.

Argument One: Taking this sword home was irrational.

Argument Two: Lucifer was visiting.

I had to consider this, but to be honest, this sword would do nothing to her.

Argument three: One should trust in the wards I have set, in the knowledge I have, and in the reasoning.

Argument Four: Wil existed.

I mean, if I used this sword on Wil, it would inconvenience him a little before he killed me. 

Again.

But it was a comforter.

I sighed.

And pulled the simple leather scabbard that housed my bastard blade from its unworthy home.

The blade slid free with a soft metallic whisper that seemed faintly pleased to be involved.

I held it for a moment.

Despite my academic career, the motion was a natural one in birthing the blade from its home.

Old instincts stirred in my centuries-toned muscles.

A millennium of experiences I rarely discussed with colleagues resurfaced briefly like old ghosts stretching their legs.

‘Yes,’ I said thoughtfully.

The sword felt balanced.

Reliable.

Reassuring.

I looked around his office.

‘Purely precautionary,’ I told the watching books from their shelves.

I slid the sword back into its scabbard and then carefully into a long canvas rifle case that hung from my coatstand. 

I smiled at its... erm... comforting weight as I lifted it, but paused at the door and glanced around the office once more.

The quiet room, the old books, the stacks of notes.

I checked the important things I needed.

‘Cheese,’ I said softly, tapping the satchel.

‘Sword,’ I added, adjusting the case.

I considered the evening ahead.

Lucifer.

Wil.

Monty.

A discussion about fighting Astaroth.

I switched off the light.

‘Good heavens,’ I muttered.

Then locked the door and headed...

Something...

Oh dear me. 

What a foolish, forgetful man I can be. 

I returned to the door.

Unlocked it and went into the office and opened the top drawer of the desk. 

There it was, the old tobaccotin that held the little trinkets that it could but perhaps should not.

I opened it to get the ring of summoning. 

We should be able to use it in the fight. 

I smiled.

The lid popped and...

A note sat on the boxes, contents of supernatural junk.

It was an A4 sheet folded 12 times. 

Excessive folding was my first thought before I opened it up and read the scrawl.

‘Thanks!’

‘Love from Belphastus’

What?

Oh

No!

No... no... no...

My adrenaline spiked.

I scattered the tin's contents onto the desk, knowing the ring was gone and cast aside both tin and lid casually. 

I turned my hands and eyes to the small mix of items. 

Silver needle.

Rathors dundenin

Evil eye of ventan

Rasputin's toothpick.

No ring.

No fucking ring.

I dropped to my knees, hands diving into the pile of the rug.

I swept them back and forth. 

Nothing.

I recovered both the lid and tin. 

Shaking them before sweeping my finger around their interiors.

It was gone.

‘Shit!’

I calmed a little and sat cross-legged on the ground.

‘Ah Fuck!’

Breathe.

Just breathe Simon

Control slowly reintegrated itself into this unfortunate moment.

‘God dam that man.’ I said, laughing at the ridiculousness of what had happened.

After a moment or three, I reached for the note on the desk and read it again. 

But... 

This time... 

I considered. 

Wing Commander

I have always believed that a man can learn a great deal about the nature of the world by observing a public house.

Not the good sort of Public house. God no.

Anyone can appear civilised in a well-run establishment with polished wood, a decent cellar, and a bartender who understands the moral importance of proper glassware.

No.

If one wishes to understand humanity, one must go to a place like this godforsaken Wetherspoons placey. (hic)

Which is why I was here. 

I think. 

Well, maybe not precisely why I found myself leaning against the bar that evening, contemplating the slow collapse of Western civilisation via patterned carpet and discounted lager.

Not that I drank lager. 

No Taaaylorrs Landlordy for moi. (hic)

The carpet, the bits one could see beneath the stains of... erm... things, I should mention, but don’t want to.

Well, that carpet looked as though it had been designed by a man who had suffered a catastrophic head trauma and attempted to reproduce the experience in textile form with the vomit and blood of the following years, adding to its commitment to... hurt... one... mentally.

I did not fit.

As you can imagine.

Wil, meanwhile, appeared entirely at home.

Although I felt that he would have felt at home anywhere.

One would assume this chap would fit in anywhere his giant wolf soul, Fen, was. 

Fen, the gigantic wolf soul, lay near us on that carpet, invisible to the denizens of this pit of eniquity.

Perhaps that was wrong when surveying the clientele of this... horror show.

I could not be sure if all of the things here were human.

I actively hoped that some of them weren’t, to be honest, looking at them.

So maybe some of them could see the wolf soul.

