The letter from my father came as shock to me.

My mother brought me up alone, pretending that my father didn't exist. She never spoke about him, and whenever I tried to ask her about him, she quickly changed the subject. I was angry with her for this secrecy when I was a little boy. But when I grew up, I realised that the person I wanted to know so much, had never even tried to get in touch with me. So, for me, he was dead.

That's why, when his letter arrived a year after my mother's death, I opened it with more trepidation and anger than curiosity. What kind of man would wait all these years to get in touch with his son?!

The sender's address was the first intriguing thing I noticed-- Baskerville Hall, Bodmin moor. I'd learned enough about my country to know that the only real manor of this name was situated in Wales. The one in Bodmin moor was just a work of imagination of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Dear son, my 'father' wrote, you don't know me; I myself begged your mother not to reveal my existence to you. We were not married, that's why you don't carry my surname. I greatly regret that now, and also, never seeing you before... but, I did this all for your own good. I hoped to protect you from our family curse, to hide you from your destiny. However, seeing the course which my own life had taken, I realise that it was all in vain. There is no way to avoid our fate. The best thing I can do for you, is to inform and warn you, while there is still time. Please visit me at Baskerville Hall (former Hound Tor Manor), as soon as you can.

Suddenly too curious, I embarked on the first train heading south. While the countryside behind the windows changed from low hills into green forests, soon swapped for busy towns, which later turned into flat planes, I tried to discover as much about the place I was about to visit as I could.

From the couple of books I brought with me, and all the information I saved from different web sites while the train crawled trough places with a sufficient internet connection, I learned quite enough.

The Baskerville Hall used to be called Hound Tor Manor, until recently. The man who called himself my father, restored the original name of both the house and the family, convinced that his great grandfather's attempt to protect his heirs by changing their name, had been useless. Because, as he'd suggested in the letter, the fate could not be deceived, or avoided.

Everything became yet more interesting, when I found out about the 'Curse of the Baskervilles' in Doyle's book. A hellhound, or rather a large mastiff, killed all the male heirs of Henry Baskerville.

More recent information was different, based on facts, not fiction. I learned about the legend of the Beast of Bodmin. The hound was replaced by an alien cat, lurking around the moor at nights... And there was a proof. A strange skull had been found in a river running across the wetlands, a few years ago.

When I finally reached my destination, my mind was teeming with questions. I got off the cab I took from the station at the far end of the drive leading to my father's residence. I realised from the driver's behaviour that he felt more comfortable leaving me there, than driving all the way to the house. And I, too, preferred to walk alone and organize my thoughts, before meeting the man who was expecting me inside. 

I walked slowly over the white gravel of the drive, my footsteps echoing through otherwise perfect silence of the late evening. As I reached the top of the staircase leading to the front door, a man, looking a lot like me, walked out on the terrace. 

"Welcome home, son!" he exclaimed, and I noticed tears glittering in his eyes.

Even I felt moved, and my anger at his previous behaviour was momentarily forgotten, when he embraced me. 

I followed him across a magnificently furnished hall to his study. We entered just in time to observe, through the large window of his room, the most beautiful sunset over the Bodmin Moor.

"Son," he said again after a while, as if tasting the new word. 

I looked around to face him, and noticed a multitude of photographs of me and my late mother, on the mantelpiece above a large fireplace.

"So, you are my father..." I started. I had so many questions that I didn't know where to begin.

"Yes, I'm your father. But not only that. I'm the current Beast of Bodmin, and I'm absolutely sure that you'll be the next one," he said, his voice trailing away to a barely audible whisper.

"Explain!" I told him, plopping down on a chair by his desk. "I need to know everything!"

He sat down, then asked: "How much do you know about the legend?"

"Not enough, obviously. I've read about the hellhounds, the Curse of the Baskervilles, and the large cats of Bodmin moor. But how much of all this is actually true?" I asked, dreading his answer.

"Hmm... a bit of everything," he said, looking out of the window. "We are the beastly cats. That's our curse. The hounds were only set upon us, over the centuries, by the scared villagers."

"What do you mean?! It doesn't make any sense..."

"Oh, it does. You'll see for yourself soon... We are shape shifters, werecats, if you prefer. It's our punishment for a sin committed by one of our ancestors. During the nights of full moon, we become enormous, dangerous cats, slaying everything alive that crosses our path. Animals, people... Now it is my turn, but once I'm dead, you'll be the last of the Baskervilles, the last cursed..."

Is this my future? I thought, shivering. Why me?