Werewolf sighted in Bembridge?

You are now inside the mind of the Bembridge Werewolf. Please wipe your boots. The mind has only just been tidied. I have been described as well-groomed, lunar and trying very hard to manage expectations, which is broadly fair but omits several centuries of context. My people come from European werewolf myth, a long-standing blend of moonlight, fur and regrettable impulse control. We once occupied the serious end of mythology, before branding departments, souvenir magnets and men with drones began asking whether we could stand slightly to the left for a better composition. In my more celebrated period I was known for running wild, scattering travellers and howling with historic dedication. It was meaningful work. There were prophecies, terrified witnesses and an acceptable level of ceremonial smoke. Now I reside near Culver Down above Bembridge, because even an immortal embodiment of folklore eventually discovers the Isle of Wight property market. Retirement has been pleasant. I spend much of my time hosting discreet dance nights and maintaining an excellent grooming regime, followed by an evening watching a dance film, preferably after moonrise. This is what the old songs leave out. They mention the terror. They rarely mention the blanket, the snacks or the repeated need to pause because somebody has walked past outside saying, 'Do you think that bent branch is a clue?' The problem is Follies. Not Professor Follies personally, although he has labelled one of my footprints 'probable evidence' when it was plainly a footprint. I mean the tourism proposition. Apparently I am now part of an island-wide story experience. There is a Passport, a Legendary Anthology, virtual Story Tours, real-world quests, music, clues, field reports and victory pages. I know this because the Professor explained it while standing behind a bush that concealed neither him nor the clipboard. The offer is £10 a month, unless one owns the Passport or anthology, in which case it becomes £3. There are also three free games. Three. Free. Games. This is how civilisations fall. First the free sample, then forty-five locations and a family in matching waterproofs examining your shrubbery. My formal objection is simple: more members mean more moonlit interruptions just when the playlist has improved. In the old days, encountering me required courage, misfortune or a badly judged shortcut. Now it requires a discount code. Questers arrive with charged phones, sensible footwear and the confidence of people who have read an FAQ. They expect narrative fulfilment. They want a sighting, a clue and ideally a photograph suitable for sharing before lunch. One woman recently stared at an entirely normal stone for seven minutes because it looked 'deliberately mythological'. I had not touched it. I was nevertheless impressed by its commitment. Naturally, I do nothing to encourage this. The prints beside the path are coincidental. The broken twigs are weather. The small arrangement of objects pointing towards the most scenic route is a statistical event. The strange sound just after sunset was probably plumbing. Please disregard the fact that there is no plumbing there. I certainly do not wait until visitors are nearly convinced the whole thing is nonsense and then move briefly at the edge of their vision. That would be theatrical, manipulative and extremely effective. Professor Follies says I secretly enjoy having his style noted. This is an outrageous interpretation of the evidence and also not entirely wrong. A legend requires witnesses. Total privacy is merely obscurity with better curtains. I object to being packaged, mapped and monetised, but I also object when nobody notices the carefully placed clue. There are standards. If I am to be part of a tourism proposition, it should at least be a good one. Follies does make people look at the Island differently. A lane becomes a possible escape route. A harbour acquires intentions. A woodland starts behaving like a chapter. That is not nothing. So come to Bembridge, or investigate from home. Read the story, follow the clues, enjoy the music and purchase whichever object unlocks the most financially efficient route through the mythology. I understand funnels now. I dislike that I understand funnels. Just remember that I am not guaranteed to appear on demand. I have a reputation, a retirement schedule and a film to finish. Still, should you notice an impossible mark, an oddly placed object or the unmistakable sensation that something ancient is quietly judging your footwear, do report it. Discreetly. With a flattering photograph. And no flash.