On a bright spring afternoon, the sun shone warmly, and the air was alive with birdsong and the fragrance of blooming flowers. A group of village maidens sat atop a sandy dune, their gaze fixed on the grazing sheep not far away. To their left stretched an endless pine forest, thick and verdant, blanketing much of what is now southern France’s Landes region. To their right lay the vast, boundless sea.

The sky arched endlessly overhead, a flawless expanse of blue, while a mysterious and delicate fragrance wafted over the Bay of Biscay, nestled between the Iberian Peninsula and Brittany. At the forest’s edge, exotic trees mingled—cork oaks, pines, Arabian oaks—some adorned with blossoms that released their intoxicating perfume into the air, as if teasing the girls. Their spirits soared, their songs rang out, and their laughter echoed in harmony, weaving a tapestry of joy that resonated through the shaded evergreen avenues, reverberating among the hills.

Suddenly, a striking butterfly caught their attention, followed by a flock of quails darting gracefully across the water’s surface.

“Ah!” exclaimed Jacqueline, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “If only I could stand higher and had a paddle in my hand, I’d bring those little birds down and roast them!”

“Oh, if only they’d roast themselves and fly straight into our mouths!” teased another girl, setting off a chorus of laughter.

“What are you all wearing for the Saint John’s Festival?” asked a third girl eagerly. “My mother got me the prettiest bonnet—it even has gold trim!”

“That’ll drive your Étienne mad,” Jeanne quipped, before suddenly breaking off. “Wait—what’s wrong with the sheep?”

The girls turned in alarm to see the flock scattering wildly, as though seized by sudden panic. Nearby, the shepherd dog barked anxiously, baring its sharp white teeth.

Hurrying over, they discovered a peculiar sight—a pit, within which crouched a strange boy. His tangled, auburn hair fell in matted clumps over his face, nearly obscuring his eyes. His deep-set sockets framed eyes that gleamed a curious mix of gray and white, glinting with a sinister malice. His complexion was dark and rough, his teeth long and unnaturally white, with prominent upper incisors jutting over his lips. His hands, large and claw-like, bore thick, blackened nails reminiscent of an eagle’s talons. His tattered clothing barely clung to his frame, revealing patches of dirty, weathered skin.

The girls gathered hesitantly around the pit, torn between curiosity and fear. The boy, unfazed by their scrutiny, broke into a sharp, chilling grin, his teeth flashing ominously.

“Ladies,” he rasped in a voice rough and unnerving, “tell me, which of you is the most beautiful?”

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“Why do you ask?” Jeanne replied cautiously, her voice steady despite her unease. At eighteen, she was the eldest among them.

“Because,” the boy said matter-of-factly, “I plan to marry the prettiest one.”

“Oh!” Jeanne laughed, trying to mask her discomfort with humor. “But we don’t even know you!”

“I’m the son of a priest,” the boy declared without hesitation.

“Is that why you’re so dark?” one of the girls interjected.

“No,” he answered, “it’s because my skin is naturally dark. And sometimes, I wear a wolf’s skin.”

“A wolf’s skin!” another girl echoed in alarm. “Who gave it to you?”

“A man named Pierre Labrelante,” the boy replied.

“I’ve never heard of him. Where does he live?” the girl pressed, her voice trembling.

The boy responded with a chilling laugh, a sound like the haunting cry of an owl. The girls instinctively stepped back, the youngest hiding behind Jeanne.

“You want to know about Pierre Labrelante?” the boy continued, his voice lowering to an ominous tone. “He wears an iron chain around his neck and chews on it when idle. He lives in a dark cave with his companions. They sit on glowing iron chairs, sleep on beds of burning embers, bathe in molten coals, and some shove flames into their mouths. Others throw themselves directly into the fire…”

The girls shuddered, exchanging fearful glances.

“You want to know about the wolf’s skin?” he asked, leaning forward. “It was given to me by Pierre Labrelante. He draped it over me, and now, every Monday, Friday, and Sunday, I transform into a wolf. I’ve killed many dogs and drunk their blood. But to tell the truth, I prefer little girls. Their flesh is tender, their blood sweet. I’ve eaten many. And now,” he added with a sly grin, “the sun is setting, and soon I shall feast on one of you!” He let out another owl-like screech.

The girls, paralyzed with fear for a moment, suddenly turned and fled, their laughter replaced by frantic cries.

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Not far away, in the village of Saint-Antonin, a young girl named Marguerite often tended sheep alongside a boy of about her age, Jean Grillon—the very same strange figure the girls had encountered.

Each evening, Marguerite would complain to her parents about Jean, saying he frightened her with his sinister stories. Her parents dismissed her fears until one day, she returned home distraught, having lost the flock.

Jean had told Marguerite he had sold his soul to the Devil and transformed into a wolf at dusk to roam the countryside. He claimed to have killed many dogs, though he confessed his true taste was for the flesh of little girls. He recounted two chilling stories: in one, he killed a young girl, feasted on her flesh, and threw the remains to a real wolf; in another, he devoured a girl entirely, leaving only an arm and a shoulder.

Marguerite’s account caused a stir throughout the village. Over recent weeks, several young girls had mysteriously vanished, leaving their families grief-stricken. Driven by desperation, the villagers appealed to the Bordeaux Parliament to investigate.

The inquiry revealed Jean Grillon was the son of a laborer from a neighboring village. He had left home three months earlier and had been surviving through odd jobs and begging. His chilling tales, corroborated during interrogation, painted a grim picture.

Jean confessed he had been given a wolf’s skin and an ointment by a man named De la Friste. Wearing the skin, he roamed the region, sometimes attacking children. He described dragging a baby from its cradle into the woods and devouring it. He implicated his father, claiming they had hunted and eaten a girl together.

Jean’s trial concluded with a death sentence, yet his story lingered, leaving a dark shadow over the village.