Tale Of A Werewolf

CHAPTER 3

I don’t remember crawling into the house. I don’t remember the door slamming shut or collapsing on the floor. What I do remember is the pain. It came in waves hot, burning, like someone had poured fire under my skin and sealed it there. I thought the wound would kill me. Part of me hoped it would.

Bleeding out seemed like a better fate than becoming the thing I’d just killed.

I lay on the wooden floor, blinking at the ceiling as the world drifted in and out of focus. Every time I closed my eyes, Uncle Pete’s voice echoed in my head. Find your dream. The world is bigger. I didn’t know what dream he meant, but I was pretty sure turning into a werewolf wasn’t it.

I’d heard stories growing up old tales whispered in campsites or passed around by drunk hunters. If a werewolf bites you, you become one. Everyone said it with a smirk, like it was just entertainment. But last night, in the woods, I saw how real monsters could be.

And now I was bitten. Deep.

I pressed a shaky hand to my side. The wound throbbed violently, pulsing with a rhythm that didn’t feel human. My skin was hot, too hot. My hearing had sharpened so much I could pick up every creak of the house, every flutter of wings outside, every distant car on the highway. My senses were wrong—bigger, sharper, overwhelming.

“No,” I whispered. “Please… no.”

I didn’t want to become what killed Pete. I didn’t want that curse. But the pain kept twisting, changing, remaking me from the inside out. It felt like something was crawling beneath my skin, like my bones were arguing with each other.

I must’ve blacked out at some point because the next thing I knew, someone was pounding on the door.

“Josh? Josh, are you in there?”

Macbeth.

Her voice shot through me like lightning. I pushed myself up, gripping the edge of the couch. “Macbeth don’t come in.” My voice was rough, almost a growl.

She didn’t listen. She never did.

The door opened, and she stepped in carrying a bag medicine, maybe food, something she probably thought would help. But the moment she saw me, she froze.

“Josh… you look terrible.”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

She placed the bag down and rushed toward me. “You shouldn’t be alone. I read about animal attacks you could get an infection, you could”

“Macbeth, don’t.” I backed away, breathing hard. Her scent hit me like a punch. It smelled different stronger, tempting, almost magnetic.

“What happened to you?” she whispered.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

Her eyes narrowed. She always saw straight through me. “Josh , you’re pale, sweating, and your pupils are huge. You are not fine.”

I clenched my fists. “You need to leave.”

“No.”

“Macbeth, I’m serious I’m dangerous right now.”

She reached out and touched my arm. My whole body tensed. Her skin against mine felt like striking a match. Heat rushed through me, and for a split second, something inside me snarled, wanting more.

She flinched. “You’re burning up.”

“Exactly. Now go.”

She stood there stubbornly, jaw tight. “You lost Pete. I can't let you suffer alone?.”

I looked away, afraid she would see the hunger behind my eyes. Not normal hunger. Something else.

“I’m changing,” I finally whispered. “I think the bite is doing something.”

Her eyes widened. “Josh… you don’t actually think”

“I don’t know what to think!”

Silence settled like dust between us. She searched my face for something truth, reassurance, anything. But I had none to give.

“Please,” I said softly. “Just for tonight. Go home.”

She hesitated for a painful second, then nodded. But there was fear in her eyes. For me. And maybe for herself.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” she said.

“No,” I snapped. “Don’t.”

But she left anyway, closing the door behind her.

I sank back to the floor, breathing hard. My whole body shook. My vision blurred at the edges, my hearing sharpened again, and the burning in my blood grew worse.

The full moon was tomorrow.

And every hour that passed, my body felt less like mine.

The next day was a blur of fever, pain, and confusion. I wandered through the house unable to think clearly. My muscles tightened and relaxed without my permission. My fingernails darkened. My teeth ached as if they were shifting.

At some point, I stared at my hands and barely recognized them. Veins pulsed thick beneath the skin, and my bones felt… wrong.

I kept whispering to myself, “Don’t let it be true. Don’t let it be true.”

But by evening, I could hear the moon rising before it even appeared.

My blood answered it.

The moment the moonlight hit the window, everything inside me snapped.

A howl ripped from my throat before I even realized it came from me. Pain tore through my bones breaking, stretching, reshaping. My spine curved, my jaw cracked, my fingers elongated. My skin rippled like something beneath it was clawing its way out.

I tried to scream, but all that came out was an animal sound raw, feral.

Then darkness swallowed me.

Except… I wasn’t gone completely.

I saw things through another perspective, as though I were shoved into the backseat of my own body. Trapped. Helpless. Watching through a fog.

I felt the forest under my feet, smelled every scent for miles, heard every heartbeat within reach.

I wasn’t dead.

I wasn’t dreaming.

I was a werewolf.

Later how much later, I couldn’t tell I heard footsteps near the farm. A familiar scent approached. Sweet. Warm. Human.

Macbeth.

“No…” I tried to force my muscles to stop, to freeze, to do anything but move toward her. But the wolf inside me didn’t care. It only cared about instinct.

She stepped into the house, whispering my name.

The wolf lunged.

I crashed through the doorway, claws tearing wood, breath hot and wild. She screamed not out of fear for herself, but shock at seeing what I had become. She scrambled backward as I tore through furniture, walls, anything between us.

I fought , God, I fought to pull myself back, to stop the beast from harming her. But it was like drowning in my own mind. My human voice was a whisper. The wolf’s voice was a roar.

I remember her eyes last the terror, the heartbreak. Then everything turned red.

When I woke up, the world was quiet again.

My body ached everywhere. I was naked, covered in dirt and dried blood. The house was wrecked. Splintered wood, claw marks, overturned furniture. Evidence that a monster had lived here.

And Macbeth…

Her body lay torn near the doorway.

I fell to my knees beside her, numb, silent. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. The horror went too deep for tears.

“Macbeth…” My voice cracked. “I’m so sorry…”

The morning sunlight crept in slowly, revealing more destruction, more blood. And as it did, distant voices rose in the yard.

People from town. Shouting. Fearful.

“Over here!”

“Oh God! Macbeth!”

“Get your guns, NOW!”

I barely had time to turn before gunfire exploded through the house. Wood shattered beside my head. Someone shouted, “It’s him! He did this!”

I scrambled up, clutching my arms around myself, trying to cover the parts of me that still felt human.

More gunshots. Splinters. Shouts. Someone yelled, “Monster!”

Maybe they were right.

With my last strength, I burst through the back door and sprinted into the woods. Bullets cut through branches behind me, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

The forest swallowed me whole.

I ran deeper and deeper, until the voices vanished, until the world was nothing but trees and breath and guilt.

I had wanted to kill the monster that took Pete from me.

Instead, I became it.