Anyway, whatever was thingy, you know, it was... just that.

What was I saying? (hic)

Oh Monty, you should have eaten before the two pints and the... erm four... five... erm double whiskies.

Okay, we have established that Wil felt at home.

Those humans and... creatures that surrounded us felt he was here to... 

He was here to... I don’t know.

Blow their bladdy house down, what?

(hic)

Get it?

Big bad wolf.

Blow the house down and all that.

Three little pigs, man.

Famous fairy thingy tale. 

Well, the people in here let him be.

For whatever reason, they did so.

That did not reassure me.

The werewolf had consumed a quantity of alcohol that would have rendered a normal man either unconscious or convinced he could defeat a streetlamp in single combat. 

Wil, however, merely seemed pleasantly relaxed.

He was currently smiling into his eighth pint of Draft Bass.

The chaps in the commisary call it Daft Bass because it is very easy on the old palate yet contains an exceedingly large alcohol content. 

As you may concur, a dangerous combination in a beer.

I was tipsy and attempting to understand him.

‘D’you know old chap?’ I said, swirling what remained of my whisky, ‘I have been trying to fathom how your mind does that thing... wotsit... work.’

Wil brightened immediately.

‘Oh, that’s easy,’ he said. ‘It mostly works when it hurts things.”

I considered that.

I considered it for some time.

‘Right.’ I Sighed

I tried to structure my next thought through a whisky-induced haze.

‘Yes. I had noticed that tendency.’

I took another sip of the bladdy delightful Islay Malt.

I deeply approved of the stuff.

Bladdy reasonable price as well.

‘Aaaah!’

‘Wil, the truth is, throughout my career, I have killed a great many individuals.’

Wil smiled but did not engage.

‘Some were chaps, and infrequently some were chappesses’s’s’s’s’s. Humans not all. Some certainly-decidedly not.’

‘It is not something a decent fellow boasts about, but it is a fact of service.’

‘Just that service.’ (hic)

‘However, I have always believed that such things must be done for a bladdy good reason.’

‘For king and country and all that country and law and that.’

Wil raised his glass approvingly.

‘Good lad.’ He said with his proffered cheers.

‘Hmmm! I don’t think you are understanding the gist of my... erm... words and thingy.’ I told him. 

‘I hope I have only done the... killing and harmening for the ultimate protection of others.”

Wil blinked at me.

‘I’m sorry you’ve had to do the killing and harming.’ He offered.

A pause.

A sip.

‘For those reasons,’ he said politely and genuinely. 

‘That sounds both boring and somewhat exhausting. Old bean.’ him imitating me irritated me.

I stared at him.

I was trying to process this to find the deep nugget of the truth of him that must be the seed of this... erm statement?

‘What?’ I asked.

‘Exhausting and boring.’ He repeated whilst taking a sip of his pint and dropping a double measure of too fine a malt to be downed in a oner.

‘Hmmm!’ I accepted the waste of the whisky, but the bounder would not have me refill his now-empty glass if he was going to treat it in that manner.

‘Exhausting and boring?’ I wondered at this.

‘Why?’ I asked him.

‘Well, all that thinking,’ he explained. 

‘You know, making decisions on who deserves... erm, protecting and who deserves murdering.’

He waved his hand vaguely.

‘Very complicated system.’

‘You don’t consider such things?’ I asked him.

He looked like he was in deep thought for a moment.

‘Nope.’

The answer was delivered with the casual certainty of a man explaining that he preferred tea to coffee.

‘Then why, on earth?’ I asked carefully, ‘Do you do it, old chap?’

I was genuinely intrigued.

To which Wil looked genuinely puzzled.

‘Hmmm!’ He was reflecting.

A simple shrug. ‘Because it’s fun.’

He ordered two more doubles of the whisky, which were delivered to each of us, as I thought.

Behind us, someone dropped a glass. 

A fruit machine began playing a tune that sounded like a robot attempting to fart through a kazoo.

I blinked away the lack of reality.

‘You kill people… for fun?’ I asked.

‘No, ' he quickly replied.

‘Ah, you see you don’t just kill people for fun really.’ I smiled, raising my glass to him, point won.

‘No, I do kill people for fun. The point that you missed was that I don’t only kill people for fun. I kill....’ He rinsed a little of his beer around his mouth. 

‘...people and... erm... non-people, if that’s a thing, for fun.’

He lifted the whisky tumbler and necked the double in one go.

‘But you’re paid for it, old chap.’ I told him.

Wil grinned.

‘I know. That’s the fucking best part.’ A broad predatory smile cracked his face.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose.

