The W(h)erewolf: A Short Story
Tags: Short Story, Werewolf, Fantasy, Outliers, Short Fiction

The W(h)erewolf: A Short Story

A Young Professional Experiences a Confusing Dark Side on Full Moon Nights

He stalks uneasily through the thicket, following the tree line closely, snout sniffing left and right, looking for threats he doesn’t yet understand.

He remembers landing this time. That is unique. Usually, it’s just a blinding, excruciating flash and there he is: in a forest, in a park, in a northern tundra. He never knows how. He still doesn’t know how, but at least this time he remembers landing. And — yes — it seems like, like maybe, he’s pretty sure… he chose this place. This suburban park. With a swampy, forgotten area behind it, separated from all the McMansions by an expanse of grass and semi-manicured gardens and a playground for the children. He licks his chops at that thought — human children, mmmmm.

At the same time a nausea builds inside his body. He shakes his head back and forth slowly. For a few perfect seconds the full moon captures his profile: Strong jawline, healthy, thick pelt, keen, sharp eyes that can see nearly as well in the dark. And teeth, teeth with the power to kill. His soft paws trot through the underbrush, attracting clumps of mud and scattering nocturnal bugs as they rustle along.

He’s unsettled. He’s looking for something. Or someone? Maybe someone. He doesn’t know. He shakes his head. He hates this, this not knowing. He likes to know. Likes to be sure. He calculates the distance between him and the edge of the tree line, between him and the road beyond the grass and gardens. Just an exercise. To feel like he knows where he is in relation to other things, if not in the grand scheme of things. An exercise to know something, be sure about something. He keeps calculating, the flow of numbers making a steady rhythm through his mind. He calculates the angle of his shadow based on where he is relative to the moon. He calculates the rate of change of the angle of his shadow as he runs lightly through the underbrush. Faster paws, faster numbers: he feels more sure now. The calculations have comforted him. They’ve given him the illusion of running toward something, of running with purpose.

What was he realizing before the calculations became necessary?

Oh yes: he remembers landing. And he maybe even chose to land here.

But why? Why here? He shakes his head and quickens his pace toward somewhere, dragging his long shadow through the shorter well-kept grass now. The rhythm of calculations gives way to something profounder, something lodged inside his memory so deep he can’t consciously follow it. His paws, undeterred, trot onwards with purpose. His brain doesn’t know where he’s going, but something else within him must.

He hears her first as a lone mournful tone slicing the opaque sky in half. The sound shreds him like a blade through paper, scratching, scratching through his consciousness with claws like sharp metal. Cutting him to pieces. Everything in him wants to collapse.

His wolf-body responds instead. Curling his back up, up toward the full moon, he emits a deep and deafening howl. Reverberating through the neighbourhood. Causing committed suburbanites to question their move out of the downtown core. Stirring dreaming kids to wakefulness and belief in the magic of full-moon nights.

It’s her. He knew it. He didn’t believe it, but he knew. He knows. Now he knows. For an instant, their howls are perfectly, infallibly intertwined. The tones emitted by both their bodies echo each other through the neighbourhood, between the hastily-erected pillars of front porches designed for economy. Any doubt in this suburb’s citizens is suspended for this moment. One perfect moment. That’s all he has with her. All he gets.

Normally….

But this is not normally. This time he chose. The howl is still reverberating through the uniform, tidy streets, shaking the cheap plastic awnings in semi-identical gardens. He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. He’s running, running in the direction of her voice. He’s already calculated the distance based on the relative volume of their howls, the rate of change of the distance as he runs faster, faster, faster. Faster paws, faster numbers.

Is she running too?

There, on the horizon, he senses her before she comes into view. Another chiseled jaw, thick fur, alert ears, searching eyes. Eyes and ears and fur just like his. The moon emerges from behind a cloud and illuminates her body and he knows for sure: it’s her. He’s paused on his haunches, watching her, and she does the same. Mirrored bodies suspended in each other’s gaze. He is just about to start forward, to sacrifice the sacred moment for the potential to get closer.

And then…

No no no no no! The blinding pain sears through his head again. He forces himself to focus, to use the few remaining seconds to calculate his precise position before it’s all over.

A blinding flash from somewhere behind her waiting body. An unfathomable tear of searing pain. The vision of her frozen in his mind’s eye as he fights to remember his calculations.