I always repeat past exploits at moments like this.

To know I have dealt with worse things.

I hope.

I have faced enemy aircraft over hostile territory. 

I have walked into rooms containing things that had been dead for centuries and yet still moved.

None of those experiences had prepared me for this.

The moral reasoning of a werewolf in a budget pub.

‘I find that difficult to comprehend,’ I admitted.

Downing my own whisky in a one and slamming the empty tumbler in the bar.

‘Another two, my dear!’ I ordered.

Wil tilted his head.

‘Difficult to comprehend.’

‘Really?’ A question mark readable on the man's face.

‘Yes. What.’

‘Killing should be about duty,’ I said firmly. 

‘About doing what must be done for the greater good.’ I continued.

Wil stared at me for several seconds.

Then he laughed.

‘Oh, Monty,’ he said warmly. ‘You’re adorable.’

Fenrir chuckled from the floor.

I heard him inside my skull.

I decided it was time to address something that had been troubling me.

‘The family in the Cotswolds, dear chap.’ I said quietly while folding my arms on the bar.

‘The family we... we... had to clear up... after you.’

Wil’s smile did not change.

‘You...’ I rolled one of the empty glasses around in my hands.

‘You tortured them for several hours.’

Nothing.

No response.

Just nothing.

Then.

I began to get a little concerned that I had pushed too far. 

Then.

Wil shrugged.

‘Did I?’

Pause

‘You... tortured and killed children?’

He nodded thoughtfully.

‘Oh, yes, that sounds familiar.’

‘The mother.’

I now took a seat at the bar as I spoke to the monster. 

How could anything just be... like this?

‘And?’ He asked.

‘Mm.’

‘The pets.’ I continued.

Wil winced slightly.

‘Did I?’

‘Oh, the dog! Yes, I remember the dog. Benji... Fucking Benji.’ He raised a glass in salute to Benji, as though it were a fond memory. 

Perhaps it was.

I felt something unpleasant twist in my stomach.

‘And you left the father alive to watch all this.’

Wil smiled faintly.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’ I asked him.

‘Why did I leave the father alive?’

‘No. Old chap.’

‘Why did you... Do what you did. Just murdered... innocent people. I don’t want to know why you left the father alive. My imagination can fill in that blank for me. The ultimate cruelty committed in my... opinion.’

He smiled as though the mention of his cruelty was a compliment of some sort. 

‘Why did I murder that family?’ He asked, then thought about it for a moment.

Then he said something which could have been amusing under other circumstances, but was so cold that I had difficulty... difficulty... just difficulty.

‘There was no television in the hotel you guys made me stay at.’ Another whimsical shrug.

I stared at him.

‘No television?’ I said. I was incredulous

‘Yes.’

‘You tortured an entire family because you were bored.’

Wil tilted his head.

‘Well, Monty,’ He looked me in the eyes. Those eyes were dead of emotion.

‘When you say it like that, it does sound quite dramatic.... What?’

‘Children, Wil.’

‘I know what children are.’ He replied, releasing me from his stare.

‘Animals.’ I continued.

‘Yes. The cat was particularly aggressive, actually. Fucking Tiddles and Benji.’ He laughed.

‘I hate fucking cats.’ Entered my brain from Fenrir the Wolf soul.

I closed my eyes briefly.

There are moments in life when one hopes, quite desperately, that the person across from you is joking.

Wil was not... Not joking.

‘Do you understand what you did?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes.’

‘And how,’ I asked slowly, ‘do you rationalise it?’

Wil took a sip of beer.

Then he looked at me and gave me a broadside of a smile.

‘I was really... really bored.’

Fenrir laughed.

I looked at the whisky glass on the bar and stared at it for a long moment before landing my gaze on the... Man?

‘Good lord,’ I muttered.

Revulsion shook through me.

Wil raised his pint.

‘To making sure I get a room with a Tele.’

I wanted to...

I wanted to ...

Then my heart sank as I realised there was nothing I could do, and I concluded two things.

First: that the Professor had been entirely correct about Wil being catastrophically dangerous.

Second: Well, I had no second point. 

I felt powerless.

I rarely feel powerless. 

Rarely, but in this case, I truly was. 

I had to remember...

Had to remember that the man was not a man.

Not even a monster.

Other.

That, technically, he was a tool for doing the very work that others could not and would not do.

My mobile telephone pinged with one of those text notification wotsits.

I lifted it and okayed it while retrieving my spectacles from the lapel pocket of my jacket. 

‘Peterson is here with the car to take us to Simon’s’

I told the...

I told the...

Utter fucking Bastard.